1859-11-10 The Courant

THE COURANT, A Southern Literary Journal.

HOWARD H. CADWELL, Editor.] "Sic vos uon vobis." [Wm. W. WALKER, Jr., & Co., PROPRIETORS

VOLUME I. COLUMBIA, S.C., THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1859. NUMBER 28 [Column 1] We publish, this week, a few lines which originally appeared in the Guardian. It was painful to write this poem, and we would have much preferred not to have reprinted it, but the requests have been earnest, and from several persons, so that we have not felt at liberty to decline.

With this much by way of explanation, we submit the stanzas:

STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF E. M. W. BY HOWARD H. CALDWELL

As one who, musing some sweet summer eve, Looks down a vista of magnolia trees That sport and play with every passing breeze, While thought and fancy find a blest repreive In dreamy wanderings of the Long-ago; And boyhood;s hopes and youth's bright fancies seem To shed upon that vision, each its beam, And flower and tree, and rock and wave, all glow In the enchantment of midsummer's dream; Forms lost, ah! long, long lost, appear again, And saintly voices sound across the plain, And hope's sweet stars, long set, again do seem To throb with their old rapture on our pain, And rising thro' the Heavens, to shed their silver rain:—

When quikc and loud, a trumpet-voice of storm Awakes the dreamer—thrilling all the vale, And flowers bend down and human faces pale Attest alike an hour of dire alarm: Oh thus, sweet friend! when musing, late, of thee, While manhood's cheek e'en felt the trickling tear That linked my Present to that Past, when care Was smiled away in joys of fancy free, The tidings came, that true, kind heart was still, That voice of living melody was hushed, Unbidden tears from my cold eye-lids gushed; And most for him, for whom Earth now can fill No bitterer chilice:—may God's blessing rest Upon the stricken, and bring solace to his breast.

AN IRISH MANNER OF STOPPING A HOLE.—Our folks have got a BIddy of the veritable kind. She is a queer duck, and good-natured as a basket of chips. Well, last Sunday, as we were sitting down to dinner, we found the old cat, with three young grimalkins, largely engaged in the nursery business under the table.

"Biddy," said we, "take this cat and her kittens and put them where we shall never see them more." A hint of dreadful import, but not understood.

"Faith, sir, an' that I will."

The feline family was removed, and we proceeded to dinner. By-and-by Biddy reentered, with an expression of her face that seemed to say—"Be dad, I guess they're in safe keeping now."

"Well, Biddy, what have you done with the old cat and kittens?"

"Be gor, sir, they're safe enough, sure. D'ye mind the wood-house fornenst the stable? Well, I put them all in there and fastened the door and windies. Then, seen thta there was a hole besides where they might get out, I sopped that up, too, and so, you see, they won't trouble you any more."

We were satisfied, "av coorse," and we ate our dinner in peace; afterwards we walked into the yard, where we saw the identical old cat and her three kittens at liberty. Calling Biddy, we said:

"Did you not say you had fastened the cat in the wood-house?"

"Faith, an' I did, sir."

"And stopped the hole?"

"Yes, sir."

Well she had, that's a fact; but what do you suppose what stopped the hole with? She stopped it with a section of stove-pipe! We that we would split. And there sat one of the little imps at the mouth of it, just as it crawled out, licking its paws, and looking as saucy as thunder.—Knickerbocker.

[Column 2] THE FATE OF ALCESTIS. BY MRS. ELLET.

"Facillis decensus Aven; Sed revocare gradum Hic labor—hoc opus est."

IT was twilight in the infernal regions. All was stillness in the Sygian palace, for Proserpina had not yet made her appearance from the chamber where she usually retired after dinner, to indulge herself in a siesta. Pluto had gone on a visit to Olympus to complain of some new Esculapius, and the scaracity of fresh arrivals in his domminions; for it was a subject of lamentation throughout hell, that a full month had elapsed without any tribute money being paid to Charon, for carrying souls across the Hateful passage. The old man had the rhematism from his long inactivity, and looked so ferocious that none, save his master, cared to speak to him; and even the sternly serene countenance of the monarch, on his departure, wore so black an expression that his attendants shrunk from his looks. He had gone without taking leave of his queen; indeed, it has whispered that the royal pair were not on the best terms in the world; a matter not so unfrequent as to excite much surprise, though the exact truth could never be ascertained none venturing to interfere in his majesty's domestic affairs. The infernal courtiers were scattered here and there about the palace, some playing at dominoes, and smoking their pipes, under the shadow of the huge cypresses that hung their mournful wreaths from the columns of the porticoes; others reading the newspapers by the expiring light, or stretched in listless case along the black marble benches. Three dark figures were pacing the long gravel walks, wrapped in their cloaks, with their eyes fixed on the ground. Thye had the place to themselves, for none cared to trouble the Eumenides, and they seemed too deeply absorbed for conversation. The only interruption to the silence was the heavy and continuous waving of Cocytus, as his black waves rolled gloomily on, to unite themselves with the vast channel of Acheron, and the distant crackling heard from Phlegethon, as, occasionally, shoots of flame illumined the increasing darkness. Now and then, too, Cerberus, who lay slumbering on the river-side, would lift up one of his three heads, and utter a low, lazy growl at the sound of some fancied footstep. Then he would shake his three pairs of ears, and compose himself to sleep.

"You play me false," said one fo the gamesters, rising from his seat, "and I will venture no more with you. Besides, it is too dark to distinguish the points."

"Nay, friend," returned the winner, "one stake more. I will risk ten to one we have new arrivals to-night. There is a plague raging in Thessaly."

"What of that? Here we have been weeks reflecting for lack of employment. What will the world come to? A plague! It does little good, when Jove sends an antipode to every poison. The shears of Atropos will rust for want of usage, and herself expire of ennui. Look at the poor thing!"

The figure he pointed out was sitting in a melancholy posture, under one of the pillars of the infernal throne. One hand supported her head, and the oher, hanging negligently at her side, held the fatal scissors. The marble whiteness of the hand was strangely contrasted with her black robes.

[Column 3] A sudden stir among the attendants, and Proserpina herself appeared. Her stately figure was enveloped in the imperial robes worn on state occasions, and a gorgeous crown was upon her head. She moved with divine majesty, attended, but not supported by her favorite hand-maidens, and, bending a haughty glance upon the awed group before her, paused ere she ascended the seat of sovereignty.

"How now, Tyche ! you have the charge of our palace ; why are not the lamps lighted ?"

"So please your majesty, Tisiphone's last draught of oil for the uses of Tartarus, exhausted our present store."

"The caitiff! Light the wax tapers, and trouble me no more with thy presence. Are we to receive company in darkness? Prepare supper in the great hall. Be merry, little one (to her favorite), thou knowest to-night is the anniversary of my coronation."

"Alas, dear mistress," said the maiden, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, "is it not rather an occasion for mourning? Can you have forgotten the lovely vale of Enna, and our blithe garlands, and pastoral songs, and the birth-day gifts of Ceres? When shall we be so happy again ? Oh that fatal pomegranate !"

