The Courant

236 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. The Courant. COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, NOV. 24, 1859. THE COURANT. The office of the Courant has been removed to No. 144 Richardson Street, over Flanigan's Shoe-Store. W.M. W. WALKER, JR., & CO.

Personal---Ourselves. Our Associate, Mr. WALKER, after having bbeen severely bruised up by his late accident, is now "up and about." The Editor-In-Chief returns his thanks to the many kind friends who have made enquiries concerning his health. "We" are improving, slowly, it is true, but surely. We hope to be at our post before long.

Schiller Festival. Our readers will find the report of this interestting celebra-tion of our German citizens on the sixth page of this number.

More Magazines. The Southern Literary Messenger contains a well-arranged variety. Among the book-notices we find one upon Miss TALLEY's Poems. The editor of the Messenger expresses much the same opinion of her powers and faults as we did in our last number. The Southern Teacher, for this quarter, has arrived. It has much of valuable and enduring matter. We cannot effectually express to our readers the importance of this work. Every teacher should have it, and every fireside will be the better off, where its happy influence penetrates. Published at Montgomery, Ala., and edited by Prof. W.S. BARTON: at only one dollar a year. The Great Republic, after having cut our acquaintance since last July, has returned to us again, with all the glory of its spread-eagle-and-red-letter cover. Really it annoys us to see such bad taste: why don't you get up the Magazine in a tidy, elegant and simple style like Harper's, or the Atlantic Monthly? There is always a horrid suspicion of catch-penny in such fantastical outsides. Now, the matter of this number is quite up to Harper's, and without the dreary comicalities of the great Magazine. There is no reason why the Great Republic (now ending its first year) should not, in a short tiime, equal and excel any of the monthlies. OAKSMITH & Co., New York, publish it at three dollars per annum.

Kane Monument Association. The coproators of this Association announce a number of lectures for the benefit of their very commendable association. But such a mixture! Governor banks, the illustrious! Dr. CHAPIN, the humanitarian. HENRY WARD BEECHER, whom every body knows. Rev. Dr. CUMINGS, the insufferable puppy. BAYARD TAYLOR, the modern Marco Polo. The charming spice of variety, has been secured.

A Silly Critic. The Saturday Press has a correspondent, "Ada Clare," who adores absurdity, and who will proceed to any lengths, in order to seem odd. In the face of the fact that "Beulah" has received the very highest praise from critics who could teach such writers as "Ada Clare" for all tiime to come, he or she, as it may be, revives the absurdly stupid charge that "Beulah" is an imitation of "Jane Eyre"—an opinion which at once shews most clearly that he or she (Ada) either never read the book, or what is worse, if he or she did read it, that "Ada Clare" did not understand it. Moreover, at the best, it is only asserted by the unknown writer that "Beulah" is a copy of "Jane Eyre;" no particle of proof being adduced, but instead some very poor Yankee rhetoric. The writer of such a thing as the following, can't have much more heart than head; which latter, it must be quite evident to any body who has read "Beulah," is rather decidely fuddled in this case. This ill- natured and uncalled-for mentioin of "Beulah" was made, we doubt not, simply because every body else was praising the book, from Boston to New Orleans. "Ada Clare," in his or her wisdom, speaks to inform all the world that the book is not what it seems; never daring to essay proof, but simply giving us the assertion of an anonymous scribbler: "I have finished reading 'Beulah.' Let that fact be recorded as a proof of my extreme pertinacity of purpose. 'Beulah' is another inane copy of 'Jane Eyre.' But it is a waxen, corky, wooden-jointed, leather-and-findings imitation of it. Authors too often imagine that when they have succeeded in portraying an unnatural character, and stuck it all over with ridiculous traits, like porcupine-quills, that they succeed in creating a type. They never seem to imagine what lumbering and foolish monsters they erect. " 'Jane Eyre' was a breathing, blood-warmed being, whose vitality might have been uncommon—but it was still life. In her writsts, you felt the beatings of purple pulses; and troops of passionate longings, visible, through veiled, swarmed in her sober eyes. But 'Beulah' is a wearisome, artificial piece of pasteboard, in whose troubles you cannot sympathise, whose pride is obstinacy—whose grief, sentimentalism of the flabbiest sort—and whose whole life, too appallingly stupid to be reflected upon."

A Wonderful Newspaper. We find in the last New York Day Book, the announcement of the most astonishing newspaper that we ever had the pleasure to read of: the New York Weekly. Hear this grand flourish, and hide your diminished head, O BONNER ! fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, O Frank Leslie! And you, Irving, Longfellow, Bryant, Willis: you, Bancroft, Whipple, Esten Cooke, Mrs. Ellett, Miss Evins, and the rest, evaporate! Your labour is all in vain : your names are not on the roll of "THE BEST MALE AND FEMALE writers in the United States." "Among its regular contributers will be fouund the names of the best Male and Female writers in the United States. Such writers as Justin Jones (Harry Hazel), Augustine J. H. Duganne, William Earle Binder, Wm. Wharton, James Reynolds, Francis S. Smith, Mrs. Mary Jane Holmes, Helen Forest Graves, Mary C. Vaughan, Margaret Verne, Anna Raymond, Eda Mayville, write for it regularly, while a score of other well-known writers occasionally contribute to its columns." But the great feature is the list of premiums offered to persons forming clubs. After a catalogue of the jewellery, they give a list of books which are also offered; we beg our readers to observe what chaste and glorious works are here put within reach of all who make up clubs for the New York Weekly: "The Dancing Feather; Josephine, or the Maid of the Gulf; Byron Blonday; The Matricide's Daughter; The Victim's Revenge; The Star of the Fallen; The Mysteries and Miseries of New York; the B'hoys of New York; Ned Buntline's Life Yarn; The Buccaneer's Daughter; Caroline Tracy; Midnight Queen; The Adventures of Tom Stapleton; The White Wolf; The Mountain Outlaw; Ravensdale, or the Fatal Duel; Claude Duval; The Adventures of Tom King; Ned Scarlet; Paul Clifford; The Pirate Chief; The Pirate Doctor; The Yankee Privateer; GAMBLERS TRICKS WITH CARDS; How to Win and How to Woo."

Mrs. L. Maria Child. What fools people will make of themselves in the pursuit of notoriety! Mrs. L. MARIA CHILD, a third-rate Yankee poetess, has become "famous '' 'by writing letters to Governor WISE, begging to be allowed to take care of that wretch, OSSAWATOMIE BROWN, and to the miserable convict himself proffering her sympathy and kind offices! This is all done "for glory." Verily, she deserves an ode from old "nigger-minstrel" WHITTIER, commemorating her as the second FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. The Richmond Enquirer says: "Mrs. L. Maria Child (who asked ro be allowed to 'nurse' and 'soothe' the insurrectionist, Brown,) has heretofore been known in this section as an authoress of some pretensions, whose literary contributions have served to fill up the columns of one or two Northern periodicals. Hereafter she will be regarded, in the South at least, as belonging to the Harriet Beecher Stowe 'circle;' as one whose morbid enthusiasm and fanatical zea1 have beclouded and vitiated a judgement otherwise, perhaps, clear and sound."

