1859-09-22 The Courant

THE COURANT, A Southern Literary Journal. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- HOWARD H. CALDWELL, EDITOR] "Sic vos non vobis." [WM. W. WALKER, JR., & CO., PROPRIETORS. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- VOLUME I. COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1859. NUMBER 21 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Written for the Courant.

Ta [Greek word] ----- I. 'Tis sweet to hear, when twilight dim Spreads softly over all, The gentle murmur of a hymn, Or splash of water-fall.

II. 'Tis sweet ot hear soft music swell, Then die upon the stream, But sweeter on the PAST to dwell, And sweeter, yet, to dream.

III. 'Tis sweet to hear, at midnight deep, The murmuring zephyrs sigh, As o'er my head they gently sweep, And in the distance die.

IV. 'Tis sweet to hear the voice of love Breathe gently in thine ear; 'Tis sweet to see the stars above; Sweet is the maiden's tear.

V. 'Tis sweet in solitude to spend The silent twilight hour; Sweet is the converse of a friend, Sweet as the April shower.

VI. 'Tis sweet to hear, at close of day, When ALL our work is done, The stirring notes of some old lay, Of wars and battles won.

VII. 'Tis sweet to hear an old man's tale Of youth and by-gone years; 'Tis sweet to see that cheek, all pale, Bedewed with falling tears.

VIII. Sweet is the language of a tear, Which sparkles in the eye, And oh! 'tis passing sweet to hear The earnest, heartfelt sigh.

IX. 'Tis sweet to know that when we die, And lay us down to sleep, That there will be, at least, ONE sigh, That ONE, indeed, will weep. D. K. E. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE QUAKER CITY.--In Philadelphia the foot-pavements are the same colour as the houses, neither drab nor red, but a mixture of both, suggestive of the story of the English Quaker of the old school, to whom, as he sate behind his desk at his warehouse in Manchester, was delivered a packet, with a bill requesting payment. The old Quaker opened the packet, and found a red hunting-coat. "What is this?" he said to the messenger. "There is a mistake here, friend." "No," said the messenger, "'tis a coat for Mr. Thomas." "Thomas," said the father to the young Quaker, who had become smitten with an unquakerly passion for hunting, "is this for thee?" "Yea, father," replied the son. "And what is it?" rejoined the sire. "A coat," replied the son. "Yea, Thomas; but what colour is it?" "Why," said Thomas, somewhat bewildered, and scratching his head to expedite the delivery of the tardy answer, "it's a kind of fiery drab." Such is the colour of Philadelphia--the Quaker city, the City of Brotherly Love, or, according to the disparaging assertion of New-Yorkers, the city of "brotherly love and riots." It is fiery drab wherever you turn--fiery drab houses, fiery drab pavements, fiery drab chapels, and fiery drab churches. ------------------------------------------ NORMAN CHIVALRY; OR, THE MONK OF MOUNT SAINT MICHAEL. ----- In the year 1423, the Count d'Escale besieged the fortress of Mount Saint Michael, defended by the sire of Estouteville and a handful of brave chevaliers, both Norman and Breton. The place, strongly attacked, was defended with courage, and the siege lasted three years. The time must have seemed long to every body, bu above all to a young Norman chevalier named Robert de Beauvoir, who, on the eve of his marriage, had quitted his beautiful betrothed to fly to the post where honour and the duty of a knight had called him Often during the long hours of the siege, he seated himself at one of the oval windows which are still remarkable on the front of the abbey, and from there his thoughts, braving distance, wandered to the winding borders of the Vire, and stopped at the old manor of the Avenel, inhabited by Guillemine, his future spouse. One night, while he abandoned himself to his dreams of happiness and of the future, a messenger, who had succeeded in crossing the enemy's outposts, suddenly demanded speech with him. It was a servant of the house of Avenel. He brought the knight very sad news. He told that Burket, one of the Captains of the English army, had demanded the hand of this betrothed. After a first refusal, the Englishman, far from being discouraged, had recourse to unworthy means. The English army occupied the table-land; Burket threatened the lady's mother to set fire to the country, and to pass the plough over the ruins of her manor, if her daughter's hand were not granted him. She was afraid, alone, and without support. She told her daughter that she must consent to the sacrifice. Guillemine wept; but she did not resist her mother's order. She only sent a faithful servant to warn her friend Robert, and assure him that she only obeyed a cruel necessity. The Norman knight, on hearing this, flew into a great passion. He sent Burket a message, to reproach him with his unloyal and unknightly conduct, and to provoke him to a deadly combat. He merely replied by hastening the preparations for his wedding, and, before the morrow, the altar was decorated with the finest ornaments, for the nuptial honour of the future spouses. But when the priest, who was to seal the ties formed by violence, asked the young girl, if she accepted Burket for her husband, and would swear before God, love and fidelity, the young girl became pale and tottered. The English captain approached her to sustain her. "You tremble, Guillemine," said he. "No, I am dying," replied the faithful friend of Robert. On the morrow, there was one tomb more in the vaults of the manor of Avenel. Robert de Beauvoir wept bitterly for the death of his betrothed, and promised himself the revenge of a loyal chevalier. However, the English army, who had caused two long culverins, clamped with iron bands, to be made, resolved on a general assault; they wished to try, by a last effort, to make themselves masters of this post, so ardently desired. The besieged did not expect them behind their walls. There was not one against twenty; and besides, the French are not in the habit of counting their enemies. From the first attack, the English were forced to retreat, and retired with loss to their entrenchments in Tombelaine. In the midst of the fight, the knight of Beauvoir fought like a lion, and cut down all that opposed his way. He sought every way for his enemy. Suddenly, he recognised the cimeter of Burket, from whom a crowd of combatants separated to make way for him. He cut a road through to his rival; but at the moment, when he is about to reach him, he sees him totter and fall on the strand, which he reddens with his blood. However, as the Englishman still breathed, he was led a prisoner into the fortress, and the seiege was given up for a few days. The wound of Burket, though deep, was healed in a short time; thanks, perhaps, to the care of a young man, dressed as a monk, who never left him. But he was scarcely recruited, when the prisoner's chains became irksome to the English captain, accustomed to live in the open air, and the emotions of the battle-field. He thought of paying his ransom, were he to buy his liberty with all his fortune, when the same young man, who had paid him so much attention, entered the cell which served as a prison. "Burket," said he, "no one keeps you here, you are free." The captain, transported with joy, was about to throw himself into Robert's arms, for it was the Norman knight, who had had recourse to a disguise in order to approach his enemy and hasten his cure by care; Robert gently repulsed him with his hand, turning away his head. "Sir," said he, in a calm voice, "do not rejoice so soon; you are free, it is true, but on condition of swearing to grant me a favour I am going to demand of you." "I owe you my life and my liberty, you can dispose of me; my life is yours." "We are going to see that," murmured Robert; then speaking in English, "there is in the world an infamous wretch who has done me the greatest injury which it is possible to do a man. I must be revenged." "His name--his name--tell me it--and I swear to you by my knightly word--" "His name is useless at this moment; but in a month, when you shall have quite recruited your strength, come at day-break to the glade in the neighbourhood of Avenel; he will be there. Come, accompanied by a second, and have your best arms, as for a deadly combat, for he will have his. Will you be there, sir, a month from this day?" "I will be there, on my knightly word." "Well, farewell; may Heaven protect the right, and the sword which shall sustain it. Farewell!" "The Norman knight went out, without listening to the protestations and thanks of the Englishman. A month from that time, at day's first dawning, Robert de Beauvoir and his compansions at arms were already at the rendezvous, in the glade, near the bridge of Avenel. Two knights who advanced, followed by pages bearing a change of arms, walked silently along the borders of the river of Plaine-Lenore, to the place where it meets the Vire. They soon join their adversaries. The preliminaries were abridged as much as possible, and after it had been agreed that Robert and Burket should fight alone, the field was given to the --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