"Have done with your whining nonsense, Cyane," cried the queen, angrily, "or by my father Jupiter, and my mother Ceres, and my grand-mother Vesta, I will send you to keep company with the trees and fountains, that they may reply to your wailing, if you so much as name Sicily to me again!" But when the favorite pressed more closely to the side of her mistress, and looked up tenderly and tearfully in her face, and dropped her eyes on the ground, as if afraid of her displeasure, she put her arm round her affectionately, and spoke more mildly.

"Nay, good Cyane, take it not so to heart; come, thou shalt revel it with us, for know," ---and she bent her lips to the maiden's ear, --a youth will join us tonight, whose beauty would make jealous our brother Apollo. He is to be my cup-bearer."

Cyane once more dropped her eyes on the ground, and blushed ; but said not what she thought.

"Shall I not equal the Olympian Juno? It is Admetus, son to the King of Thessaly, whom the Fates this night conduct to my realm. But the hour is come." And she took our her gold repeater, which rang nine clear strokes. "Atropos, my girl, you are dull to-night."

And Atropos lifted up her head with a melancholy smile. The shears were half open.

Then a tumult was heard at the gates. They were shaken with long and loud clamor, and the sound of many voices. The palace slaves ran hither and thither, to find out the meaning of the confusion, and Cerberus set up a triple yell, that might have frightened Rhadamanthus himself. The portals burst open with a thundering crash, and Pluto's out-riders entered helter skelter.

"What is all this ?" cried Proserpina, forcing composure, as she sate upon her throne, beating rapidly her cushioned footstool with her little foot, with impatience at the unwonted disorder. "Is Tartarus let loose ?"

"Not quite, your highness," said a knight, throwing himself from his horse, and kneeling on one knee at her august feet, "only Pluto is coming back."

218 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.

[Column 1] "Pluto coming back!" exclaimed the queen; and she gave Cyane a pinch that made the poor girl's arm black and blue. "What, in Jove's name, is the matter?"

"No matter at all, your majesty, but Nycteus, one of his four black studs, has cast a shoe, and our master has ordered him to Lemnos, that Vulcan may repair the damage. But here he comes."

"Ah, truant," exclaimed Proserpina, throwing her mantle gracefully back, and extending her white hand, for she deemed it prudent to enact the deserted spouse, "can nought but mischance bring thee to my side! What minion wast thou but now in quest of, to usurp my place and honours, while I count, in loneliness and sadness, the hours of thy absence?" And she averted her face, and covered her dark eyes.

Pluto's nature was stubborn, but he could never abide the sight of a woman's tears. All he shed were iron; and there was something in the softness of liquid sorrow that melted his very soul. So he applied himself to soothe his aggrieved wife; wiped her eyes with her cambric handkerchief, and promised, on the honour of a king, never to swerve from his affection to her.

"Cheer up, my flower! we must have no sorrow on the anniversary of our wedding. Cheer up! Look, there is some one in Charon's barge!"

Proserpina started up in confusion, as the boat touched the hither strand, and two figures appeared, marshalled by the sullen herdsman. They landed, and one advanced. It was a youth, of perfect figure, and a face that shamed the morning. As he stopped not to pay his fare, Pluto's suspicions were excited.

"This is your solitude!" said he to his lady wife. "Pray, what office is yon fair stripling, who, it seems, had your previous warrant to pass, destined to fill in your household?"

Proserpina trembled, but she was too proud to shew fear, and answered boldly, "my cup-bearer."

"Your cup-bearer, forsooth! You must ape the deities of heaven in all their follies and vices! Out upon you!" cried the monarch, as he stamped his foot; the blow shook the foundations of hell and of the earth; the tides of ocean receded, and the inhabitants of Sicily recorded another earthquake.

"Oh Pluto! a truce to your stuff!" gaily answered his wife, in a voice of music, that penetrated the recesses of Erebus. "Have done with your folly, and receive your visitor. See you not, it is Mercury?"

The black-haired king had already perceived his mistake, and felt ashamed of his violence, as the beautiful stranger approached. The wings attached to his helmet and sandals, and the wings upon his wand of gold entwined with emerald serpents, denoted the messenger of Jove. The sword by which Argus fell was girt to his side, and a lyre hung neglected over his shoulders, half covered by his profusion of bright golden curls. His eye was clear and piercing, and his step light and swift, as he drew nigh the throne. He bowed gracefully to Pluto, kissed the fair hand of Proserpina, and hoped he found his kinswoman in good health.

"Apollo sends you this with his compliments," said the youthful deity, presenting the queen with a rosecoloured note, perfumed and sealed with red wax. Then he turned to Pluto, and they were soon deep in the discussion of the politics of heaven. These, and the gossip of the court of Jove, excluded Proserpina and confidant from their attention.

"Lo, Cyane," said her mistress, reddening with vexation, "Apollo has the insolence to propose me a substitute for Admetus! And the Parcae, he says, have promised to excuse the prince's death, provided some voluntary victim can be found to fill his place. They think to pass his wife upon me; but I will send her back to him —that I will! They might have asked my leave! Summon hither yon shivering ghost. I would see who has had the courage to brave my presence uncalled for."

Mercury stepped back, and beckoned his companion to the foot of the throne. Slowly and timidly the shade approached, with face concealed, gliding through the throng of attendants eager for a glance at the new-comer.

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It stopped at some distance from the Stygian sovereigns.

"Come nearer," said the empress of the dead, in a softer tone, "and doff thy mantle."

The spirit obeyed, and the shroud falling, revealed a countenance and figure of transcendent loveliness. The

face was passing pale, and the calm, passionless eyes and were unshadowed by thought or emotion; nor moved the fair locks that hung from the clear temples with the breath from the colourless lips. It stood motionless, yet quivering, like the shadow of some beautiful statue seen in the trembling pool.

"Now, by the helmet of the Cyclops," exclaimed Pluto, gazing upon the vision, "it is a lovely one! Whom have you brought us, Mercury?"

"It is the bride of Thessaly. She suffers in her husband's stead, who lives for having sheltered Phoebus," answered Mercury, hesitating a little, for he was too much given to lying not to find difficulty in speaking the truth.

"Thessaly was a fool to part with her," said the god. She is a pretty one, and shall fare bravely. Here, some of you, give her in charge to Eacus. She shall become one of us. So, my love, you never told me it was a lady cup-bearer you expected? That was quite a different affair. How could you sport with my fondness? Fie—Proserpina!"

"And fie—Pluto! to frown upon one who shares thy throne. Verily—thou art quick to suspicion; whereas, in aught that concerned thy consort's truth of speech—

"Duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That roots itself at ease on Lethe wharf."*

"I say amen to that," said Mercury, who always took part with the ladies. "Down, vile cur! I wish, good kinsman, you would teach this dog of yours better manners. Here he has daubed my court dress with the mud of the Acherusian fen. Was there ever such a coil! Down with you, fellow!"

Cerberus burst into a yell of agony, and retreated towards his master, with his three heads stooped to the ground, and his immense bushy tail sweeping the floor behind him. The cause of his alarm was soon apparent. A brawny figure was seen half-way across the river of hell, grasping Charon's two oars, and urging the bark onwards with incredible speed. The sullen old man was swearing most lustily at being compelled to play the part of an idle passenger in his own boat, which shot over the waters with such swiftness as to curl the sluggish wave, and leave a wake of foam. It touched the side; the figure leaped on shore; bestowed a hearty box upon the ferryman, and pursued by his execrations, apapproached the imperial palace, and strode into the presence.