Columbus. Although much has been written about the great discoverer of America, it is really amazing to observe what a degree of ignorance prevails concerning him and his contemporaries. The most popular book on the life of COLUMBUS, is by WASHINGTON IRVING, and it is merely a collection of items gathered at random from all sorts of authorities, good, bad and indifferent. The excessive shallowness of Mr. IRVING's learning, his haste in jumping at conclusions, have been perfectly exhibited by the acute but most gentlemanly critique of Dr. TOULMAIN SMITH, in his "Discovery of America.'' It is not a difficult task to refute the numerous errors of IRVING's "Columbus," but it is almost impossible to make the public understand that one of its old favourites is not exactly trustworthy in all respects. Critiques of IRVING can not be expected to reach where his histories have gone. Then such twaddle as the " Life and Voyages of Americus Vospucius," with all the religions and political reasons which have existed ever since the days of COLUMBUS, must have contributed no little to give many false ideas of the truly great navigitor. Unhappily, the best lives of COLUMBUS are not only not translated into English, but they are very hared to obtain at all, in the original. We have sent three or four times to Europe for the great "Vie de Christophe Colomb,'' and have yet to enjoy the pleasure of getting it. We have never seen but one copy of it, but that one sight convinced us of the immense research of the author; and, while enjoying the mere fruits of the life-time labour of its author, it is pleasing to see how beautifully he manages his arguments, how clearly he refutes his adversaries and how nobly he defends the fame of Columbus, asserting for him his true, but almost unrecognized, character. It will be seen by the following extract from the New York Daily Times, that Mr. McMASTER, of the Freeman's Journal, has been lecturing on COLUMBUS. We would like to see more about that lecture. Mr. McMASTER, as we happen to know, has made the study of the life and character of the "world- seeking Genoese" a special object of attention, and he has availed himself of the best writings, on the subject: he not taken all of his ideas from IRVING; that is to say, from the infidel NAVARETTE, whom IRVING follows. May we not hope to see this lecture in print ere long? It would be a valuable contribution to the biographical criticism concerning COLUMBUS, and, we think, calculated to do much good:

MR. M'MASTER ON THE CHARACTER OF THE GREAT DISCOVERER. "The Catholic Library Association held their quarterly meeting last night at their rooms, No. 809 Broadway. Mr, James A. McMaster, editor or the Freeman's Journal, embodied the results of much rare reading and industrious research in an improvised address, the purpose of which was to rectify certain historical villificatioins of the personal character of Christopher Columbus. What had mainly contributed, he thought, to the neglect into which, for three hundred years after his death, Columbus' name has fallen , was the imperfect appreciation of the value of his discoveries. It wns only after these United States, that portion of the New World which was evidently the most dominating and influentiall, had declared their independence, that Columbus' personal history began to be investigated. In 1825 Navarette, an infidel of the Voltaire school, which believed in the virtue of no man, nor in the chastity of any woman, was retained by the Spanish Government, not to vindicate Columbus, but to construct the best possible plea for the gross ingratitude and injustice which Spain had practiced towards him. Waslington Irving and Alex. von Humboldt, taking Navarette as authority, had reiterated the charges against Columbus of superstition and bigotry, of having compared his discoveries to the trick of breaking and [an] egg and making it stand on its end, and of his having maintained unlawful relations with a certain laely lady of Cordova, Beatrice Henriquéz, the mother of his second son, Ferdinand, who was also his best historian. The lecturer met these charges in a very lawyer-like way, ,ind in the course of his argument presented many curious facts, drawn from historical sources remote and uncommon. Among some of the most interesting details connected with the career of the great Genoese, he mentioned the fact that one of his crew was an frishman, and that previous to his second voyage the Pope, at his earnest entreaty, issued a Bull appointing one Bernard Boyle (Boil), a Benedictine, and but a poor sort of Bishop any way, for he was a courtier. This Boil gave Columbus immense trouble, and by the first ship homeward bound, sent on letters to Ferdinand, asking him for God's sake to recall him, for, not knowing the language, he could be of no use where he was. It was otherwise with the Franciscans who accompaniecl Columbus. They at once began to learn the native tongue, and in spite of countless obstacles, and in the face of innumerable perils, gave themselves entirely up to the conversion of the Aborigines. "In summing np the character of Columbus the lecturer described him as a man called by God for the great mission of opening up this great continent for the development of human capacities and the spread of Christian faith and truth."

LITERARY NOTICE. "WOMEN ARTISTS IN ALL AGES AND COUNTRIES. BY MRS. ELLET." Another benefit hass the author of "The Women of the Revolution'' conferred on the reading public in general, and her own sex in particular, by the work above named, from her facile and elegant pen. It is just issued by the HARPERS, not, we must in candour say, in their best style; for the material is coarse and badly put together. Nevertheless, this new book, from its intrinsic value, is worth far more than the one dollar charged for it. For the long winter evenings, upon which we are now entering, there is nothing like a good and pleasant book, and none, on perusal, will deny this character to "Wo-men Artists." Though Mrs. ELLET has transferred, as it were, her "women" from the field of arms to the studies of art, yet are we made to perceive that many of the same qualities which insure superiority in one sphere, insure it in another; industry, energy, resolution, perseverance, are never at discount, but the germs of success, howsoever versatile the pursuits. Let woman but cultivate the noble faculties with which she is endowed by nature—then, let duty be what and where it may, she will be found equal to its requirements, and ready for their performance. There is much for high inspiration, for noble incentive, in the lives of these artist-women. "What woman has done, woman can do," will be the natural deduction from the narrative of these art-victories by the strength of "feeble woman." The names of between four and five hundred of these women artists, many of them of world-wide fame, should surely tend to her encouragement, not particularly for the pursuit of art, but for the perfecting of her being in the full development of its noblest powers, for thus the Author of her being wills it, that she fulfil her destiny. Mrs. ELLET, true to her partiality for her former Southern home, has not failed to find, even on Carolina soil, fit subjects for illustration of her theme. There is quite an extended biography of MARY SWINTON, the sister of our own HUGH LEGARE. A writer says of this lady : ''The literature of the world, its science and art, are with her a houseliold things. They flow from her eloquent tongue, as music from the harp of the minstrel." Of Mrs. CHEVES, formerly Miss McCORD, Miss ELLEN COOPER, and JULIAN DUPUE, all of Carolina, very honourable mention is made. This book adds testimony to the apparently contradictory proclivity of woman for what are called the hard studies. To mathematics and sculpture has she been particularly devoted, and in them excelled. The book opens with the early sculptor "Callichœ," and ends with HARRIET HOSMER, our contemporary, whose name is familiar to all, and one of the most interesting characters depicted to us by the fine taste of Mrs. ELLET, who has brought before us noble pictnre-gallery of those gifted women, that, o'erstepping not the modesty of their sex, have yet independently asserted their right to a noble in the

THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 237

great temple of Art, while obeying the promptings of their genius for achievements in which success has been their vindication and reward.