162 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- champions and the fight began. It was a fierce one, and victory remained a long time undecided. After six lances had been broken, their armour dinted, their helmets split, and their hauberks in pieces, the knights dismounted, breathless, and engaged hand to hand. They struggled so as to break their steel armour, and exhausted themselves in seeking the weak part of the cuirass, to plunge their daggers into it. Robert succeeded in slipping his poinard under the throat-piece of his adversary, and plunged it up to the hilt in his throat. The Englishman fell motionless, his blood abundantly flowing. Proud of his triumph and of his vengeance, Robert arose, giving a glorious shout, when he stopped, dum from the sight of a mysterious apparition which met his eye. The image of his betrothed, as beautiful as when she often appeared to his memory, was before him, clothed with glory and light; but her look was sad, and big tears chased each other down her lily-white cheeks. Robert fell on his knees, without saying a word. "Robert! Robert!" said the vision, in a sweet and melancholy voice, "what hast thou done, my beloved? Was it to thee that it belonged to revenge me--to establish thyself judge of Burket? Did God confide this care to thee? Woe to him who kills! Woe to him who sacrifices to hatred and vengeance! God gave you, in dying for his executioners, the example and precept of pardon, and he cursed him who should not imitate him. Robert, you have committed a great crime; do penance and weep, and God will have compassion on you!" The vision vanished by degrees, murmuring several times the word adieu, more and more faintly, as the apparition vanished, and its vague outline became less and less distinct. Robert threw himself on the body of Burket, bathed it with tears, and sustained it in his arms to recal life; but in vain--Burket was dead. The Norman knight, after having rendered the last duties to his enemy, renounced the world, and put on the sackcloth and the gown of a monk of Mount Saint Michael, in which convent he did not suffer a day to pass by, without praying for the repose of Burket's soul. It is added that travellers have seen, in the place where the last scene passed, which we have related, mysterious things, which they could not describe, but could not forget. ------------------------------------------ THE MOCKING-BIRD OF CAROLINA.--I heard the notes of the Mocking-Bird for the first time in his native wilds, during a railroad journey by night, through the Pine Barrens of North Carolina, in the month of June. The journey was very tiresome and unpleasant, nothing being seen when looking out upon the landscape, but a gloomy stretch of level forest consisting of tall pines, thiny scattered, and without any branches, except at their tops. The dusky forms of trees, pictured against the halfluminous sky, seemed like so many giant spectres watching the progress of our journey, and increasing the loneliness of the hour. Before daylight, when the sky was fainly crimsoned around the place where the sun was to come forth, the train made a pause of half an hour, at one of the stations, and the passengers alighted. While I was looking and longing for day, suddenly the notes of the Mocking-Bird came to my ear, and changed all my feelings into delight. It is seldom I have felt so vividly the power of one little incident to change the tone of one's feelings and humour of the occasion. As a few drops of oil cast upon the surface of the water will quiet the troubled waves, so did the glad voice of this merry bird suddenly dispel all those sombre feelings which had been fostered by dismal scenes and a lonely journey. Nature never seemed so lovely as when the rising dawn, with its tearful beams and purple radiance, was greeted by its warbling salutations, as from some messenger of light, who came to announce that Morning was soon to step forth] from her throne and extend over all things her smiles and her beneficience.--Atlantic Monthly. ------------------------------------------ WHAT cares the child when the mother rocks it, though all storms beat without? So we, if God doth shield and tend us, shall be heedless of the tempests and blasts of life, blow they never so rudely. ------------------------------------------ RIGHT and Duty are like two palm-trees, which bear fruit only when growing side by side. ------------------------------------------ SHAKESPEARE AND WOMAN. ---- THERE is one element in the genius of Shakespeare which we will distinctly notice; it is the feminine element. This is a security, perhaps, more enduring than any other, for the immortality of Shakespeare in literature. No genius that deals with human life is complete without including both the masculine and the feminine elements. One, away from the other, issues into no living product, but is doomed to die. Nor merely this: one away from the other does not unfold its own fullest nature: each, by itself, is not only barren, but stunted. The genius which includes them both, and develops both, is like those plants that have the two sexes in the same flower, in which the blossom that gives delight by its beauty gives, at the same time, the promise of coming fruit and of deathless seed. It may be said, that this will hold as well for genius in woman as in man; and that if genius in man must include the feminine element, genius in woman must include the masculine element. We grant the position; but we grant it with a certain modification: it is this,--that, as the masculine element should predominate in the genius of man, the feminine element should predominate in the genius of woman, a contrary order is not excellent, but unnatural-- is not delightful, but disagreeable. Mere emotion and sympathy in woman, separate from sound thinking, leaves her a simpleton or a sentimentalist; mere intellect in man, separate from sensibility and intuition, leaves him a surly Cynic or a reasoning machine; but we can hardly tell which is the more intolerable, a lachrymose man, or a logical woman. The feminine element is not only important in literature for the completeness of genius; it is also important, because it is by that element that genius obtains the sympathy of woman; and without the sympathy of woman no literature that deals with humanity can be said to live. The literature that can last, must have common interest for man and woman; but if it lean to either side, it should be to that of woman; for the life of woman is always nearer to nature than that of man; her instincts and sentiments are more primitive; her sense of sex is more vigilant and tenacious; her thoughts are more spontaneous, rapid and direct; and the whole constitutes an inward character, that maintains a wonderful unity amidst the numberless varieties of her sex, and a continued identity, which is neither lost nor obscured, throughout the manifold changes of history or the world. The literature, therefore, which not only has no feminine element, but, still worse, which has no feminine interest, wants the most vital element of humanity. If so it be with simple exclusion, what must it be with the literature which depreciates woman, scorns her, mocks her, ridicules her, and satirizes her? The one she will neglect, the other she will detest. What woman reads Rabelais? What woman reads Montaigne or Bayle? What woman reads Alexander Pope or Jonathan Swift? And with all the genius of these writers, they can hardly be said to have any living interest in the world. What woman reads them? But also it may be inquired, What man? To this question we reply, that if women read them, men would; and if women had read them, they would not so soon have become obsolete. The subtilty and the thoroughness with which Shakespeare had comprehended the nature of woman, is one of the profoundest secrets of his genius. All the elemental germs of her nature seem to have been hidden in his own; and when his genius begins to work, these germs unfolded themselves into all the types of womankind. The types so unfolded are mental mirrors, in which every representative woman may see the reflection of her class. It is not that Shakespeare dives into the depths of woman's passions; that he goes through dark mazes of her guilt, her cunning, and her crime; that he detects her concealed motives and her sinful schemes; it is that he is equally familiar with her innocence, with her guileless love, her girlish joys, her vanities, her sports, her tricks, her waywardness and wiles, the slightest motion that ripples the surface of her life, and with that pathetic and prophetic story of virgin fears and of womanly hopes which she only whispers in her sleep. Thus is Shakespeare's genius interveined through all the inward life of womanhood, with a penetrating power, a discernment of spirit, a truthfulness of feeling, and a fulness of sympathy, which are almost more than natural. For this reason, Shakespeare has both enchantment and awe for the genuine woman's mind,--such a mind loves him while it fears him; and this is the highest love that woman knows. The woman--who is of any worth--does not love the trifler, or the flatterer, or the weakling: she loves the man whose strength she can admire, whose insight makes her tremble when she feels that it reads her secret thoughts, and who is of the serious integrity that will not degrade her or him by the base bribery of lying words; who is, at the same time, of the heroic and affectionate nature that moves her enthusiasm and that captivates her heart. If such a combination would be resistless to woman in the character of a man, in another way it must be as much so in the character of his genius. On these grounds, the genius of Shakespeare must be to woman of soul a glory and a might, such as no genius has ever been before to woman, such as, perhaps, no genius will ever be again. Some poets of modern times have wonderfully ingratiated themselves in the admiration of women: Byron, by sentiment and passion; Schiller, by delicacy, feeling, and enthusiasm; Goëthe, by a sort of demoniac magic; Scott, by a natural and massive manliness; Tennyson, by a certain witchery, half earthly, half unearthly, that brings together the sensuous and the spiritual in music and beauty, which have always entrancement for womanly susceptibility. But though these, at first, produce much excitement, Shakespeare has more lasting inspiration; he is, in truth, the kingly master of them all; he transcends them all, as Prospero the slavish sprites of his island, or rather as Solomon, in Eastern legends, transcends the spirits and genii of air and sea.