"You are welcome Hercules," said the queen, who was the first to recover from her surprise. "You are welcome to our court. How goes on the earth?"

"Not quite well, your highness," answered the son of Alcmena, saluting Pluto and the winged deity, "else I had not come hither to complain. How do you do, my pretty Cyane? It is long since I have seen your face."

"It is indeed long," politely replied Pluto, "since we last greeted you in the shades."

"And then my errand was no peaceful one. Be quiet, monster! (the hound had crouched for protection under the chairs, and was growling with fear and rage)—thou need'st not again dread the upper air. Earth had enough of thee on thy last visit. But to the point; I come to ask a dear boon of your hignesses."

"What boon shall the mighty Alcides ask, that I will not grant!" cried the Stygian Juno.

"Trust to my well-known generosity," said Pluto.

"I thank your graces both," answered Hercules taking snuff, "and will unfold my wishes. The youthful consort of Admetus has just passed into your dominions. Her lord, frantic at her loss, is almost expiring with grief. Moved by the sight of his woe, I have sworn,

_________________________________________ * As the greatest authors have been, at one time or another convicted of plagiarism, our readers must not be surprised at the discovery of this source of the words of Shakespeare. Where could "the buried majesty of Denmark" learn such language, save among the other "secrets of his prison-house."

[Column 3] by immortal Jove, to implore at your hands the lost Alcestis. Let me conduct her back to earth. Seal your empire over the world by one great act of clemency, and make happy two faithful lovers, by restoring them to each other. You hesitate; hear yet a word"— and he whispered in the ear of his majesty, "Do this, and I will send you Diomedes and his horses."

Pluto and Proserpina looked at each other while the son of Alcmena spoke. Images of felicity and blighted affection, and restored happiness, swam before their fancy. The queen thought of the bright fields of Enna, and her youthful companions, and her shepherd lovers; and the monarch thought of his bride in her earth-born beauty, and her charming bashfulness, and his swift chariot, and the Cecropian cave. As for Mercury, he was too well bred to interfere in a delicate matter. So he turned on his heel, and whistled a tune.

"This must be looked into," at length replied the king of Hades. "But it is no easy matter to reverse the decree of fate. In the mean time, you must sup with us, my good lad. This, you know, is our weddingday; and Proserpina has devised a little party, and a dance, and so forth, having bespoken Orpheus himself for her fiddler. So, come along; give Madame your arm, Mercury, we will be happy of your company; but I see you are in haste, therefore will not detain you from your ambrosia and nectar on Olympus. Make my compliments to Jupiter and the ladies. Come on Alcides."

* * * * * * * *

Thrice had the hours on the Thessalian plain measured the westering sun; the growing shade upon the dial's changing plate in vain had warned the shepherd; matron, youth, and maid, and grey-haired sire poured from the city's breast where every toil for a brief space had rest. They came to pay the last funeral right to their lost queen. Upon the bier she lay, lovely in death; her shrouded face more white than e'er the royal rose. Along the way that led to Pluto's temple, on the ground were scattered cypress boughs; and far around the hands of pious friends strewed sacred buds. Within the hallowed fane the victims stood, three sable bulls; their brows with cypress crowned, and adianthus, and the daffodil, mingling their modest hues and sad perfume sacred to him who rules beyond the tomb.

Thrice had the priest invoked the sacred name, and thrice returned the flame of sacrifice that burnt before the shrine. Then lifting high the knife, "This hand of mine," he cried, "dread Pluto, that devotes to thee this offering, (oh, accepted may it be!) was never stained with crime! So thou receive the sacrifice! Immortal Proserpine! In thy rich mercy, to the lost one give a glorious doom in the Elysian plains! And grant where now keen anguish only reigns in our Admetus' breast, the peace divine of pious resignation may abide, serene as her's who for her consort died!"

He ended, and the weeping train came nigh; with sighs suppressed in vain the hoary Pheres and Clymene, with her sad veiled brow, were seen. Bereaved Admetus, lifting toward the skies his clasped beseeching hands; with sympathizing woe a band of pious youths their king surround, with flowing locks, and eyes that seek the ground.

"Lo!" cried the priest, "is there not one of all who silent stand by this untimely pall, to tell her praises who thus coldly lies the bride of death!" He said; with kindling eyes a youth stepped forth; grasping the rural lyre, to sing; with trembling lips and heart on fire.

"Gracious Apollo I invoke; and thee, first of the Nine, renowned Caliope! who sit'st in splendour on the mountain height where soar the swans, with crest of glancing light, that yet beside the Heliconian spring arch the proud neck, and curve the sounding wing. Assist my strain; for now I boldly sing of worth might ask its music, were my tongue hallowed as his with whom Olympus rung.

"And Pheres, chide not thou my humble strain, nor, prince, of minstrel vanity complain, if with those virtues I would twine my song, which to the daughter and the bride belong. Noble she was, and pure! with

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beauty crowned such as the Cyprian queen, of charms renowned, might know surpassed her own. Why, Parcæ, why doomed ye such matchless loveliness to die? Did Pluto claim from earth another bride? or would the queen of shades in envy hide such beauty from the world? For never yet hath he whose oar doth rule the Stygian tide, on his bleak shores, so fair a spirit met!

"Why did the scythe of death strike down the flower scarce opened to the sun? Age hath its hour to fade and fall; the bleak north wind doth spare the gentle stalk to sweep in ruin bare the mountain-cresting oak. The tender vine sees not its blossoms ere their fruit decline; nor doth their mother earth untimely mourn the blighted buds her genial breast had borne to gladden summer. Could'st thou not, O Death! have won some elder prey whose failing breath might have redeemed thy victim?

"Lo! how wail her babes their mother lost! the youthful matrons ask her, and the sylvan vale whose haunt she loved, and the luxuriant plain. Ye, who adored her, breathe the last fond sigh o'er her fair corpse! Clouds, weep your tributes here! Sun, veil thy splendours. Pitying winds, reply! sweep a sad requium o'er Alcestis' bier.

"Hide the pale cold face for ever from the gaze of her lord; and remove the corse into the temple. Let her be entombed in holy ground. Follow her, comrades, and chaunt with me the solemn death-song. Let the virtues of the lost one be the theme of the last lay her parting spirit hears."

CHORUS.* Daughter of Pelias! joyful be thy home, Glorious thy lot in Pluto's realm of gloom, Thou dweller in a cold and sunless dome! The dark-haired god who makes the living mourn, And he, the oarsman of that dreary tide, Of all Earth's daughters know thee for the pride, His bark o'er Acherontian waves hath borne!

Poets shall praise thee on the mountain lyre Seven-stringed—and choral hymns, in tones of fire, From countless minstrels shall thy name inspire! In Sparta, when the Carnean month returns, What time in Heaven the full-orbed moon doth reign; In happy Athens—such the lofty strain Thou parting leav'st for souls where genius burns!