In the life of HARRIET HOSMER is embodied this fine paragraph, as a gem of first water, even among the precious pearls, not "at random," but systematically and elegantly "strung" by Mrs. ELLET. As Lowell wisely and poetically says:

"Great dreams preclude low ends."

"Better aspire and fail, than not aspire at all ; better to know the dream, and the fever, and the awakening, if it must be, than to pass from the cradle to the grave on the plane of content with things as they are. There may be aspiration without genius; there cannot be genius without aspiration, and where genius is backed by industry and perseverance, the aspiration of one period will meet its realization in another."

For woman's humble name to be thus associated with the great principles of art, which are eternal, will conduce more to her self-respect than her vanity, and more to her encouragement than her self-conceit, when giving emphasis to the sentiment— "There is no sex in mind." M. M.

For the Courant. THE BOOK OF IRIS. (CONTINUED.)

The first glimpse which we have of the heroine of "the book,'' who, like the angel of the Apocalypse, is "clothed in the rainbow," is in the ensuing lines, which afford an apt specimen of the authors new style: which may be termed the "revived DELLA CRUSCAN," being new, only as forming the vehicle of different, materials from those of which the works of the originators of this famous style were composed.

"She knew the marble shapes that set men dreaming. Yet with her shoulders bare, and tresses streaming. Showed not unlovely, to her simple seeming."

The low dressing, here described, is certainly rather in the extreme of the fashion; while the unkempt hair, or "tresses streaming" over her naked shoulders, must have given, we should think, somewhat of an air distrait, or of a " Crazy Jane," to the otherwise lovely creature; who, though not exactly a maid of all work, but one not fit for any work at all, except that in which she figures so fantastically, and forms an apparition much more calculated, as it strikes us, to set children screaming than men dreaming, however attached the latter may be to "marble shapes," which the author says they have so strong a penchant for, and to which he likens his etherial, sensitive, and any thing but stony-hearted heroine. Iris, however, though thus described as truly decolé, and sentimentally miserable, is, at the same time, represented as being pretty much of a female philosopher, and as

"Saying, unsaddened—This [her beauty] shall soon be faded, And double-hued [that is, gristled] the shining tresses braided,— [Just now, they were flying over her shoulders!] And all the sunlight of the morning shaded !"

Though unsaddened by these otherwise rather melancholy reflections, she sometimes had, the author tells us, "her hours of weeping, and of tearful smiles ; "and was sad only in her follies! her book being full, he states, of these new and strange species of mournful levities, and "laughing melancholies."—Strange creatures, certainly these romantic young ladies, and Album-keeping and poetizing boarding-school Misses.

But, though "the book" is represented as being written by the ideal Iris, its true paternity is so plainly traceable in its filmy fictions, unreal or merely imaginary characters, and, in the cloistered or college pedantry, that crops out (to use a now familiar phrase,) in every page, and in every sentence—that the author is never for a moment lost sight of by the reader, in the ludicrous and often-changed disguises which he assumes: Now, that of a dreamy and undefinably unhappy damsel, "all tear and anguish;" now, of her sympathising biographer; and, lastly, of her admirer, or her despairing and poetizing lover. Of the mixture of science and sentiment, of the pedantic and the pensive, of lecturing and rhyming, of which "the book" presents so strange an example, we have an early specimen in the author's superfine, and, at the same time, scientific description of the genus blonde, to which, he says his heroine belongs. "I wonder if some thing of the spiritual transparency is not typified in the golden blonde organization.— There are a great many little creatures—many small fishes, for instance, that are literally transparent—with the exception of some of the internal organs. The heart can be seen beating, etc. The central nervous column, with its sheath, runs as a dark stripe through the whole length of the diaphnous muscles. Other little creatures are so darkened with pigment that we can see only their surface. Conspirators and poisoners are painted with black beady eyes, and swarthy hue. Judas Iscariot, in Leonardo's picture, [what picture ?]* is the model of them all!"

After this short lecture on anatomy aud insectology—and display of his knowledge in the fine arts—and without stopping to explain the connection which he seems to have discovered to exist between the dark pigment that runs through the central nervous column of certain little creatures," and the "black beady eyes " and swarthy hue • peculiar to conspirators, or pointing out wherein the diaphanous muscles" of the above little creatures are illustrative of the spiritual transparency of the "golden blonde organization," he returns to "the wondrous book of Iris," and proceeds to describe the strange and grotesque objects, and certain monstrous figures, which he finds sketched on the margins of its leaves, and which—notwithstanding the mystery and significance with which he attempts to invest them—are evidently the mere idle and casual scrawlings of a school-girl, or such drawings as school-boys are in the habit of making on the blank leaves and edges of their usually dog-eared books. In these arabesque and crude scrawlings, however, our super-learned Professor, like the star-gazing philospher, who mistook a magnified fly, which had got into his telescope, for an elephant in the moon, thinks that he discerns so many efforts of youthful genius—or obscure and daring attempts of Iris—to "idealize what is vulgarly termed deformity;" which she, rising above such a mere common conception, or misconception, had "looked at in the light of one of Nature's eccentric curves, and as belonging to her system of beauty ; and as the hyperbola and patabola, belonging to the conic sections ;" though we cannot see them as symmetrical and entire figures, like the circle and ellipse. This "system of beauty," in which deformity is regarded as bearing a relation to symmetry, in the same manner as the "hyperbola and parabola belong to the conic sections, and may become entire figures, or the circle and ellipse," is certainly sufficiently learned, though not very intelligible; or, at any rate, cannot, we think, be considered as affording a very favourable specimen of the author's skill or success in looking through "the spiritual transparency of the golden blonde's organizatioin."

In attempting to carry out or accomplish this blending of beauty and deformity, Iris is, of course, not very successful; but her biographer thinks these attempts were suggested by her penchant for the crooked little gentleman, with whom all readers of the "Breakfast Table" papers, are familiar; and says : "at any rate, I cannot help referring this paradise of twisted spines [a paradise of twisted spines!] to some idea floating in her head, connected with her friend—whom Nature had warped in the moulding." "But this conjecture," he says, "is nothing to another transcendental fancy of mine." Here is this truly transcendental fancy, in describing which, the Professor out-does all his former out-doings; so that those who may take the trouble to read his account of the fancy, which he so specially claims as his own, will, we think, admit that nonsense can no further go: "I believe her soul thinks itself into his little crooked body at times—if it does not get really freed, or half-freed from her own.