--Christian Examiner for September. ------------------------------------------ THE FOURTEEN HAPPY DAYS. ----- Many year ago, in the city of Cordova, in Spain, a splendid chariot, drawn by four horses, attracted all eyes as it whirled through the streets and over the stone bridge toward the palace of the kings. In it sate a man of lofty looks, whose garments shone of gold and silver, and on either side stood two black slaves, splendidly dressed, holding a canopy over his head. It was Abdalrahman, King of Spain, whose magnificence was greater than any thing the world can shew at this day in all its palaces. The rich strove to gain from him a look of favour as he passed, and the poor sighed with envy. "Only behold!" murmured an old man, bending under the weight of a cask of water, "how happy are the rich! Here am I, who never had so much as a donkey to carry my water to me, while yonder single man can command all the horses in Spain, if it be his pleasure!" A crowd of shouting children playing near a fountain stopped short, and held their breath in admiration as the chariot passed. "Ah," said they, "is he not great and happy?" As they swept on toward the palace they passed a company of peasants busy at work in the vineyards. These paused in their work, their hands filled with the purple fruit, and feasted their eyes on the royal splendour of Abdalrahman. And while all were envying him, what were his thoughts who sate thus lifted above all about him? An hundred faces of those he passed were gayer than his. "Oh, happy poor?" he exclaimed in his heart, as he looked on the staring crowds, "what are your cares and troubles? Sure you pass your lives as in a happy dream. The earth brings forth your food, and nothing disturbs your peaceful sleep. Would that I were as some of you. The weight of this crown and purple robe crushes all the pleasures out of my life. For fifty years have I reigned in yonder beautiful palace, whose walls are covered with marble, whose halls sparkle with fountains; yet, since I picked flowers on the bank of the Xenil, I have seen but fourteen happy days. How gladly would I exchange with some of you, who think, as you look at me, that I possess the sum of happiness." And so the poor envied the great man, and the great man envied the poor. How often do we hear children say, "If I were as rich as such an one, I should be happy;" and "if I only had this or that, I know that I should be happy!" Your notion of happiness is having. But this is the one grand mistake of life. It is from this false notion that the proverb has sprung: "As happy as a king." But he was a great king, who could have every wish of his heart--the master of one of the riches countries of the earth; and he could tell all the days of real happiness he had ever spent on his fingers in less than a minute. Learn in childhood, if you can; that happiness is not outside but inside. A good heart and a clear conscience bring happiness; no riches and no circumstances alone ever do. Alexander conquered all the world, and then, far from being happy, he wept because there were no more worlds to conquer. When tempted, as I know some of you often are, to envy those who are rich and higher than you, remember the great Abdalrahman, who lived in a magnificent palace for fifty years, the master of a kingdom, and could only reckon fourteen happy days in all his life at last. ------------------------------------------ IT is asserted that a man's finger-nails grow their complete length in four months and a half. A man living seventy years renews his nails one hundred and eighty times. Allowing each nail to be half an inch long, he has grown seven feet and nine inches of finger nail on each finger, and on fingers and thumbs an aggregate of seventy-seven feet and six inches. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 163 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE KING AND THE FISHERMAN. ----- KING MANSOR, among other amusements, was immoderately fond of the chase; and it one day so happened, that, being on a hunting excursion, he was surprised by a terrific storm, which, with irresistible fury, laying waste both corn and woodlands, soon dispersed his courtiers on all sides in search of shelter. Mistaking his way in the confusion which ensued, King Mansor, separated at length from his companions, wandered through the forest until nightfall; and such was the tempestuous raging of the winds, that, almost despairing of finding shelter, he checked his steed, doubtful which way he should proceed. From the terrific darkness of the sky, relieved only by sheets of flashing light across the far horizon, he was fearful of going farther, lest he should incur still greater danger, either by riding into pitfalls, or the deep marshes bordering the farest grounds. As he thus stood listening to the distant thunder and the roaring of the storm, he stretched his view in vain to discover some signs of human existence, until, on proceeding a few more steps, a light suddenly appeared at only a short distance from him. It was from the window of a poor fisherman's hut, who earned his livelihood by catching eels in the adjacent pools and marshes. On hearing the voice of the king, who rushed forward with a shout of joy on beholding a human habitation, the fisherman hastened to the assistance of the bewildered traveler, whom he believed to have lost his way in the storm. Inquiring who called, the king approached near, and entreated him, if he possessed the least charity, to direct him the shortest path to the residence of the monarch. "The king's court," replied the poor man, "is distant from this place above ten long miles." "Yet I will make it worth your trouble, friend, to guide me thither; consent to oblige me, and you shall have no reason to complain," said the king. "Though you were King Mansor himself," said the fisherman, "who entreated as much, I would not venture upon it at this hour of the night, and such a storm as this is; for I should render myself guilty, perhaps, of leading our honoured monarch into destruction. The night is dark, and waters are out around us." "But why should you, friend, be so very solicitous about the safety of the king?" "Oh," replied the good man, "because I honour him more than I do any one else, and love him more than myself." "But what good has he ever done you," asked the king, "that you should hold him in such high esteem? Methinks that you would be rather more comfortably lodged and clothed were you any extraordinary favourite of his." "Not so, Sir Knight; what greater favour can I receive from my honoured king, in my humble sphere, than to be protected in the employment of my house and goods, and the little earnings which I make? All I have I owe to his kindness, to the wisdom and justice with which he rules over his subjects, preserving us in peace or protecting us in war from the inroads of the Arabs, as well as all other enemies. Even I, a poor fisherman, with a wife and little family, am not forgotten, and enjoy my poverty in peace. He permits me to fish for eels whenever I please, and take them to the best market I can find, in order to provide for my little ones At any hour, night or day, I go out or come in, just as I like, to or fro, in my humble dwelling; and there is not a single person in all the neighbouring woods and valleys who has ever dared to do we wrong. To whom am I indebted for all this, but to him for whom I daily offer up my prayers to God and our holy Prophet to watch over his preservation? But why do I talk, when I see you, Sir Knight, before me, dripping from the pelting of the pitiless storm? Deign to come within, and receive what shelter my poor cabin will afford; to-morrow I will conduct you to the king, or wherever you please." Mansor now freely availed himself of the invitation, and dismounting from his horse, sought refuge from the still raging storm. The poor steed likewise shared the accommodation prepared in a little out-house for the good man's ass, partaking of the corn and hay. Seated by the side of a good fire, the king was employed in drying himself and recruiting his exhausted strength, while the wife was busily employed in cooking the eels for his supper. When they were served, having a decided distaste for fish, he somewhat anxiously inquired whether there was no kind of meat for which he could exchange them. The fisherman very honestly declared that it was true that he had a she-goat with a kid, and perceiving that his guest was no unworthy personage, he directly offered to serve it up at table; which having done, he presented the king with those parts generally esteemed the best and most delicious. After supper, the monarch retiring to his rustic