Oh! would the power were mine to bring thee forth From Stygian caves to bless the abodes of earth— From black Cocytus of infernal birth, With mighty oar across Hell's tide to sweep! For thou, most loved of women! thou alone For thy lord's failing life has given thine own— Redeeming thus his spirit from the deep.

Light press the earth upon thy virtuous breast! Ne'er be thy spouse in other arms caressed! Else thy babes scorn, and Heaven deny him rest! Thou, whom his sire, with age and sorrow white, His hoary mother, trembling nigh the grave, Refused with yielded life their son to save— Their son, of youthful years the sole delight.

In youth's fresh prime, in beauty's sunny bloom, Thou, self-devoted for another's doom, Has past the darksome portals of the tomb! So true a spouse, ye gods! on me bestow! Thus in rare bliss, like some bright river's tide, Serene the measure of my days should glide, Unchecked by strife, unclouded e'er by woe!

Hath a new morning dawned? Who is't comes nigh, rivalling Aurora, daughter of the sky? A form of strength forth from the temple gate leads a veiled fair one to Admetus' side; "Receive the bounty of relenting Fate, Proserpine's gift, a new and lovely bride." One look of scorn—another—she is known! "Alcestis! It is she! my loved—mine own!"

"You might have thanked me for my trouble, Admetus," said Hercules.

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THE NILE.—The great problem of the source of the Nile, which has occupied the attention of the world during so many ages, may now be considered as definitely solved. Capt. Speke, who has just returned to England from an extended tour in Central Africa, in company with Capt. Burton, discovered a lake, called by the natives Nyanza, but by the Arabs Ukerewe, which appears to be the great reservoir of the Nile. It extends from 2° 30' south to 3° 30' north latitude, lying across the equator in east longitude 33°. Its waters are the drainage of numerous hills, which surround it on almost every side. The new lake washes out the Mountains of the Moon, as at present existing in our atlases.

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* We trust the readers of Euripides will pardon us the use of the Chorus in his tragedy of "Alcestis," which we have ventured to translate, above.

[Column 2] A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL 219 DESTINY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. The time seems fast approaching when tne English language will exercise over the other languages of the world a predominance which our forefathers little dreamt ?f· When Lord Bacon aimed at futurity in his writ­mgs, he set himself to write in Latin. "I do conceive," he says, "that the Latin volumes, being the universal language, may last as long as books last." Milton­" being content with these islands as my world "-con­fined himself in his great works to the language of these islands; "he cared not to be once named abroad," though perhaps he "might have attained to that," had. he desired it. So little was English literature known in France two hundred years ago, that in certain direc- · tions given for the anangement of a library, all Eng­lish books are passed over with the curt observation, "vix metre transmittunt." According to Waller, it was a crowning achievement of Cromwell's vast mind that our language is spoken even "under the tropic.'' The language of Britain crossed the sea long before its lite­rature1 for in Swift's time the literature is spoken of as being still confined "to these two islands." Dr. Johnson, about a century ago, when applying to Britain a passage in the "Somnium Scipionis" of Cicero--" omnis enim terra quae colitur a vobis, angusta verticibus, lateribus latior, parva quaedam insula est"---proceeded to apply to our island the continuation of the same passage, forbidding us to hope that its renown will ever pass the stream of Ganges or the cliffs of Caucasus.

But one of our Elizabethan poets, the gentle Daniel, who has been spoken of as the Atticus of his age, surmised that better things were in store for us. After lamenting that the speech of our " scarce-discovered isle" is so little known to the rest of the world, he expresses a wish as follows :

"Oh, that the ocean did not bound our style

Within these strict and n1trrow limits so;

But that the melody of our sweet isle

Might now be heard to Tiber, Arne and Po,

That they might know how far Thames does out-go

The music of declined Italy !"

Despairing of its gaining ground in Italy, he foresees its triumph in America:

"Who knows whither we may vent

The treasures of our tongue? To what strange shores

This gain of our best glory may be sent,

T' enrich unknowing nations with our stores?

What worlds in the yet unformed Occident

May come refined with accents that are ours?"

The poet's aspirations are now fulfilled. Soon after he wrote this passage the English language, was planted on a narrow slip of land on the western continent; it grew apace, and its prospects are now the most splendid that the world has ever seen. The entire number of persons who speak certain of the languages of Northern Europe--languages of considerable literary repute---is not equal to the number simply added every year, by the increase of population, to. those who speak the English language in England and America alone. There are persons now living who will, in all probability, see it the vernacular language of one hundred and fifty millions of the earth's civilized population. Although French is spoken by a considerable proportion of the population in Canada, and although in the United States there is, a large and tolerably compact body of Germanspeaking Germans, these languages must gradually melt away, as the Welsh and the Gaelic have melted away before the English in our own island. The time will speedily be here when a gigantic community in America --besides rising and important colonies in Africa and Australia---will speak the same language, and that the language of a nation holding a high position among the empires of Europe. When this time shall have ar­rived, the other languages of Europe will be reduced to the same relative position with regard to the predomi­nant language as that in which the Basque stands to the Spanish, or•the Finnish to the Russian. For such pre­dominance the English language possesses admirable qualifications; standing, as it does, midway between the Germanic and Scandinavian branches of the ancient Tuetonic, and also uniting the Tuetonic with the Ro­manic in a manner to whi,ch no other language has any pretension. A prize was given in 1796 by the Academy at Berlin for an essay on the comparison of fourteen ancient and modern languages of Europe, and in that essay the author, Jenisch, assigns the palm of general excellence to the English; it has also been allowed by other German critics that in regard to the qualifications which it possesses for becoming a general interpreter of tlte literature of Europe, not even their own language can compete with it.--- Edinburgh Review.

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PRAYERS AT A WHIPPING.---In the early history of Harvard University, corporal punishment was one of the most common means of correction--the tutors chastising the students at discretion. By the college annals it appears that when one Thomas Sargeant was publicly whipped in the hall, the exercises were opened and closed with prayer!

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THE RHINE AND THE HUDSON.---Lord Morpeth, now Earl Carlisle, in his "Diary in Turkish and Greek Waters," thus contrasts the beauties of the Rhine and the Hudson rivers :

"June 6.---Started at six to ascend the Rhine. I will not invade the province of poets, tourists, and handbooks, by any detail of its well-known scenery. I had felt some curiosity to compare it with the Hudson. Even apart from all association with history, legend and song, every building on the Rhine, from castle to granary, is essentially picturesque, while every building in the United States, whatever its other more important char­acteristics may be, is essentially the reverse. Then the vineyards on the Rhine, though not strictly a beautiful feature, give an air, or, at least, an idea, of genial ani­mation to the steep slopes and narrow clefts in which they are imbedded. So much on the side of the Rhine. I am inclined to think that the natural sites and out­lines of the Hudson are finer; but the great point of superiority is the look of movement on the river itself; every one of its varied reaches is sure of being at all times spangled with white sails; whereas, I felt quite astonished at the small appearance of traffic on the Rhine. I had always looked upon it as the great high­way of all the German nations, for the tolls of which free cities and powerful leagues had competed, and states and empires protocolled and fought; but one of the large timber-rafts, and a few steamers of very nar­row girth, were all that I saw to-day to compete with all the life and business that swarm on the Hudson, the Thames, or the Clyde. This is, no doubt, very much owing to the swiftness of the current; but still, it de­tracts sensibly from the animation of the landscape. I I ought, in fairness, to add that it was a very undecora­tive day. I landed at Biberich, and walked in the gar­dens of the Grand Duke of Nassau, which are rather pretty, with great bloom of flowers, but on a dead level, and with much dirty-coloured water. In a pavilion, I saw a very pretty statue of the first wife, a daughter of the Grand Duke Michael, of Russia. I slept at Frank­fort, at the Hotel de Russie."