Now comes another display of learning, by which it will be seen that he is acquainted with medicine, as well as with mathematics and astronomy, natural history, the classics, and the fine arts: "Did you ever see a case of catalepsy? Do you know what I mean?" [not exactly.] "Well—transient loss of sense, will, and motion; body and limbs taking any position in which they are put, as if they belonged to a lay figure. She had been talking with him [the little gentleman] one day, when the boarders moved from the table, nearly all at once." Now comes the description of the fit. "But she sate as before, her cheek resting on her hand, her amber-eyes wide open, and still. I went to her—she was breathing as usual, and her heart was beating naturally enough; but she did not anewer—[not having been asked any thing]. I bent her arm, it was plastic as softened wax, and kept the place I gave it. This will never do, thought I. I sprinkled a few drops of water on her forehead. She started, and looked round—'I have been in a dream,' she said; 'give me your hand.' She took my right hand in her left, which looked soft and white enough! but, good heaven! I believe she will crack my bones! "Such a squeeze from the "soft, white hand" of a fair lady, was more calculated, we should have supposed, to protluce at least a slight crack in the skull, than of the bones of the rough fist of a College Professor: but the grip, he tells us, was like that of a "crazy lady, when she snaps the iron window-bars of her prison, though ordinarily she had scarcely strength enough to draw on her glove!" On recovering from this cataleptic attack, "she trembled, and might have fallen, but for me: the poor little soul had been in one of those trances, that belong to the spiritual pathology of higher natures! mostly those of women." That she was subject to these trances, vulgarly yelped cataleptic fits, is previously mentioned in the following stanza of the prefatory poem, from which we have already given some equally exquisite specimens or examples of true poetry.

"She knew not love, yet lived in maiden fancies, Walked simply clad, a queen of high romance, And talked strange tongues, with angels, in her trances.''

These trances, the author hints, were of a pythonic, as well as of cataleptic type, or were accompanied by the gift of second-sight —heretofore supposed to be confined to a highly-favoured and higher-dwelling people; or the natives of those mounts of vision —hills of heather, lyric winds and sighing caves—from which an Ossian caught the inspiration that breathes so sadly and sweetly from the æolian-toned strings of his immortal harp.

Iris, he states, had told him that "the Scottish gift of second-sight ran in her family, and she was afraidshe had it." Accordingly, she soon has a premonition, or vision, of the approaching death of the little gentleman—which is accompanied, as usual, by a cataleptic attack, though of a milder character than that in which with "her soft white hand" she nearly "cracked his bones," and exhibited strength enough "to snap the iron window-bars " of a prison. "One day she came suddenly to me, looking deadly pale. Her lips moved as if she were speaking. Her hair looked strangely, as if lifting itself —[this must have been a trial to the nerves of the beholder] and her eyes were full of wild light. She sunk upon a chair. Some thing had frozen her blood with fear. I thought, from what she said, half-audibly, that she believed she had seen a shrouded figure." How horrid ! "That night, at about eleven o'clock, I was sent for by the little gentleman, who was taken suddenly ill." We were in hopes that this attack had terminated fatally, so that the public might have been happily rid of one of the bores of "The Breakfast Table;" but here the paper abruptly ends, and, instead of the anxiouly-looked-for last scene, the poem of "Under the Violets" is served up to the readers. Among the mourners for the maiden whose death is commemorated in these affecting stanzas, are some whose sympathies and sorrows cannot but produce a "contagious feeling" in the breast of every reader of the least sensibility or refinement of sentiment.

'' When turning round their dial track, Eastward the lengthening shadows pass— Her little mourners clad in black—[of course.] The crickets sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening mass."

We doubt whether the piping of a mass is a usual, or would be a respectful mode of celebratiug that solemn service of the Catholic Church; or whether this kind of music would be endured, either at a funeral or cricket-match ; but, as the licentia vatum can no more be interfered with than the liberty of the press in our free and happy country, we do not know that we have any right to object, to the introduction of such players into the choir of the Muses as the Professor has enlisted and set a-piping in the above stanza.

But we have done, Mr. Editor, as your readers cannot but be tired of the twaddle and "perilous stuff ''—which we have been obliged to quote from "The Book of Iris" in self-defence, or in order to sustain the indictment we have preferred against the Professor and the conductors of the "Atlantic Magazine:" the one for writing, and the other for printing, and inflicting upon the public, such nonsense, pulling sentimentality, and mere scribbling, as that contained in the above book, and the other papers from the pen of " The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table." But, perhaps the Professor is, after all, only slyly satirizing the prevailing taste for mere mawkish sentimentality, improbable fictions, and the penny-a-liner style, both in prose and poetry; and has finally resolved to choke the public, if possible, with a dose—or over-dose—of this kind of writing; as we think he has successfully done (if this be his object) in the "Book of Iris," and the whining and die-away poems with which it is interspersed. If this, however, be his purpose, we must confess ourselves to be fairly sold, and submit to be quizzed in turn, or to take the place of the Professor in the pillory which we had prepared for him, as an offender against all the rules of criticism, composition, and good taste. ATHENION.

BURTON'S Anatomy of Melancholy has been republished.— The Boston Advertiser says, in a notice of the new edition: "Burton's language, embroidered with gems from every source, is heavy and rich, like old brocade, and many an author has found Burton's writings a vast store-house of rich robes, in which he has arrayed himself, and gained general admiration. Thackeray represents Captain Shandon as drawing his editorial learning from Burton—and it is surprising to see how many of Burton's robes, after lending dignity to Sterne's thin figure, have draped the broad shoulders of Pisistratus Caxton. Those who have never read the 'Anatomy of Melancholy,' will find that they have long been familiar with many of its choicest bits of grave humour and simple wisdom.' "

• Of these grotesque arbesques, we have the following detailed and strange account. Here is some thing very odd, to be sure, an Eden of all bumped and crooked creatures. What could have been in her head, when she worked out such fantasies?" She had contrived, we are told, to give to all these humped and crooked creatures "beauty, or dignity, or melancholy grace." A "Bactrian camel, lying under a palm, with a melancholy grace," we suppose. "A dromedary flashing up the sands; a herd of buffaloes, uncouth, shaggy-maned, heavy in the forehead, light in the hind-quarter; and there is a Norman horse, with his huge, rough collar, echoing, as it were [what is this?] the natural form of the other beast" [or of the bison]. "And here are twisted serpents and stately swans, with answering curves in their bowed necks, as if they had snakes' blood under their white feathers." [echoing, we suppose, the natural form of the scaly and writhing reptiles] "A very odd page, indeed," says the Professor, as "not a creature in it is without a curve or twist; and not one of them a mean figure to look at;" all having a certain beauty, or dignity, or melancholy grace. "One more of these interesting items, and we are done." "A ray of cloud on one page, as I remember, with a streak of red zig-zag going out of it, across the papaer, as naturally as a crack runs through a China bowl!"

238 THE COURANT : A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. For the Courant.

THE BABY.

BY SAMUEL L. HAMMOND.

I. Another or frail and tiny barque Launched upon the ocean dark,— Drifting out on the stormy sea, Oh! never may it sunken be.

II. From Life's storm-rift sky afar, Out peeps another little star— Yea, another beauteous beam Down upon the earth doth gleam.

III. Another cherub less in heaven, One more unto earth is given; Another fair young flower Blooms in Life's sunny bower.

For the Courant.

INDIANS.