couch, reposed his wearied limbs, and slumbered till the sun was up. At the appointed hour he once more mounted his steed, attended by his kind host, who now took upon himself the office of a guide. They had scarcely proceeded beyond the confines of the marshes, when they encountered several of the king's party, calling aloud in the utmost anxiety, and searching for their royal master in every direction. Unbounded was the joy and congratulation of the courtiers on thus meeting with him safe and uninjured. The king then turning round to the poor fisherman, informed him that he was the monarch whom he had so much praised, and whom he had so humanely and so honourably received the foregoing evening! and that he might rely upon him that his singular courtesy and good-will should not go unrewarded. Now there were certain hunting-lodges which the king had erected in those parts for the convenience which they afforded in his excursions; and several of his nobles had likewise adorned the surrounding country with various seats and other dwellings, so as to give a pleasing relief to the prospect. With a view of bestowing a handsome remuneration upon the good fisherman, the grateful monarch gave orders that the pools and marshes adjacent to these dwellings should be drained. He then circumscribed the limits of a noble city, comprehending the palaces and houses already erected, and conferred upon it various rich immunities, by which it shortly became both very populous and powerful. He named the place Cæsar Eleabar, or the Great Palace, and presented it as a magnificent token of his gratitude to the honest fisherman. ------------------------------------------ DESPISING RIDICULE.--I know of no principle whi it is of more importance to fix in the mind of young people, than that of the most determined resistance to the encroachments of ridicule. Give up to the world, and to the ridicule with which the world enforces its dominion, every trifling question of manner and appearance; it is to toss courage and firmness to the winds, to combat upon such subjects as these. But learn from the earliest days to insure your principles against the perils of ridicule; you can no more exercise your reason if you live in the constant dread of laughter, than you can enjoy life if you are in the constant dread of death. If you think it right to differ from the times, and to take a stand for any valuable point of morals, do it, however rustic, however antiquated, however pedantic it may appear; do it, not for insolence, but seriously and grandly, as a man who wore the soul of his own bosom, and did not wait until it was breathed into him by the breath of fashion. Let men call you mean, if you know you are just; hypocritical, if you are honestly religious; pusillanimous, if you feel you are firm; resistance soon converts unprincipled wit into sincere respect; no aftertime can tear you from those feelings which every man carries with him who has made a noble and successful exertion in a virtuous cause.--Sidney Smith. ------------------------------------------ THE AGE OF ANIMALS.--A bear rarely exceeds twenty years; a dog lives twenty years; a wolf twenty; a fox fourteen or fifteen; lions are long lived--"Pompey" lived to the age of seventy. The average of cats is fifteen years; a squirrel and hare seven or eight years; rabbits seven. Elephants have been known to live to the great age of four hundred years. When Alexander the Great had conquered one Pharus, King of India, he took a great elephant which had fought very valiantly for the king, named him Ajax, and dedicated him to the sun, and let him go with this inscription, "Alexander the son of Jupiter, hath dedicated Ajax to the sun." This elephant was found with this inscription three hundred and fifty years after. Pigs have been known to live to the age of thirty years; the rhinoceros to twenty. A horse has been known to live to the age of sixty-two, but averages from twenty-five to thirty. Camels sometimes live to the age of an hundred. Stags are long-lived. Sheep seldom exceed the age of ten. Cows live about fifteen years. Cuvier considers it probable that whales sometimes live to the age of one thousand. The dolphin and porpoise attain the age of thirty. An eagle died at Vienna at hte age of one hundred and four years. Ravens frequently reach the age of one hundred. Swans have been known to live three hundred and sixty years. Mr. Mallerton has the skeleton of a swan that attained the age of two hundred years. Pelicans are long-lived. A tortoise has been known to live to the age of one hundred and seven.-- Exchange Paper. ------------------------------------------ ADVICE TO TRAVELLERS.--On the edge of a small river in the county of Cavan, in Ireland, there is a stone with the following inscription: "N. B.--When this stone is out of sight it is not safe to ford the river." But this is even surpassed by the famous post erected a few years since by the surveyors of the Kent roads: "This is the bridle-path to Feversham; if you can't read this, you had better keep the main road." ------------------------------------------ THE WINTER OF THE HEART. ----- Let it never come to you. Live so that good angels will protect you rom this terrible evil--the winter of the heart. Let no chilling influence freeze up the fountain of sympathy and happiness from its depths--no cold burthen settle over its withered hopes, like snow on the faded flowers--no rude blasts of discontent moan and shriek through its desolate chambers. Your life-path may lead you amid trials which for a time seem entirely to impede your progress, and shut out the very light of Heaven from your anxious gaze. Penury may take the place of ease and plenty; your luxurious home may be exchanged for a single lowly room; the soft couch for the straw pallet, the rich viand for the coarse food of the poor. Summer friends may forsake you, and the unpitying world pass with scarcely a word of compassion. You may be forced to toil wearily, steadily on to earn a livelihood; you may encounter fraud and base avarice, which would extort the last farthing, till you well-nigh turn in disgust from your fellow-beings. Death may sever the dear ties that bind you to earth, and leave you in fearful darkness. The noble, manly boy, the sole hope of your declining years, may be taken suddenly from you, while your spirit clings to him with a wild tenacity which even the shadows of the tomb cannot wholly subdue. But amid all these sad trials and sorrows, do not come to the conclusion that no body was ever so deeply afflicted as you are, and abandon every sweet anticipation of "better days" in the unknown future. Do not lose your faith in human excellence becasue your confidence has been betrayed; nor believe that friendship is only a delusion, and love, a bright phantom which glides away from your grasp. Do not think you are fated to be miserable because you are disappointed in your expectations and baffled in your pursuits. Do not declare that God has forsaken you when your way is hedged with thorns, or repine sinfully when He calls your dear ones to the land beyond the grave. Keep a holy trust in Heaven, through every trial bear adversity with fortitude, and look upward in hours of temptation and suffering. When your locks are white, your eyes dim, and your limbs weary--when your steps falter on the verge of Death's gloomy vale, still retain the freshness and buoyancy of spirit which will shield you from this winter of the heart. ------------------------------------------ WASTED LIFE.--When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy windows. When he got out of the house the air was cold and raw, the dull sky overcast, the river dark and misty, the whole scene like a lifeless desert. Dull wreaths of dust were spinning round and round before the morning blast, as if the desert sand had risen far away, and the first spray of it in its advance had begun the overwhelming of the city. Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still on his way across a silent terrace, and saw, for a moment, lying in the wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial and perseverance. In the fair city of this vision there were airy galleries from which the Loves and Graces looked upon him, gardens in which the fruits of life hung ripening, waters of hope that sparkled in his sight. A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a wall of houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its pillow was wet with wasted tears. Sadly, sadly the sun rose; and it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away. ------------------------------------------ In the speech of KOSSUTH, delivered in Glasgow, there occurs a passage which deserves enshrinement by itself, for its impressive truth and beauty: "I have lived too long and too practical a life," said he, "to do vain things. Sympathy--what is that? A sigh, that flutters from the lips of a tender girl, and dies in the whispers of the breeze. People in their individual capacity may know of sympathy, but when a people's aggregate sentiments become collected in the crucible of policy, sympathy vanishes into the air, like the diamond when burnt, and nothing there remains but an empty crucible, surrounded with the ashes of gross egotism. The time has not yet come when nations will act from sympathy. That may be done when the world shall know of one Christian nation on earth. Until now, I know of no Christian nation, because I know of none which, in its national policy, ever has acted upon the Christian command--'Do unto others as thou would'st have others do unto thee.'" ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