---------------------------.------------------------------------

COSTLY BIBLE.--There is, in the possession of a lady in London, a copy of Macklin's Bible, in fifty-four large octavo volumes, illustrated with nearly seven thousand engravings, from the age of Michael Angelo to that of Reynolds and West. It also contains two hundred· original drawiugs by Doutherbourg. The prints and etchings include the works of Raffaele, Albert Durer, Callot, Rembrandt, and other masters, consisting of representations of every fact, circumstance and object mentioned in the Holy Scriptures. The most authentic Scriptural atlases are also bound up with the volume, add it contains designs of all plants, animals, fossils, etc., as have been adduced in proof of a universal deluge. The Bible was the property of the late Mr. Bowry, who spent much money and time in the collection and ar­rangement of the engravings, and is said to have de­voted thirty years rendering it perfect. It was insured for £3,000.

-------------------------------.---------------------------------------------- AN OLD MAN'S SECRET.---An Italian bishop strug­gled through great difficulties without repining, and met with much opposition, without ever betraying the least impatience. An intimate friend of his, who high­ly admired these virtues, which he thought impossible to imitate, one day asked the bishop if he could commu­nicate his secret of being always easy ?

"Yes," replied the old man, "I can teach you my secret with great facility; it consists in nothing more than making a right use of my eyes."

His friend begged him to explaim himself.

"Most ;willingly," returned the bishop. "In what­ever state I am, I first of all look up to heaven, and re­member that my principal business here is to get there; I then look down on the earth, and call to mind how small a space I shall occupy in it when I come to be in­terred; I then look abroad on the world, and observe what multitudes there are who are, in all respects, more unhappy than myself. Thus I learn where true happi­ness is placed, where all our cares must end, and how very little reason I have to repine or complain.''

[Exchange. ----------------------------.------------------------------------------

OUR hopes, though they never happen, yet are some kind of happiness; as trees, while they are still grow­ing, please in the prospect, though they bear no fruit.

-----------------------------.--------------------------------------------

NATURE knows no pause in progress and development, and attaches her curse on all inaction.

-------------------------------.------------------------------------------

"CAUGHT in her own net," as the man said when he saw one of the fair sex hitched in her crinoline.

--------------------------------.------------------------------------------- PROFUSION restores to the public the wealth which avarice has detained from it for a time.

-------------------------------.------------------------------------------- When ill news comes too late to be serviceable to your neighbour, keep it to yourself.

220 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL

[column 1] The Courant.

COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, NOV. 10, 1859.

THE COURANT Subscriptions for 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 Change. We have moved our editorial columns, for this issue, over to the fourth page, in order to give room for the admirable essay on "CICERO de Senectute." This noble production is not sufficicently prized by those who should prize it most ; but we feel sure that, after persuing the masterly sketch which we present this week, no one will allow himself to remain unacquainted with that singularly beautiful production. The essay is from the pen of one of our best writers; his graceful and fluent style can be scarcely fail to be recognized. There can be no doubt that the essay is in every way highly appreciative not only of CICERO's work, but of the beautiful subject itself. -----------------------------------.------------------------------------

The Fair.

This is an important and interesting week unto all the citizens of Columbia. The State Agricultural Fair commenced on Tuesday, the 8th, and will continue until Friday next. The agriculturists, the manufacturers, the mechanics of the State are here to exhibit their skill—to win the triumphs awarded to those who achieve the utmost in their respective departments. The ladies, too, have gathered here in fine array, and nobly entered the lists to win the prizes offered to them. Success, say we, to this Fair, and to every other whose object it shall be to exhibit the world the perfection, the skill and the industry to which citizens of a limited yet gallant State have attained.

---------------------------------.------------------------------------------- Palmetto Fire Engine Company Fair.

We invite the attention of our readers to the fact that the Fair for the benefit of the Palmetto Fire Engine Company of this city, is being held at the Athenæum Hall every evening this week.

The organization of this Company—the purchase of a first class engine, whose performances thus far have been most creditable and satisfactory—have involved a heavy debt upon the Company, which it has been resolved to remove by this Fair. The "Palmettoes" have rendered signal service to the city already—they deserve the hearty support of all our citizens—and of all those who feel a deep and abiding interest in the prosperity of Columbia. Like their gallant compeers "the Independents," they have endeavoured to discharge the duties assigned to them, and most ably have they acted whenever their services were demanded. Their roll of members, headed by Captain WILLIAM B. STANLEY, shews the material of which they are composed ; and it is no small honour to state that the Mayor of the City, Hon. ALLEN J. GREEN, was their Vice President, until placed, by virtue of his office, at the head of the City Government. Their actions speak far louder for them than any praise we might bestow.

It is with feelings of gratification and pride we announce that the "Independents," the old an always gallant Firement, whose services have been attested by our hisotry for more than twenty years—enter most heartily into this Fair for the benefit of their ever-generou rivals, the "Palmettoes." The best and the kindliest feelings exist, and we hope will ever exist between the two organizations—both of which have the same object in view—the safety and welfare of this beautiful City, to which we all belong—and in which we expect to live—and in whose cemetery we expect to be buried—when the cares, the strife, the turmoil, the joys and sorrows of life are over.

---------------------------------------.-------------------------------------- VISITORS to our City, this week, will do well to call at those establishments whoses cards will be found in advertising columns. They will be well received, and every accommodation offered that might be desired.

The advertistments of Captain STANLEY and of Messrs. COOPER & GAITHER were received too late for insertion this week—but will appear in our next issue. We must say in advance, however, that Captain STANLEY's Crockery Store is a dangerous place to visit with ladies. So many beautiful and attractive articles are there found, that lady visitors are sure to purchase something before they leave.

At the jewellery store of Messrs. COOPER & GAITHER, an exceedingly well-selected assortment of all articles in their line will be found. The temptations presented are difficult to overcome—especially when one has plenty of "funds."

Those desirous of seeing the perfection to which the photographic art in its various branches can be carried will do well to call in at the Gallery of Messrs. WEARN & HIX. They will be exceedingly gratified, we have no doubt, at the beautiful specimens of fine art exhibited.

----------------------------------.---------------------------------------------- FEW pity us for our misfortunes—thousands hate us for our success.

[column 2] Dominique Rouquette. Our readers are aware that a very considerable non-English literature is growing up in this country. In our article on the Abbé Rouquette's poems (see Courant of August last), we took some pains to enumerate the French-Creole writers who are making for themselves most desireable names, not only at home, but in Europe. In our Franco-American literature, the names of Oscar Dugué, the historian Gayarré, Mr. Chaudron, and the poet-brothers Rouquette, have already a very considerable fame. We have the pleasure to inform our readers that Louisiana —a Southern State—is making rapid advances in the right direction of a pure and true literature.