"Lo! the poor lngine," remarked the Fifer to Ruby, one day, pointing to the wreck of an engine which had collapsed and expanded and blown up, until what once was the beautiful perfection of mechanism had become a mass of ruins, without form, and void. They had just been discussing the question whether Pope meant to pun when he said

''His soul proud Science never taught to stray Far as the soul-ar walk, or milky-way,"

and had come to the satisfactory conclusion that the Indian had often sought the milky-way when in infancy, ere yet he had become accustomed to grosser nutriment. With a deep- drawn sigh, Ruby remarked—"Heigh! the poor Indian," and, cowlike, commenced ruminating, thinking of Indians : their past, their glorious past, for ever past; their ignoble and degraded present, and their sorrowful, lowering future.

When, in pristine days, the Indian roamed in uncontrolled freedom through primeval forests, whose savage grandeur filled him with grand ideas of the Great Spirit by whose word they came into existence ; when in the sound of the winds rushing down the valleys, or sighing through the trees, or howling over waters, or clashing and shrieking and shouting around the mountain-tops, he heard but the war-cries and battle alarums of the spirits of dead heroes ancl braves; when the murmuring of waters and the rustling of breezes were lo him as the voices of good spirits from the cloud-covered lands of the blessed hereafter ; when the flashing and blazing of the lightning, as its electric fires illumined the heavens, or the rolling and crashing of the thunder, as it reverberated from cliff and cavern, were gleams from the wrath-kindled eyes of Manitou, or sounds of his voice when he spoke from his empyreal throne; when the warrior returning from the battle or the chase came home chaunting the songs of victory, and was met at the lodge door by the "Lily of the Waters " or the "Wild Fawn of the Forest," daughters of the wild-wood, whose hearts were as warm as the sunshine in summer, and pure as the wind- driven snow of the winter, and whose souls were as kind and true as is the turtle-dove cooing in gentle, loving tones to her mate, and as brave as the swan when she drives the wild eagle from the nest where her cygnets are gathered ; when Truth and Honour were native to his soul, and before the while man had taught him that these were of less value than gold, and could be bought and sold as chattels in the market-place —then, when he "saw God in clouds or heard Him in the wind," and was in constant communication with Nature, which was his religion, his God; oh ! then was his past, his glorious past.

Driven away from the graves of his fathers, from the home of his boyhood ; tribes scattered and nations dispersed ; hunted from covert to covert, and driven beyond the blue mountains of the West, to dwell in a strange land; contaminated by all the vices which the Europeans brought, but blessed with none of their virtues; wasted by diseases which followed civilization and destroyed thousands in a day; preyed upon by harpies whose god is an idol of gold; having tasted the cup and become enthralled by the overpowering might of the Demon of the Still, who has peopled hell with millions; down-trodden and despised, vicious and depraved, liars und thieves, robbers and assassins; honor, truth, virtue and valor forever lost— such, alas ! is their ignoble present.

"There are fifty-four Indians remaining in Florida; there are among these but fourteen warriors." This extract from a late newspaper was the exciting cause of the present epistle, and mournful were the thoughts concerning the future of the Indian. Was this meagre handful all that was left in the beautiful, flower-bearing, palm-crowned Florida, of those who were once the proud lords of all its fertile lands? Would the teeming savannas never more present for them their stores? Would the thick-woven vine-covered coverts of the almost impenetrable hammocks never more offer to them a refuge from the invading foe ? In mounful [mournful?] cadence comes the answer, Never more. Never again shall the Suwannee's bright waters sing a

[article continues in column 2]

lullaby for the child left to sleep on its banks. Never again shall the Ocklockonce reflect the grateful form of the dark- browed maiden, as she views her beautiful features in the limpid waters, or disports herself beneath its blue waves. Never more shall the warrior launch bis light canoe on Withlacoochee's stream, and glide along to the lodge where his loved one dwells ; or hasten down the swift current, carrying death and destruction, at the dead of night, into the silent camp of the slumber­ing foe.

Alas! the red men have departed, and are as though they were not. Where once the shrill war-whoop was reëchoed from the forests, is heard now the shrieking of the locomotive, as it hurries along on its iron path. The ring of the woodman's axe breaks the solemn stillness which once reigned throughout the orange gloves. And even tho mounds which were raised over the graves of the dead, are worn down and destroyed by the ploughshare. It requires no prophetic eye to see, for the vista of years is not long, how, gradually, the Indians will disappear ; how, one by one, they will pass away, until of the aborigines of America not one will be left to tell the story of the glory of his ancestors, or the sad fate of their posterity. They are fast disappearing from the present, to take their place among the nations of history. Their relics will be preserved among the curiosities of museums, and, in the words of another, "theirs will soon be the dead language of a dead people." And, to pass away and be forgotten ; this, indeed, is their mournful future.

If you ask why is this? the answer is, that it is a necessity of the scheme and plan of civilization. It is an obstacle which must be overthrown, in the course of progression. It is a barrier which must be passed, which impedes the westward march of the Anglo-Saxon race, ever following steadily and resistlessly in the path illuminated, by the beacon light which gloriously beams from the radiant "Star of Empire."

And thus, having summarily disposed of Indians in different places, it is time that I should sign myself,

As usual, RUBY.

From the Daily Carolinian of the 19th.

THE SCHILLER FESTIVAL. The Schiller festival, gotten up by a number of our enterprising German citizens, was a most successful and happy affair. Kinsler's Hall was tastefully decorated with wreaths of evergreens, and the stage fitted up with appropriate national emblems. On the right ancl left were two transparencies bearing, respectively, the inscriptions, " We Starkes sich und Mildes paren da giebt es cinen guten Klang, " "Where the strong and the mild are united, a harmony of sound is produced." "Ein erhabenes Loos, ein gottliches. isl ihm geworden," "An elevated and Divine lot has befallen him." Over all was suspended the tri-colour national liberty flag of Germany, with the American flag on either side. The portrait of FRIEDERICH VON SCHILLER was placed conspicuously behind the speaker's desk. On the right of President BACHAM was his Honour the Mayor, and Professor REYNOLDS, of the South Carolina College ; on the left, the orator of the evening, OSCAR M. LIEBER, Esq. There were from one hundred and fifty to one hundred and sixty in attendance. A. KOEPPER, Esq., with a full orchestra, commenced the exercises with singing, accompanied by the piano. At the conclusion, the President. addressed the audience as follows:

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: Heaven smiled on Germany when FREDERICK VON SCHILLER was born, ou the banks of the Neckar. One hundred years have passed since that event, and Schiller, "though dead, yet liveth." In the temple dedicated "to all the glories of Germany," the name of Schiller is inscribed as a name dearer to his countrymen than any other name, for he was as good as he was great ; his writings combine purity of language with purity of thought ancl feeling, and occupy a place conspicuous in the literature of the world. In the fruits of his genius, he has left a rich and abiding legacy to his country.

Throughout all christendom, wherever the German name is known, the centennial anniversary of this great. man's birthday will be remembered and celebrated as a most important era in the history of his fatherland.

By the invitation of our German fellow-citizens, it is our privilege to join in this world-rendered tribute, and to cast our wreath of immortelles on that honoured tomb. The subject is suggestive—one upon which I would fain linger; but it is my pleasure to announce to you that there are others here who will treat this noble theme in detail, and render a worthy offering to the great name of Schiller. In honouring the memory of the most popular poet of a country, the occasion assumes national features. I beg to introduce Mr. LIEBER, who has been invited by our German fellow-citizens to address them in their native language.