164 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Our European Correspondence. ----- LAUSANNE, August 1st, 1859. Having made up our minds to visit St. Gothard and the Grimsel, we were compelled to return from Lucerne (where my last letter was written), by the lake of the same name, to Flüelin. Hence we footed it over the place just mentioned, talking in our line, also, the Glacier of the Rhone, and many valleys and gorges, too numerous to mention. It is scarcely to be expected that I should give you the minutiæ of these things, as the latter portion of my trip embraced not only most of the grander of these, but also soft and humanized beauties in addition. The pass of the Grimsel, however, I must say, has, to my mind, no equal in its kind; and did our terms grandeur and sublimity and solemnity convey any idea of extraordinary power and magnificence, I should be glad to attempt its description. But a poor, ill-used language, as ours, which is made to call a mole-hill stupendous, an old-field schoolboy thrillingly eloquent, and a Laura-Matilda-verse-writer a breather of the divine afflatus, must stand mute in the presence of Nature, and confess her power of expression gone. But if vast piles of snow-capped mountains, grey, ragged cliffs, smiting the clouds as they pass; deep gorges trembling with the ceaseless roar of wild cataracts, and all these viewed from narrow pathways winding midway between heaven and earth-- if these can make a picture, take them, and when you have combined in all proportions and attitudes, you will have some idea of the Grimsel. Thence to Meyringen, Interlachen, Berne and Freyburg. This last was of considerable interest to me. The town itself is most romantically, almost wildly, "situated on a promontory formed by the windings of the Loarine" (MURRAY), and, seen from the opposite side of the river, appears highly picturesque, with its old roofs piled one above another on the hill. Then the two suspension-bridges, one nine hundred and forty-one feet long and one hundred and eighty feet high: the other six hundred and forty feet long and three hundred and seventeen feet high, are quite remarkable. The view from the last, of the gorge below, the bare rocks around, and the quaint old city in front, is very fine. The organ in the Church of St. Nicholas is, perhaps, a greater notoriety still. The Church itself is a handsome Gothic building, but one is apt to forget it in the organ, or only to think of it as the casket of that precious jewel. This instrument, built by ALOYS MOSER, a native of the place, is said to bethe finest in the world. It can scarcely be the most powerful, but in richness and fulness and variety, I have never seen it even rivalled. A party of us went from the hotel to hear it, on Sunday evening, at eight o'clock. Quite a variety of pieces were played, consisting of selections from the Church music, from the operas, and other music at large. To the first it gave a power and a solemnity that, with all my love for it, it never had for me before. Now came the low wail of sorrow trembling through the dim aisles, as if some soul lay gasping in a death of humiliation and hopelessness,--now pealed clear strains of joy, as if some happy heart was trilling jubilees from every niche and corner--now it rose in wild tones of enthusiasm, as if some mighty spirit had burst forth in a pæan of triumpth, flinging his fierce cries around to roof and pillar and altar till the very stones shivered with the reverberations of his strain. And the storm was most admirable-- winds howling, thunders pealing, echoes rolling, rain pattering and human voices shrieking, till at the close I rushed out to see if there was not a storm! There is a curious lime-tree here. After the battle of Morat, in 1496, a young Freyburger soldier, eager to announce the victory over the Burgunlians, ran all the way home, and was just able to shout "victory!" when he fell dead from exhaustion. The lime-twig he bore in his hand was planted, and its venerable trunk still remains, a very shrine to the sons of freedom. Thence to Lausanne and Geneva. This last particularly pleased me. The handsome houses and hotels along the lake, the neat streets, and the view of the lake with mountains in the back-ground, all make up a sight most refreshing after other Swiss towns. When to this is added its historical celebrity--its own part in history,andthe great men it has entertained--Calvin (a colossal old fudge in some respects, but still of much sense and courage), Rousseau, etc.--it becomes doubly an object of interest. Of all places I have seen, Geneva takes the lead in jewellery-stores. Watches, studs, buttons,brooches, all manner of metal and jewel combinations stare and flash and glitter in almost every window, till one feels like he is strolling through Golconda, or measuring of his twenty-eight inches amid