It will be interesting to most of those who will see this paper, to know who applauds our French-writing brethren of Louisiana. In speaking of the Abbé Rouquettem we had a splendid list of illustrious French critics who praised him ; we now shall lay before our readers translations of the letter of three wellknown French writers who have given their opinion of the merits of the "Fleurs d'Amerique" by M. Dominique Rouquette:

"PARIS, April 20, 1859.

"Monsieurs, et cher Confrére: — I have received, with the greatest pleasure, and read, with the eagerness of a lover of fine poetry, your volume. You cannot imagine the interest which is aroused by a poetical publication in French which comes to us from the New World. It seems almost like taking posession, by our beautiful language, of the land in which LaFayette and the Marquis de Montcalm commenced the novlest of civilizations. But I prefer the tongue to the sword, for war, always so attractive in the Past, is a most displeasing thought for the Future.

"I thank you for having inserted my 'Ode to America' in the first of your book. I am proud of my Preface, since, in giving it such an honourable place, you shew that you understand that my Ode is not a cold arrangement of rhymes and hemistiches, but a cry from my heart. Ah ! were it not that I dread the sea, I should have known America long ago ; but this still ocean kills me; I have made twenty attempts, and I am sure that the ocean is, for me, impassable.

"Believe me, dear sir and brother,

"Your affectionate MERY. "51 Rue de Notre Dame de Lorette." ———— (M. Eugéne Guinot to M. Saliquy.)

"MY DEAR SALIQUY:—I thank you for the volume of Mr. Rouquette which you have sent me ; and I pray you to thank for me the author, who had the kindness to send me this package. I have read the book of Mr. Rouquette from one end to the other, and rarely has a volume of verses of pleased me. It is true and good poetry, which merits well the name ; sweet and fresh flowers from America, opened under a beautiful, rare and fragrant. It is plesant to see our dear French language so well spoken, so well written and so successfully cultivated in foreign countries ; at which you should rejoice with me, you who possess such literary spirit and taste. "Paris, 3 June, 1859. EUGENE GUINOT."

———— (Emile Deschamps to Dominique Rouquette.)

"VERSAILLES, 13 April, 1859.

"DEAR AND EXCELLENT POET:—How shall I thank you for your charming and poetical souvenir? Or rather, how could I help thanking you a thousand times, from the bottom of my heart? Your 'Fleurs d' Amerique' have all the grace, all the perfume, all the freshness, of their forest prototypes. If I knew a sweeter or more glorious method of compliment, I should employ it.

"How many things in this delicious collection should I mention! I shall not attempt it ; but I will say that the most exquisite art of form here beautifies the solidity of foundations ; that the style is always even with the thought and sentiment ; and lastly, that the various rhythms are used by you with quire as much power as the Alexandrine verses. You touch with one hand Virgil, with the other, Horace.

"This morning, with Alex. Cosnard—a true poet, also—we read your poetry aloud before three or four persons who are sick with poetry, and all were charmed.

"M. de Grilleau, of New Orleans, is very proud of his countrymen, the poets Adrien and Dominique Rouquette, and joins his 'bravos' to mine. Thus, then, I salute the brother-poets, bearers of the Lyre, across the ocean, and beg of them a long remembrance * * * * *

"Adieu, dear poet, without saying adieu! thanks, and bravo!"

"A vous de tout moi, EMILE DESCHAMPS."

Here are the splendid testimonials of European genius to one of our Southern authors! No little village fame—no wretched party-popularity. Success, then, to our Creole bard!

We add a line to express what we have often heard said betfore, by people who could not procure these New Orleans issues, "Why do they not publish, so that all can get the books?" We hopw to be able to chronicle this end as attained, ere long.

---------------------------------.---------------------------------- IN order to deserve a true friend, you must be a good one.

[column 3] Lola Montez. What a series of vicissitudes has this strange being experienced! By turns engaged in politics, matrimony, travelling, divorce, cow-hiding editors, lecturing, writing books, and at last converted to Christianity and settling down into a quiet, orderly human. As she has written enough—or, at least published enough with her name to it as author—to justify the mention of her as one of the world's writers, we chronicle facts about her for the benefit of such of our readers as may have her books. The New York correspondent of the Courier says:

"Many persons doubted that the Mrs. Heald who arrived here last week was the veritable, genuine original Lola Montez. But such was the fact, notwithstanding their doubts. Lola is here, living quietly in Brooklyn, in a private family. She is with persons who have been friends to her in all her ups and downs. Lola's name was registed on a steamer's books as Mrs. Heald, because she claims it as her lawful title. In all buisness matters she has always signed her in a way. Lieut. Heald, her husband, died some years agom posessing considerable property, and though Lola had left him, and relinquished all claims upon him and his estate, in his will he left her an annuity of £500, or $2,500. Lola professes to have experienced a change of heart, and her friends claim that she has been for some time leading the life of a devoted and sincere Christian. But there is no telling when shew will break out in a new place."

-----------------------------------.--------------------------------------- Who Did It?

We happened to be reading, the other day, "Sir Galahad," in the blue-and-gold edition of TENNYSON, when a strange word struck us in the perusal, like some uncouth discord in music. Where he is speaking of his vision of the Holy Grail, borne by the angels, Sir Galahad says:

"Ah, bless vision ! blood of God!

My spirit beats her mortal bars

While down dark tides the glory glides,

And, star-like, mingles with the stars."

So reads MIXON's London edition of TENNYSON (1859). But both editions of TICKNOR & Fields, one published in 1851, the other in 1856, make it read

"And star-light mingles with the stars."

This comes very ear being nonsense; how did such a blunder creep into the Boston edition? Awake, Frogpondia! such things as this are disgraceful.

-------------------------------.--------------------------------------- The Quaker-Abolitionist Bard

JOHN G. WHITTIER has hammered out an immense deal of rhymes, which his friends pronounce wonderfully fine, and which people farther south call "nigger-minstrelsy." The extract below contains some truth, and several absurdities. How can a man advocate of "spiritual freedom' when he is always busy in abusing all who happen to think otherwise than he, in his serene widom, does? As to his "Pegasus grinding in the mill of unpopular reform," there is another blunder ; WHITTIER'S rhymed lies about slavery are highly admired at the North. How our man of the Transcript can reconcile his conflicting statements, we cannot see: "WHITTIER," says he, "is intensely sectional," is an "iconoclast ;" that is to say, he goes about trying to stuff his Yankee notions down every man's throat, or break up the prosperous condition of affairs ; yet, withall, "he is the earnest and uncompositing advocate of spiritual and personal freedom." (Sic !)