Mr. LIEBER addressed the audience in German, and was frequently interrupted by applause. We are indebted to the author for a revised copy of the translation :

MR. PRESIDENT, AND LADIES AND GENTLEMEN :—I thank you for the honour which you have conferred upon me; but addressing you in a language with which, notwithstanding a somewhat protracted visit to Germany, I have now grown less familiar, I may justly entreat your lenient consideration, if I should fail to furnish a suitable contribution to this festival.

We celebrate the hundredth birth-day of Schiller. To do honour to the great intellects of one's country, is the pleasing duty of every feeling man ; and to commemorate their names with such festivities, awakens the purest sensations of the [article spans columns 2 and 3] heart. We have not assembled here to solemnize the memory of a proud victor, whose crowning laurels have sprung from a bloody field-not to renew the recollection of a great monarch, whose conquered territories may yield treasures to us but grief to others—we devote this hour to poetry, the gentle gift of heaven, and unite to give due honour to that countryman of yours, whose lofty song has contributed more than aught else, within the realm of the poetic art, to elevate and ennoble the intellect of the German nation. Goethe was far less a poet for the people ; few can raise themselves to his high poetic sphere; but Schiller beckoned the muses down, and has made us familiar with them. With Goethe, we must be elevated by the intellect; but with Schiller we are borne aloft by a gentler love and sweeter purity. Schiller addresses the soul. Intelligible to all whose feelings are true, he accompanies us himself into the field of poesy.

It can surprise none that the people, as a body, should do most honour to that poet whose feelings every individual perceives to be most in unison with his own, and far more edifying must this brotherhood be to him than the distant respect which Goethe enforces.

In another important point must Schiller be distinguished from Goethe and all other German poets. The great national unity which is so forcibly exhibited in Germany, notwithstanding her endless political divisions, is certaonly in a great measure produced by her common propietorship in literature, science and art—more especially in music, in song, in poetry ; and in this respect the Germans are particularly indebted to Schiller. Schiller belongs to the nation—to the people. Goethe was a courtier, and his poetry affected the mass in the same way as also the highest science ultimately reaches it— through the mediation of other causes, and not direct, like Schiller's.

But why should we extend this comparison? Why endeavour to obtain more distant evidence that Schiller has most prominently won the hearts of his people, than that afforded by this very celebration? Here—far from your native land, in a trans-oceanic country—the love for your chosen poet survives. Truly, this is fame—immortality—the poet's richest reward !

Nor is it altogether advisable to attempt a comparison between these two friends—Schiller and Goethe. They are totally different ; both equally lofty in their respective fields of poetry : and we would do well to remember the assertion of Goethe, that the Germans are great fools for quarreling, to whom most honour is due. "They ought to feel grateful," he says, in the conscious dignity of his own prominence, "that they may claim both of us."

The creations of Schiller, as well as hls own character, are probably chiefly distinguished by the elevated and earnest morality which pervades his writings. Thus, Madame de Staël says of him, that " he lived, spoke and acted as if evil-disposed persons had really no existence, and when he is forced to depict their characters in his writings, he describes them with more exaggeration and a less minute comprehension than would have existed if their true features were known to him." Bulwer, his English biographer, scrutinizes this peculiraity farther:

* * * * *

Thus far have I given the words of Bulwer, because his as-sertions most concisely depict the peculiar gifts and virtues of Schiller. And gratifying is this praise from an author, not a countryman of his. No blame is here to be detected—no faults are here ascribed to him. His individual characteristics alone are pointed out. Schiller, even in his plays, is less a describing dramatist than a creating poet. Too pure ever to obscure truth, he may sometimes have permitted his own feelings to colour his creations almost too distinctly. He was incapable of holding himself and his high objects in the back-ground ; but a fault we cannot call it, if in Schiller's works, Schiller himself is always visible ; and assuredly his people have it not in their power to do more honour to themselves than by furnishing the sure evidence of their own high sentiments in pledging Schiller's love of truth. It may be to this fact that the affection is preeminently due, which the German nation concedes to her great poet. It is not the mighty intellect which is here chiefly honoured, but the virtuous purity and encouraging love of justice.

A deep piety characterizes his writings, and by the well known ballad of "Rudolf von Habsburg," " The Fight with the Dragon," and "The Song of the Forge," this is probably known to the most of my German hearers.

A strong love of liberty pervades his works, but it was a true and law-abiding liberty. That he, an author—but too frequently annoyed by the political censorship—should have bestowed the chief importance upon intellectual freedom cannot surprise us; and that in politics, with the days of terror of the French revolution before his eyes, he should have devoted his pen to the service of a more permanent and milder, although monarchial government, can only attest his honest love of right. Thus, in his "Song of the Bell," he has gloriously painted the unchecked madness of a blind revolution. What German does not know those words?"

* * * * * * *

In his song to the new century, he expresses himself in mournful strains on the same subject.

* * * * * * *

With regard to intellectual freedom, Schiller ever expressed himself with fervour: " From the cradle of my intellect, " he says, " I have been forced to battle with fate ; and since I have learned to value the liberty of the mind, I have been constrained to feel its want." As particularly depressing, his poverty appears to have been felt by him. In the earlier portion of his life, this must have been exceedingly painful, for he was then obliged to enforce the service of his rapidly creating mind to enable himself to escape the rudest want of bread .

It was too lofty a view of mankind, and an exalted conception of ideal virtue, as Bulwer says which combining with these pressing circumstances, in those early days often exposed him to temporary melancholy. "I embraced half creation," he exclaims with ardour, "and found a lump of ice within my grasp." Yet this gloomy feeling was gradually dispersed, and it may well be asked, whether the sad school of depressing grief is not indeed necessary to every truly great poet? Almost all have passed through this fiery ordeal, and Schiller himself appears to regard poverty as the just inheritance of the poet. You all know the "Division of the World."

* * * * * * *

It was [not?] until a much later period of life, in the seqestered retreat of Weimar, that Schiller had it in his power

THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 239

[Article spans Columns 1, 2, and 3] [Column 1] to view life with more quieted feelings, and his affection for mankind is expressed in the genial words: "A kiss to all the world."

Schiller, like Lessing, exerted great influence in again nationalizing German poetry, and in bestowing upon it that regard of which it had been robbed by the influence of "the period of the cue (Zopfalter),'' and of the infusion of French liteature. Every country has its peculiar inspirations, and a national poet should never forget his native land. Certainly no country is more replete than that of Schiller's with objects, traditions and thoughts fit for the songsters' theme. But I do not trust myself to occupy your attention any farther, for the purpose of exhibiting more minutely the varied greatness of your illustrious poet. Others, who will address you after me, can perform this pleasing duty far better than I.