"The wealth of Ormus and of Ind."

From Geneva we went to Chamouni, in a lumbering old diligence, filled to the mouth, of course. Among others, was a jolly old priest, with whom we were not long in making an acquaintance. We began with his remarking on some apricots I was buying. (I forgot to say that I found German die out below Freyburg.) He soon said something I could not catch, not knowing a great deal of French at best, which I told him. "Ah! From England?" (in French.)-- "No, from America." "Indeed! Yet you speak English!" Shade of Solomon! But he soon shewed a knowledge at least of men, and after dining with him, and drinking two bottles of wine together, we were forced to vote him a fine old fellow. Here we parted with a "bon voyage," and we saw him no more. Before we leave him here, however, I must add that he made another blunder in ascribing our independence mainly to the assistance derived from France in the Revolution. This is a common opinion in Europe, and has been more than ever strengthened by that recent absurd speech of Mr. DALLAS. The truth may not always be pleasant to tell, but when a man injures his country by the contrary course, why prefer the falsehood? Chamouni (campus minutus, champs muni) is the most beautiful of valleys, and presents the most pleasant reconcilement and sisterhood between Nature and Art I have yet seen. It appears as if the former had thrown up her fortresses around, and taken up her abode in them, but stretched out a smooth meadow in their midst, and given it to man to take and till. I did not wonder at its celebrity--the vast mountains (Mont Blanc among others) standing round with their snows and glaciers and thousand "sonorous water-falls," and the rich, green valleys, smooth as a table, and dotted over with twinkling villages, present a variety and richness and harmoniousness scarcely to be equalled. I rode from the proper entrance of the vale to the village of the same name, outside an open carriage, and had thus an admirable view. The chain of Mont Blanc is peculiarly interesting--there seemed to be such a rivalry among the peaks. Raised above the rest of creation, three heads seem to strive for the mastery (as seen from Chamouni). One, the lowest, but lofty from its nearness, reached up its slender, snow-tipped crags, as if to claim it--another reared its vast, bold front, all white with almost unbroken snow, as if to seize it--while last, a smooth, perfectly rounded, spotless head of snow smiled in modest but conscious superiority in the back-ground, and all confessed it the Mont Blanc. This trio reminded me of our three great statesmen; how, it is not difficult to see. My enjoyment was somewhat marred by the loss of my great-coat, which I only recovered after a good deal of quarrelling and uneasiness--it had been dropped in the road. On the morning after our arrival we set out to visit the Meré de Glace, the king of glaciers, as Mont Blanc is of mountains. We first explored the lower portion, or Glacier de Bois--climbed over the terminal moraines, sometimes fifty or seventy-five feet high, consisting of huge boulders of stone, cut and scratched in every direction, and great heaps of dirt and sand ground to the fineness of flower--jumped about among the blocks of ice that lay around--and were trying some caves which appeared most inviting from the blue light transmitted through the ice, when the roar of a few avalanches far up the gorge, and the popping of the mass around us, warned us to retreat. The amount of waste matter thrown down by this glacier is wonderful; it appears to have piled up in a miniature mountain at its foot, on which there is a strong growth of pine, to the size of which it adds every day by immense heaps of stones, etc. We next climbed the Mantanoort, to view the glacier proper. Having refreshed ourselves at the little inn here, we descended to the surface of the vast sea of ice. It is well named; for the frozen waves and curves and caverns give it just the appearance of a sea in agitation. It seemed to descend from beds of snow by two channels: which made a central moraines strongly like the line between two streams flowing together, and then stretched out for hundreds of feet in a billowy, frozen, sparkling mass, of wonderful proportions;-- first piled up in needles and blocks, and then smoothing down into the waves and chasms I have just mentioned. We walked about on it, but found it so simple a matter to cross (the guides having steps cut out in all places of the least difficulty) that we did not care to go entirely across. Here we met a brisk middle-aged French woman, whose daughter was just crossing. As we went back she stopped us to talk and point at her hopeful (one of those plump human partridges, that make one hungry to look at them) who, with her skirt tucked up above her snowy petticoats, went bouncing along on the ice like a little snow-ball. We waited to get a good look at Mademoiselle, but a sudden attack of hunger compelled a retreat. There down to the hotel, a good dinner, and a lazy, comfortable smoke, with the Alps glowing all around in the last purple tints of sunset, and the darkening valley falling to sleep amid the hum of distant water-falls and tinkling bells. Here one feels the force of Byron's lines:

"Above me are the Alps, The palaces of nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche--the thunderbolt of snow! All that expands the spirit, yet appals Gather around these summits, as to shew How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below."

Mont Blanc is, of course, the great lion here, and there was a good deal of bustle about the ascent of it undertaken this same day, by a party of five Englishmen, with eight guides and porters. It is, I imagine, rather troublesome than dangerous; but a three days' walk in snow is not to be laughed at; besides, it costs about one hundred dollars! Next day we took a porter for our luggage and set off for Martigny. Walked twelve miles and dined, and then finished the other twelve--a good day's work, I think. The scenery along this route, especially around the Tete Noir, is very fine. From one point the view of the dark gorge and its necessary concomitant, an impetuous torrent, with a perfect cone covered with houses and fields, rising up where the valley opened into a level meadow below the mountains, was equal to the Grimsel in grandeur, and superior in richness and variety. From Martigny we proceeded to Mount St. Bernard. To Liddes we went in what they called an omnibus--a one-horse vehicle, which, with crowding, could carry four persons. Now, the name seemed misapplied--but I suppose they meant that any and every body could get quarter therein, but as there are only four quarters, of course, only four could be accomodated. From Liddes we were forced to foot it up a mule-path (that is, most of the way) of considerable difficulty in places. We were not long in reaching the region of nakedness, and when in sight of the Hospice, we had already large fields of snow below us, and only ragged cliffs occasionally tipped with scanty grass around and above. It became excessively cold and dreary, and we learned to appreciate the heart of him who founded this place of refuge for travellers. Walking into the Hospice, we rushed unawares into the hall where a party of travellers were devouring the good things set out by the hospitality of the monks--for you know every one is entertained here three days gratis. We were invited to join them, and you may venture something that we did. We were comfortably lodged for the night in what looked to be the coldest and most dismal of cloisters--which, with other things, very forcibly reminded me of the scene in "Little Dorrit." Waked on the morrow (it was Sunday) by peals from the Chapel organ, we proceeded to dress, and after visiting the place of worship and depositing our alms, marched, heathen-like, down the mountain to a warmer clime. We were escorted part of the way by two of the convent dogs--immense animals, with an extent of limb and thickness and length of hair that seemed to fit them for any amount of danger and cold. They have six at present, and their affection for humanity seemed to be only equalled by the benevolence of their masters. I was not disappointed here. The wild scenery, the solemn old Hospice, the serious and kind monks, and the dogs, so famous throughout the world, were all just as my fancy had painted them and hoped to find them. Hence to Martigny again; whence down the valley of the Rhone amid most gorgeous mountains and meadow-lands to Lake Leman, which we crossed to Vevay. "Mon Lac est le premier," says Voltaire--and rightly, felt I then. It was a glorious twilight, with the day just dying out behind the Jura, and light and darkness mingling together the mountains and fields and villages in a sort of indistinct loveliness, truly beau0 tiful. And so softened was every sound from the shores, and every rippleof the waters, that one felt as if the very spirit of music had descended upon the lake to soothe and bless the scene. I did not wonder that some who once enjoyed these beauties had forgotten one of God's names, and learned to exist alone in the other--Nature. If you have found no life in Nature, and been able but to appreciate the Creator as a spiritual existence, and if you would learn to feel him in the power and beauty of reality as well as in the cold idea,--visit such scenes as this, or the one here in Lausanne, where Nature has a voice of her own, and you shall feel as well as know Him! How the Swiss should be so worthless in such a country is to me a perfect mystery: for, since I have been here, the world seems to me a being and and a reality it never did before--so much so, that I fear I shall soon deserve that most unfortunate epithet--a romantic man! NOUS VERRONS. ------------------------------------------ FEELING.--A lecturer once claimed for feeling the whole of the qualities that characterized all the senses as they are distinguished by the old dogma. He aruged that through the eyes, ears, palate, nose, all arrived at the sensorium, and hence were feeling. And there was truth and beauty in it; for what were all those open doors to consciousness, if feeling were wanting to give the glow to beauty, or the melody to song, or the perfection to art? We see many living illustrations of the truth of this in the world, in whom feeling lies an uncultivated thing, withering in the air of frigid indifference. They are called heartless people, which is very expressive; and we feel chilled by contact with them, as though, in our summerish feeling, a breeze from over an iceberg had fanned us.--Knitting Work. ------------------------------------------ MR. ARCHIBALD McBRYDE, of North Carolina, proposes to form a company to pull down the pyramids of Egypt, for the purpose of procuring the treasures supposed to be hidden under them. He advances many plausible reasons why the speculation would prove profitable, but forgets to mention a fact settled by Egyptian antiquarians, that the pyramids, if they ever contained treasure, were robbed of it ages ago, probably during the invasion of the country by Cambyses. ------------------------------------------ PEACE is the evening star of the soul. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Courant. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, SEPT. 22, 1859. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE COURANT. Subscriptions to the Courant will be received at the Bookstore of Mr. P. B. GLASS, in this City, where single copies can be obtained every week. The office of the Courant has been removed to No. 144 Richardson Street, over Flanigan's Shoe-Store. WM. W. WALKER, JR., & CO. ------------------------------------------ The Unknown; or, The Spirit Bride. We take pleasure in announcing that we will publish, in next week's Courant, a beautiful story under this title, written especially for our paper, by Miss MAUD IRVING, author of "The Betrayed Wife," etc. ------------------------------------------ A Word or Two about Pianos. An esteemed lady friend and correspondent, wishing to purchase a piano, has written to us to know which are the best, as regards tone, durability, and adaption to our Southern climate. At her request, we (the Associate Editor) here give our reply-- our opinion being based, in a great degree, upon careful observation and practical experience. The leading American Piano Manufacturers are so well known that it would be unnecessary to mention their names. They have nearly all achieved a wide reputation for the excellence of their workmanship, and their instruments are found throughout the civilized world. It is impossible to say who makes the best, so far as durability and tone are concerned. Tastes differ very widely in music, as in painting and poetry. A piano, whose tone would delight one individual, would scarcely please another, so that every pianist must be his or her own judge as to tone. It has been a serious objection to some pianos that they could not stand our Southern climate. They have soon become injured by the vicissitudes of heat and cold to which they were exposed, and, ere long, lost that peculiar tone which was at first their chief recommendation. Our own experience leads us to say that those manufactured by NUNNS & CLARK,New York, are not liable to this objection. We have had one fully five years, and its tone is as fresh and brilliant as the day it was made. It is played upon pretty often, and very seldom needs "tuning." We regard it almost as a model instrument. We know others who have pianos of the same make, and their experience is the same as ours. We can, therefore, recommend our fair young friend to purchase one of NUNNS & CLARK's manufacture. HALLETT, DAVIS & CO.'s (Boston) pianos we have often heard spoken of in high terms, as being peculiarly adapted to our climate. Our neighbour, Mr. RAWLS, successor to Mr. Wm. RAMSAY, keeps these instruments for sale, and his opinion and experience are of value in the selection of a good instrument, as he is a thorough musician. A lady, whose parlour, by the way, is the scene of many a delightful musical entertainment, has a Grand Piano, manufactured by HORACE WATERS (New York), which for beauty of construction and finish is unsurpassed. Its tone is exceedingly good--especially for accompaniments for songs and operatic music. We understand that it has not yet suffered any detriment from our climate, and its tone to-day is excellent. This instrument took a premium at the "Great Exhibition" in New York, in 1856. It is the only one of Mr. WATERS' manufacture that we have seen in our city, and if all of his make are equally good, we can readily recommend them. Many instruments have been sent to the Southern market from the manufactory of JOSEPH NEWMAN & CO., of Baltimore, Maryland. They are made expressly, we understand, for the South, and will doubtless rapidly work their way into public favour. Mr. NEWMAN has recently obtained a patent for an improvement in the construction of the "sounding boards," which is highly spoken of by many eminent pianists. So far as we have tried them, the tone of Mr. NEWMAN's pianos is very god--but we think an improvement can be made in their appearance and finish. A piano to be appreciated must be ornamental, at least many of our lady friends say so, and we suppose we must coincide in their opinion. ------------------------------------------ A Desideratum. From the extract below, taken from the Home Journal, it will be seen that Mr. KENNEDY is about to gratify the wish, so often expressed, that he should finish the world with a complete edition of his works. The Home Journal is mistaken, however, in saying that these publications have been long out of print, as a uniform edition was published by PUTNAM in 1856. Mr. KENNEDY is a man of whom the South may be justly proud. His "Horse-Shoe Robinson" is immensely popular. "Hon. J. P. Kennedy is engaged in preparing for the press a uniform edition of his works, including 'Swallow Barn,' 'Horse-Shoe Robinson,' 'Rob of the Bowl,' and the 'Biography of William Wirt.' Most of these publications have long been out of print, and a new edition will command a great sale, from the merit of the works, and the deserved popularity of the author." ------------------------------------------ The Illustrated Hebdomadals. We have received from GLASS' book-store, "Harper's" and "Frank Leslie's" for the week ending Saturday, September 17. The reading matter is miscellaneous and instructive--the cuts are numerous and creditable. All know the value of these issues for light-reading, and as family papers--for chance perusal and broken hours. They may be found at the book establishment of Mr. GLASS. ------------------------------------------ Our European Correspondence. We call the attention of our readers to our correspondence from abroad--from the Continent. The places visited by the writer are of world-wide fame--of ever-enduring interest. Though tourists, year after yar, may go thither and give us descriptions, yet, as each individual mind differs from another, each successive goer will find it in his power to afford us something fresh--something original--something edifying. This, we think, we can claim for "Nous Verrons"--read his letters-- the time will be not ill-spent. ------------------------------------------ The Carolina High School. This popular High School, under the joint Coryphæus-ship of A. BREVARD BRUMBY, Esq., M. A., and J. WOOD DAVIDSON, Esq., M. A., will be resumed in a short time--on the first Monday in October. M. BESANÇON, a Graduate of the University of France, has charge of the departments of the French language and Mathematics. It is a flourishing school, and worthy of the support of our people. See the advertisement on the eighth page. ------------------------------------------ The School of the Ursulines. This Institution, in charge of the Ursuline Nuns of this city, opened on the 19th instant, in their new house--formerly the "American Hotel." With ample accomodations for boarders, and increased facilities for instruction, the "Academy of the Immaculate Conception" will doubtless meet with full favour and confidence from our community and the State generally. The system of education here pursued is universally admitted to be thorough and complete. ------------------------------------------ Wise! We are glad to see, occasionally, that the "Ledger" gets its deserts--as, for instance, in the following: "OBJECTIONABLE LITERATURE..--The leaders and stewards of the M. E. Church at Lambertsville, N. J., have 'resolved, that the circulation and reading of the New York Ledger and Police Gazette is a violation of the spirit and intent of that portion of the general rules of that Church:--first, the injunction to do no harm; second, doing what we know is not for the glory of God; thirdly, the reading of those books which do not tend to the knowledge and love of God." ------------------------------------------ Critical Notice. ----- "TEN YEARS OF PREACHER LIFE," &c., by WILLIAM HENRY MILBURN, AUTHOR OF "THE RIFLE, AXE AND SADDLE BAGS." New York: Derby & Jackson. MDCCCLIX. The autobiography of any man in public life, if plainly written, and with no effort at display, will contain much that is interesting. No matter what part he may have enacted--what position he may have occupied--strange and eventful incidents have ever and anon occurred in his history. To record these properly is no easy task. Men will not always write as they talk, and an undue and vain desire for literary fame has often ruined what otherwise would have been a most interesting and attractive book. One of the chief charms of the work before us is, its simple, yet earnest and expressive style. Nearly five years have passed since we heard Mr. MILBURN--a name now familiar to us all--lecture or preach. The impression then made by his oratory was agreeable, and the perusal of his book has been no less so. With his writings, as with his discourses, there are no strivings after effect--no effort to appear learned--no aspirations to win applause. He is always earnest and sincere-- plain and forcible--often-times rising to eloquence, yet never descending below the limits of good sense and taste. Mr. MILBURN has here given us a truthful sketch of the lfie of a Methodist minister, with its manifold vicissitudes--its contests and triumphs over "the world, the flesh and the Devil." The subject would be at all times interesting--but in this instance is rendered more so by the personal experience--the life-history of the writer himself--being associated with it. It is a record of his life for ten years--a record by the hands of others at his dictation--for, as is well known, the eyes of the eloquent preacher and attractive author are closed in blindness. We recommend this book to our readers, especially those of the Methodist denomination. While candour impels us to state that we do not entirely approve of Mr. MILBURN's remarks concerning "the peculiar institution of the South," still we do not object to his work on this account. He is in thought and feeling "one of us," and minor differences, on a subject of so great magnitude, can well be tolerated where both parties are true and loyal, as in this instance. For our copy we are indebted to Mr. P. B. GLASS--successor to R. L. BRYAN. ------------------------------------------ DERBY & JACKSON, it is said, are soon to publish a book entitled "Calhoun and his Contemporaries," by B. A. REYNOLDS, Esq., of Mobile, Alabama. ------------------------------------------ The Berkley Sensation. New York has had quite a stir lately, in consequence of the arrival of the English sportsman, the Hon. GRANTLEY BERKLEY. Is this one of the persons who figure in so unenviable a style in MAGINN's "Fraserian Papers?" If so, we should be surprised to see him received in circles where the history of the brutal attack on poor FRASER is known. The Home Journal says: "The Hon. Grantley F. Berkley, the well-known English sportsman, has arrived in this city, and is stopping at the Clarendon Hotel. The honourable gentleman visits this country for two purposes, viz., to make a sporting tour through the West, to hunt the buffalo, antelope, elk, and other animals of the prairie and wilderness; and, also, to visit the large farms and plantations, to witness the operations in regard to the care and rearing of stock. That he will meet with a warm and generous reception from the sturdy sons of the West we do not doubt. Mr. Berkley is a brother of the present distinguished member of Parliament from Bristo. Sir John Rennie, a friend of the Hon. Grantley F. Berkley, is also at the Clarendon." ------------------------------------------ For the Courant.