"The Boston Transcript says of Whittier: 'As compared with his prose writing—literary, political and reformatory—his poems have really occupied but a small share of his attention. A large proportion of his lyrics were written for immediate effect, and are local and temporary in their character. Wisely or unwisely, he has made his Peagasus grint in the mill of unpopular reform. He is an iconoclast, not an artist. His Quaker training and his intense sectionalism have undoubtedly retarded his literary success ; and his reputation as a poet must always be subordinated to that of the earnest and uncompromising advocate of spiritual and personal freedom. Of this he is doubtless well aware. In some playful lines addressed to his friend Field, he thus alludes to the devotees of art :

'I could not reach you if I would,

Nor sit among your cloudy shapes;

And (spare the fable of the Grapes

And Fox) I would not if I could.' "

M. Mariette in his travels in Egypt, has discovered the tomb of a queen, princess, or some opulent person of the olden time. Near the mummy of the departed was found a multitude of objects and ornaments, very valuable as to material, but still more so for their elegance, taste, and wormanship. This unexpected discovery was at once designated for the future museum of Cairo; but, as some of the articles required mending and cleaning, the viceroy requested M. MARIETTE to get this work of resoration executed in Paris. He, at the same time, permitted him to shew the said curiousities to the amateurs of the French capital. It was in that way that the Academy of Inscriptions had the advantage of seeing spread out for its inspection an almost complete Egyptian toilet of the time of Cleopatra, Semiramis, or some other celebrated beauty. There were coronets, necklaces, ear-rings, bracelets, pins and rings, all of which, for purity of design and form, elegance of ornamentation, and delicacy of workmanship, surpass all conception. One of the most remarkable articles was a gold necklace, formed of bees with outspread wings, which must have produced a most charming effect on the neck of a pretty woman.

THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL 221

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LITERARY NOTICE. — "MISS SLIMMEN'S WIDOW, AND OTHER PAPERS, BY MRS. MARK PEADBODY. New York: Debry & Jackson. M D CC LIX."

Our European critics have no unfrequently asserted that the American people were not cheerful; nay, that most of us were absolutely grave, or even morose : that we haev no national sports, no care for the refinements of music and other Fine Arts, that social life amongst us is a dreary thing; that, in fine, we are a very sad and miserable race of creatures, whoses only thought is the almighty dollar. It is not at all surprising that a foreigner should so judge of us. The American people have very little public gayety, and the reason why Europeans deem us so far benighted as to the true objects of life is, because they can not penetrate to the family circle or the small, but very agreeable cliques of neighbours, or persons who are brought together by sympathy in some common cause. We have been told, again and again, that our people are lamentably ignorant of the object which should engage our attention in this world, to wit, Happiness—instead of pursuing that, it is money, money, money! No sportive Graces, no laughing Hours, no bewitching Muses are your's; every where is the grim statue of Mammon, and what little Fine Art exists, exists only as a matter of speculation and trade! These are heavy charges against us, and it must be acknowledged that there is much turth in them. Our people are too crazy to get gain, and in that absorbing pursuit, pleasure, and even comfort, is often sacrificed to the hope of amassing riches. After a long life, spent in one perpetual dollar-chase, the man having acquired a large fortune, but never having enjoyed himself as a rational being should, lies down to die, with the fine prospect before his eyes, of a badly-educated, vicious and unruly set of children wasting the fruit of his life-long toil; not to speak of the uetter unfitness of such a being for his trial of the dread realities of another world, to which he has never given ten minutes' thought.

"Happiness," says a great philosopher, "consists in the virtuous exercise of the domestic affections." By this rule, many of our people never know one half-hour of it. It is a melancholy fact that Home is not with us what it should be. "Where are you going?" asked an old gentleman at a convivial party, of a young married man who was preparing to retire, "Home," replied he, with emphasis. "Bah!" said the other, "you can go there when you can't go any where else." Is it strange that Europeans say that there are no homes in America? Men generally do not care to own their birth-places; we know of cases where the residences of the owners' ancestors for several generations, were sold without regret "for a consideration." Oh, this dollar-worship! how it drives out the human and makes the brute! How utterly does it expel all nobler feelings, all refinement, and often honesty itself. Callous, calculating, heartless, your true dollar-worshipper is a creature not only to be despised,but to be avoided. He never speaks as if he had a soul; churches and charities are only elements of speculation; the family circle is absolutely ignored; no friendship is sacred, no pledge is binding. He owns no law but the PriceCurrent ; he knows no church buy the Bank, he cares for no God by Mammon! This is the accursed spirit which makes our people restless, moody, unhappy. No people can be happy when Day and Night are spent beneath the spell of this diabolical incubus, this "auri sacra fames."

Now, national literature must reflect, while it will certainly affect, the national character. Part of our people are of the money-slaves, and hence, some part of our "Literature'" must reflect the sourness, the callousness, and the moody, faultfinding discontent of the Mammonites, who have utterly forgotten how it is written, "Man shall not live by bread alone;" the sublime and triumphant argument in favour of rest after toil, of pleasure after duty, of a home as well as a counting-room. How will this fell spirit affect our Literature? Alas! we fear only too much

We have been led into this train of throught, by glancing over the series of very clever sketches, the name of which heads this article. We say that the volume is "clever;" but it is one of that innumerable host, which no man can number, of which some dozens are issued monthly in this country. It is of the class of satirical books of the lower order. There is no wit in it, hardly every any humour; but biting, stinging sarcasm, and the sharpest, and sometimes the sourest irony abound. That poor wretch CURTISS, who wrote the "Potiphar Papers," IKE MARVEL, in his "Lorgnette," and all the rest of that society-picturing school, whose name is Legion, only reflected the common talk of people in society. The tone of criticism among fashionable people is extremely bitter and sarcastic, and, by consequence, almost always so highly exagerated, until it reaches to the domains of Falsehood. Every thing becomes a caricature, and of course, all the effects produced by such wholesome satiric wit as THACKERAY'S, can never be expected from such a class of books.

"Miss Slimmens' Window" is not at all a remarkable book: the hits are many of them pretty good, but blunders in the King's English are quite too common in every-day life to be very amusing in the mouth of Miss Slimmens. This book is one of the bast body of writings which reflect the sour and miserable

[column 2]

spirit of money-getting, in Literature. (We detest to use the word in such connection, but everything is "Literature" now-a-days, from the Elementary Spelling-Book and the "Cooks' Assistant" up to the "Nicomachaen Ethics.")

We don't recommend any body to buy this unhealthy style of books—"What Will He Do With It?" of BULWER, is worth a world of them. But if any body should like to peruse some short, clever, and tart sketches, "Miss Slimmens" will be found at the store of P. B. GLASS.

For the Courant.

"We ought to inquire what provision can be made against Old Age, that time of distress? What happiness can be stored up against the Winter of Life? And how we may pass our latter years with serenity and cheerfulness."—DR. JOHNSON.

I do not know but that the pride of modern science and knowledge has cause many to overlook their obligations to the great thinkers of antiquity. I have no such a reverence for the ancients as to believe that the whole field of thought has been explored by them; nor, on the other hand to [there is a line drawn in pencil leading up to the upper margin to the page there the words "can I" are written in pencil] conclude that the noble Temple of Knowledge, which now pierces the skies, would be shorn of none of its beauty and proportions, if we take from it the contributions of former times. There is something inpsiring in the reflection that mankind forms a common brotherhood; that the chain which connects the present with past generations is unbroken; and that, under the providence of God, the great labours of humanity which are begun at one period are left for their consummation to future ages. No reflecting man will deny that the beginning of knowledge was contemporaneous with the human race. The history of the world proves that the contributions are greater at some periods than at others; that there are epochs characterized by great mental activity and progress; and epochs, too, at which it would seem knowledge had lost its attractions, and the darkness of ignorance had overspread the earth.