But one word more would I beg to add. It is only a few months back, that we received the painful intelligence of the death of a great contemporary of Schiller―not ten years his junior. Well may that sad occasion induce us to feel placed in closer proximity to the life of Schiller, especially when we remember that his brother exerted a prominent influence in shaping the character of the poet. If, then, we are now assembled to do honour to the memory of a man who has taught us to reverence the German nation, who has won the esteem of foreign countries for the name of Germany, should we not, in mournful remembrance of the recent Past, commingle with the tear we shed for Schiller's end, another for the sake of Humboldt?

[The quotation from Bulwer (Poems and "Ballads of Schiller, vol. I, p. cxiv.,) and the cited poetry has been omitted on account of limited space.

At the conclusion of Mr. L.'s address, another song was given by the orchestra, after which the President rose and stated that in consequence of the serious illness of the author, an address written for the occasion by HOWARD H. CALDWELL, Esq., would be presented through the kindness of Professor REYNOLDS. The address elicited warm expressions of admiration:

It was said by a no less distinguished person than the great Goethe himself, "We should do our utmost to encourage the beautiful―the useful will encourage itself. "From this point of view, there is much to be rejoiced at in the scene presented here to-night. This festival commemorates the birthday of a poet, and poets are the high priests of the beautiful. Preeminent amongst the bards who, caring little for didactic, descriptive or heroic poetry, have devoted themselves to the worship of pure moral beauty, stands FRIEDERICH SCHILLER. His vision is not filled by the fairest forms of external nature, however ―her changing seasons, her rosy dawn, her dreamy twilight, her flowers and birds and blue skies, her lakes and waterfalls and forests―not these inspired his song; but to him nature in her most attractive garb was nothing, until shone upon by the soul of man, and illumined by

"The light that never was on sea, or shoe, The inspiration and the poet's dream.''

Precisely so he looked upon human character. His theme is never man simply as he is to the outward world, but rather as his secret heart would shew him, and still oftener as he should be. He chose his characters and events, not so much to exhibit the mere actual condition of human life, as to illustrate some high moral truth―the practice of, or the failure to practice, which, constitutes the cardinal point ot the production. His theory was in this wise: the ideal is a better and more effectual teacher than the real; hence that the office of the poet is to raise his fellow-man above the groveling thoughts of traffic and the gratification of the senses, to those purer regions of thought and feeling, where they may see fiction holding up her pictures of all the possible, and under the appearance of daily life exhibit that which may not have been, but which should be, all which possibility embraces, and decorated with every charm that the poet can add by his mysterious skill. There is a remarkable resemblance between SCHILLER's poetic theory and FICHTE'S doctrine of the divine idea, which, he says, lies at the bottom of all material appearance, and in all the complex relations of human life―an idea not seen or appreciated except by a chosen few, who in every generation stand forth to express to the rest of mankind the "endless significance" of things revealed to them alone. How beautifully, then, follows his view of the mission of the poet! This divine idea creates for itself a life within the mere personal life, different from, and independent of, the character of the person; which new life manifests itself only in love, and love is essentially creative. In the words of a great Southern thinker, as well as poet,

" Soft brooding as the mated dove. In climes unvisited by storm, Begins the incubationg love To shape a shadowy form."

This faculty of creation, this struggle, ever upward and onward, the world calls genius.

Thus Schiller looked upon the poet as a man set apart―one upon whom a celestial light was directly shining. Literature with him includes the essence of philosophy, religion and art― whatever concerns the immortal part of man. She is alike the daughter and the nurse of all that is spiritual and exalted in our characdter. "Genius," says he, "is the gift of God; and a solemn and awful responsibility rests upon all to whom this sacred charge has been committed. Woe to him who perverts it, in any ignoble cause, or sacrifices it on the accurst altar of his Mammon!" "The artist," says Schiller, "is the son of his age, it is true ; but pity for him if he is its pupil, or even its favourite! Let some benificent divinity snatch him, when a suckling, from the breast of his mother, and nurse him with the milk of a better clime, that he may ripen to his full stature beneath a distant Grecian sky. And, having grown to manoood [manhood], let him return, a foreign shape, into his country, not to delight it with his presence; but terrible, like the son of Agamemnon, to purify it. But how is the artist to guard himself from the corruptions of his time, which will, on every side, assail him? Let him look upward to his dignity and mission, not downward to his happiness and his temporal wants. This let him imprint and express in fiction and in truth, in the play of imagination, the earnestness of action, on all sensible and spiritual forms, and cast it silently into everlasting time." I have dwelt thus long upon Schiller's doctrine of the mission of the poet, because this doctrine is the key to the whole history of his life ; and a point

[Column 2]

which, in reading his works, is indispensably necessary to remember, in order properly to grasp the idea of the poet. Madame de Staël summed up all criticism on the genius of Schiller, when she said "Sa conscience etait sa Muse," for he argued, as Cousin since has stated it, that the ideal tends always towards the infinite; therefore, that which expresses ideal beauty purifies, in elevating the soul towards the infinite, which is GOD. With such views of the mission of the poet, it would hve been strange indeed to have found Schiller as careless of moral effects as Goethe was. "Perhaps," says a distinguished British Essayist, "Goethe's devotion to literature was as lofty and disinterested as that of Schiller, and his views of the dignity of his vocation not less elevated and pure. But he imparts little of this pure and elevated feeling to his works, Goethe rarely seeks to enlist our sympathies on the side of virtue or moral courage; his favourite characters seem to be always beings in whom all decided character had dissolved away, who cultivate their tastes rather than their feelings; and passively allow all emotions and impulses to take their course. Schiller could not contemplate literature in such a light ; he could not trifle with the solemn realities of human duty, as Goethe did in the "Elective Affinities," or flatter the weaknesses or vices of society by an airy, theatrical pageant of life, as in "Wilhelm Meister." Knowing the power of literature both for good and evil, Schiller viewed his genius as a sacred trust lent him for a time, to be expanded only on themes that might support, instruct or elevate his fellow- men.

With this imperfect notice of the creed which not only moulded into its forms all his writings, but also controlled the life of the man. I shall proceed briefly to mention one other point, to which my attention has been often before directed. I mean to make a distinction―mark you, not a comparison―but a distinction, between the two greatest of German poets. The question has often been asked me, "Which is the greater, Goethe or Schiller?" It is not a matter for comparison, inasmuch as the difference is not in degree, but in kind; in degree each is confessedly the master of his own province, while in kind they differ totally, and so perfectly that neither can conflict with the other. It is as absurd to undertake to compare them, as it would be to propound the question, "Which is more beautiful, a rose or a moon-beam?" But when men write such unscrupulous essays as those of Carlyle, wherein he decries Schiller, inorder to exalt Goethe, it becomes the duty of all disinterested persons to call such literary assassination by its proper name, and defend a poet whose only fault is that Thomas Carlyle does not at all appreciate or comprehend him. I am not making war upon the right of any man to his own opinion; but I do detest that narrowness of mind which will make a man say, "this is best, because I like it best;" which will not see that other persons and things may be quite as good as those upon which this owl-critic has perched. Men like Carlyle (who, after all, is only a poor mortal, like the rest of us) seat themselves to pronounce ex cathedra, and call all their equals, who may hold different views, ignorant and short- sighted. Carlyle has no doubt of his personal infallibility― see how history and criticism, kings, poets and philosophers, all churches and all religions, crumble beneath his tread. It is all the more provoking, because he tries to shew great admiration for Schiller as a philosopher. He puts a higher estimate on Schiller's philosophical works than any of the Germans themselves. I desire to be distinctly understood not to say one word to lessen the fame of Goethe. He is, in his own dominions, autocrat; but his kingdom adjoins a gentler and a sweeter territory, over which rules a sceptered king for ever―Friederich von Schiller. The broad distinction lies in this : Goethe describes things precisely as he sees them; Schiller weaves around them all the beautiful moral possibilites, and illustrates what should have been. Goethe, it would seem by choice, selects the abnormal, exceptional and unhappy beings, and by consequence his pictures are dark and gloomy. They are not, however, half as wicked as Menzel imagines. These dreary pictures are true to the life, but if there be any lesson to be drawn from them, Goethe leaves you to draw it yourself. Schiller, always following his conviction of a duty and responsibility on the part of the writer, draws from the history of the wicked his strongest contrasts, to exhibit the deformity of vice and the beauty of virtue. In short, the one has never been surpassed in depicting actual life; the other never apporached in his power of combining characters and events, so as best to exhibit some moral truth. In a word, Goethe is the great poet of the real, and Schiller the annointed prophet of the ideal.