Pope's Homer. Dear Courant:--The notices of old books, by "The Charleston Courier," and other papers throughout the country, have suggested to me me to lay before your readers an account of one to be seen at "The Columbia Athenæum Library:" a copy of POPE's HOMER, in six volumes, folio--a copy of the first printed, bearing date 1715--the first volume 1715--the last 1720. The title-page is as follows: THE ILIAD OF HOMER. ----- TRANSLATED BY MR. POPE. ----- Te sequor, O Graiæ gentis Deus! inque tuis nunc Fixa pedum pono pressis vestigia signis: Non ita certandi cupidus, quàm propter Amorem, Quod te imitari aveo------- LUCRET. -------------- LONDON: Printed by W. BOWYER, for BERNARD LINTOTT between the Temple-Gates, 1715. Next comes the "Royal License and Privilege for the sole printing and publishing" "the six volumes of the ILIAD OF HOMER, translated by" Alexander Pope. Each book is accompanied with ample "observations," or notes, critical and explanatory. The opening of the first book, inasmuch as it differs from our present version, may be interesting. I give it verbatim et literatim:

"The Wrath of Peleus' Son, the direful Spring "Of all the Grecian woes, O Goddess, Sing! "That Wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy Reign "The Souls of mighty Chiefs untimely slain; "Whose Limbs unbury'd on the naked Shore "Devouring Dogs and hungry Vultures tore, "Since great Achilles and Atrides strove, "Such was the Sov'reign Doom and such the Will of Jove."

As before stated, this edition of POPE's translation of HOMER --the princeps editio--is comprised in six volumes, folio, bound in calf, dated from 1715 to 1720, and is, perhaps, one of the few copies--if not the only copy--in the State. It was presented to the Athenæum by its munificent donor, the Hon. WM. CAMPBELL PRESTON. I have several other books, in "The Athenæum Library," and elsewhere, to note. Faithfully, P. D. S. ------------------------------------------ THE OLDEST BIBLE IN THE COUNTRY.--We have upon our table to-day a copy of the Sacred Scriptures, printed in the English language, which is said to be the oldest in this country. It was printed at Geneva, by John Crespin, in 1568. This remarkable book was, no doubt, when made, an excellent piece of mechanical work, so far as durability of material could go; and it has stood the test of time remarkably well. Generation after generation has consulted its pages for spiritual comfort, and upon its sacred "record" each has engraved the marks of its times; and still, most of the printing and writing is legible. The title page of the Old Testament and the first eighteen chapters of Genesis are gone. The rest is quite perfect, and on the New Testament title page we find the date of the work. We copy it verbatim; but we have not the ancient style of type upon which it was printed:

THE NEWE TESTAMENT OF OVR LORD IESVS CHRIST, conferred diligently with the Greke and best approved translations in diurs languages, EXOD. XIII. VER. XIII. Feare ye not, stand still, and beholde the salvation of the Lord, which he will show to you this daye, THE LORD SHALL FIGHT FOR YOV, therefore holde you your peace. Exod. 14, vers. 14. AT GENEVA, PRINTED BY IOHN CRESPIN, M. D. LXVIII.

This copcy of the Bible is now the property of C. C. Curtiss, a teacher in Professor Benedict's academy, and it has been in his family and in the hands of his ancestors for nearly or quite two hundred and fifty years. The family record in this book is closely written with the names of the Curtiss family, and goes as far back as 1630, when the name was written Turtis. This volume has been sought for by different persons, who desired to purchase it almost at any price. In one instance a large sum was offered the father of the present possessor, but it could not be spared--it was not for sale. Of the peculiarities of this volume, and the noticeable features, a great deal might be said; but we have not the time to go over it, and do it justice. --The Rochester Union. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------