I must ask the reader to turn with me for a few meoments to one of those bright periods, and contemplate one of those rare men whose fame is not bounded by the narrow limits of his own age and country, but which is alike the common heritage of ancient and modern times. I desire him to glance at the the picture of that renowned person who was unsurpassed as an epistolary writer, orator and ethical philosopher, and who added to these rich intellectual attractions the charm of the most exalted public and private virtues; of that man of whom it was said, by John Quincy Adams, that "he presents the most perfect example of the rare and spelndid combination—universal genius and indefatigable application—which the annals of the world can produce." Need I tell the reader that I allude to the immortal TULLY? Of his many valuable writings it is not my purpose to speak. They have been translated into every language, and the learning of the most profound scholars has been expended in their illustration. I shall select for my very imperfect commentary one which I conceive has receieved less general attention that the others, but which, I think, is one of the most precious gems which we have derived from antiquity —I mean the treatise "On Old Age." The interest is very much enhanced by the circumstance that the author experienced special pleasure in its composition, and that its consolations were so great as to make him forget the infirmities of old age.

There is another fact well worthy of notice in the connection. It was written at a most perilous period of the Roman Commonwealth. Julius Caesar was just assassinated; the country was rent by the most reckless factions, and no man had a deeper personal interest, or more at stake in the momentous issues, than Cicero himself. It was at such a time that he set himself to the task of this, and others of his immortal works, that he might bequeath to his countrymen and posterity the rich fruits of his experience and reflection. If my reader will look at this with the eye with which I contemplate it, he will agree with me that there is a measure of majesty and sublimity about it which almost places the immortal Roman above the level of humanity. What must have been the strength of that mind, the resources, of that philosophy, which could have enabled him at such a time to have withdrawn to his beloved retirement, and, forgetting every thing else, to devote his noble energies to calm and lofty mediations!

The treatise "On Old Age" is not so much a dialogue as a discourse, delivered by Cato, the Censor, at the request of Scipio and Laelius. Cato was then a very advanced age, and, exempt from its usual infirmities, was still cheerful and happy. There was propriet, then, in making him declare the sources of his consolations. Scipio remarks to Cato that he and his friend Laelius have ever been impressed by his superior wisdom, and more particularly by perceiving that old age had not been to him, as to most old men, burdensome and disagreeable. Cato's reply reaches the highest point of philosophy; and it is in substance, that every age is burdensome to those who have no resources in themselves for living will and happily. This is a great furth, which must commend itself to the Christian moralist. Happiness must not be sought from without; from the accident of external circumstances. Many may be flattered by all the pomp and pageantry of place and power; the world may lavish upon him its richest treasures; but who will insis that these things will impart peace to the troubled spirit?

[column 3]

Laelius, on behalf of himself and Scipio, expresses the desire that they may become old men, and begs Cato to declare the methods by which they may be able to bear the burden of age. Cato enumerates the principal complaints of old men, and, with the view of giving the subject an orderly discussion, classifies them under the following heads, and considers them in succession: 1. Old age draws us away from active duties, and permits us no longer to be participants in the stirring scenes of life. 2. It takes away the strength of youth, and brings in its stead, infirmities of body. 3. It has no pleasures, or disqualifies for the enjoyment of sensual gratification; and lastly, distress and anxiety are caused by the near approach of death, which, in the case of the old, cannot be far distant.

In answer to the first complain, that old age draws us away from active duties, it is asked if the duties are meant which are dicharged by youth and strength. But are the duties of life confined to this period? Has that man nothing to do whose life is protracted beyond it? Are there no other duties? Here the great moralist takes the ground that, notwithstanding the infirmities of the body, notwithstanding it way be disqualified for the exertions which depend on youth and strength, the mind is still left for the display of its energies in fields not less useful and important. Here, then, is a consolation of the wisest and noblest character. It is an exalted view of human nature. Man is not wholly at the mercy of his body, however much it may contribute as an instrument to his pleasure and happiness. It has resources of its own, can live within itself, thus shadowing forth that future state, when, entirely freed from earthly connection, it will rise a purer and nobler existence. There are concerens, then for old age; there are concerns for every stage of life and there is an adaption to the specific duties of each period. Childhood, youth, manhood, and old age, have each their peculiar of Providence if it were not so? And, while the old should not ignorantly conclude that they are only retained on earth as the chosen victims of despair and misery and infirmity, let one "take the flattering unetion to his soul" that the period of his probation has terminated, and that by reason of bodily infirmity and weight of years, he is now released from the duties of life. The old, then, have their duties, as well as the young, and equally terrible and exacting will be the responsibility if they neglect them.

But that misery and inaction are not the necessary concomitants of old age, is disproved by example. We are pointed to many citizens of Rome who were contented and happy at an advanced period of life, and who, also rendered the most important services to the Commonwealth. But subsequent ages will add force to the argument from example. Chaucer's noblest production, the "Canterbury Tales," was the child of his old age; Milton was stricken with years and bodily infirmity when he proved himself the sublimest of poets; Dryden made no happier efforts than in his latter days; the intellects of Bacon and Burke were marked to the last by increasing brilliancy; and Johnson, in his old age, brought forth his noblest productions. England's greatest living statesment are old men, and the immortal trio of our own country continued to the last with their genius undimmed, and their labours unabated. I may add that the arduous duties of the two most important offices of the United States—I mean the Presidency and the office of Secretary of State—are now discharged by aged men, with a fidelity and ability rarely qualled.

But is there no escape from that dreaded decay of the intellectual powers, which, by the world at large, is too apt to be regarded as inevitable, and the expectation of which so often haunts, like a hideous spectre, when men are on the verge of old age? This question has already been answered by the multitude of examples to the contrary. Let us hear Cicero's suggestion in the matter, that our readers may have the full benefit of it: "The intellectual powers," says he, "remain in the old, provided study and application be kept up; and that not only in men illustrious and high rank, but also in private and peaceful life." Of the correctness of this suggestion I entertain no doubt. It is based upon a most important principle. Employment for the mind is like food for the body. It is its natural and healthful stimulus. And it must be the employment to which it is accustomed. The mind, like the body, acquires particular habitudes; there is a strict analogy between them. If i may be permitted to indulge in what may be regarded as vicious and violent figure of speech, I will add that, as in certain stomachs a particular kind of food only can be digested and converted into nutricious chyle, so, likewise, in individuals, a particular kind of mental food is necessary for through eleboration and assimilation. The sum of the matter, then, is, that the necessity for food, for stimulus, is as pressing in the case of the mind as of the body, and that, if not duly supplied, both alike sink into weakness and decay. I pass now to the second complaint against old age : that it takes away the strength of young, and brings in the stead infirmities of body. This complaint, he conceives, is as senseless as would be that of youth, that it had not the strength of the bull or of the elephant. Our philosopher enforces the Scripture precept, that we should learn to be content with whatever God has given us; that what one has he ought to use, and,