Quite as vehement as Carlyle, Menzel has sought and found many grounds of complaint against Goethe; the two critics make a very fair set-off, the one to the other. Having found that Goethe prefers "to describe, not so much the healthful nobleness, as the diseased infirmity of an intellectual character," Menzel denounces the works of this poet, as Bulwer well says, "with a cant unworthy of so great a critic." Is it to be wondered at, when even Carlyle, the idolatrous worshipper of Geothe, admits the evil effects of the German bard's writings in such language as the following: " Werther, infusing itself into the core and whole spirit of literature, gave birth to a race of sentimentalists, who have raged and wailed in every part of the world; till better light dawned on them, or at worst exhausted nature laid herself to sleep, and it was discovered that lamenting was unproductive labour." The moral effects of the works of Schiller have been fully appreciated, more fully than they were during the life-time of Goethe, and while all critics of the better sort place the two poets on an equal footing as to the degree of power, many will be found who are inclined to attach too much importance to the carelessness of Goethe. Intellectually, they are equal―in fame, they are equal―but under all moral aspects they are very widely apart.

What varied scenery arises on the magic panorama of Schiller's poetry? His literary history begins with a terrible storm; the rage of youth, passion and unrest, which took shape in the drama of the "Robbers;" but it closed with a gorgeous and majestic suns-set, in the splendid triumphs of his "William Tell." Here, in "Fiesco," appears the angel form of Leonora, and anon, the fierce conspirator standing alone in the awful stillness of midnight, awaiting the fatal signal. The scene changes, and here "Don Carlos" threads his dangerous way amid all the snares of love, hate, jealousy and bigotry, while in the strongest contrast is presented the gentle Elizabeth, hiding her broken heart in obedience to the dictates of virture. Anon, we see the pomp and pageantry of the

[Column 3] "Camp of Wallenstein," irradiated by the love of Max and Theela. Here, we see the sad and beautiful form of "Mary pining her life away in a lonely prison, and here arises the heroic martyr, "Maid of Orleans," from whose sad end, with wonderful grace, the poet leads on the choric music of the "Bride of Messina," and takes us back to the days of the triumphs of Sophoeles and Euripides. Last and greatest comes "William Tell," climbing his dizzy cliffs, and knowing no lord but the God of Freedom. Between these grand scenes are heard the sweetest symphonies—songs of love and pain, of hope and joy and sadness, all blending their beauties with his longer works—such lays of enchantment as the "Song of the Bell," "The Cranes of Ibycus," "The Diver," and "The Ideals," short and perfect poems, which will live for ever.

Schiller died at the early age of forty-five, while his illustrious friend Goethe lived to be eighty-two. I have often thought how well these two great poets illustrated the "ruling passion strong in death." "Light ! give me more light !" cried the expiring Goethe. It was altogether in keeping with the life history of the man—accustomed as he always had been to look upon reality in its most grotesque, and even its most hideous and repulsive forms, as the gloom of death began to invade his faculties, he cried for light, so that he might behold the actual in clear and distinct outlines. Equally characteristic were the words of Schiller in his last hours. He said : "Many things are now growing clearer and clearer—life has become so plain."— Under the shadow of death, his great soul was seizing truths imperfectly revealed before—and the ideal was beginning to shew itself as the truest real, before his eyes ! Was it not well, then, that his last word should express no struggle for light, no regret at his early death? But the beautiful sun-set upon which he gazed was not more placid than the last words of the dying poet, as he softly whispered, "Calmer and calmer," and so expired.

"⸺E'en then he trod The threshold of the world unknown ; Already from the throne of God A ray upon his garments shone ; Shone and awoke the strong desire For love and knowledge reached not here, 'Til freed by death, his soul of fire Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere ! Then, who shall tell how deep, how bright, The abyss of glory opened 'round ; How thought and feeling flowed like light Through ranks of being without bound."

About ten o'clock P. M., the company sate down to a most excellent supper, prepared in Mr. McKenzie's superior manner. Four long tables, loaded with substantial viands and delicacies, were completely surrounded, and the short time in which many good things disappeard, was the best evidence of the keen appetites that attacked them. After supper, the festival was kept up until a late hour with music and dancing.

[The birth-day of Schiller occurred on the 10th, but the celebration was postponed on account of the State Fair.]

RACHEL—A writer in the Constitutional Press, an English periodical, gives the following description of a visit to Rachel, the late French tragic actress :

"The only evening I had the pleasure of passing in her company was, I think, in 1845, when she was still in health and spirits. I had looked upon M. Charpentier, the portrait painter, whose full-length portrait of Rachel the reader has seen a hundred times in the shop windows ; the original picture of George Sand ; and, as I expressed a desire to see Rachel in private, M. Charpentier said ; 'I am going to her presently ; come with me.' It was not an offer to be rejected, and I sacrificed a stall at the theatre without hesitation. When we arrived there we found Rachel alone. Immediately that the first civilities were over she jumped up and told Charpentier he must give her his opinion on a bonnet she had just bought, and, with a charming 'vous permettez ne'st ce pas?' to me, she vanished, and returned with the bonnet on her head. I thought I never saw a more fascinating woman, as she held the strings under her chin, and held her little head up to be criticised.— What Balzae was fond of describing as les chatteries de femme, the cat-like grace and egotistic softness which distinguished some women, Rachel had in perfection. For some time her talk was millinery, and nothing else. On this subject she was voluble and earnest ; a woman, in short. I remember feeling that I cut a very poort figure all this while ; for, not being a Frenchman, I had neither knowledge of details nor opinion respecting ensembles, so was forced to play dummy—which is not an exhilerating part, especially when you have been introduced to a charming woman as a literateur distingue (one is always distingue unless celebre), and desire to produce a favourable impression. She perceived at a glance that I knew nothing of such matters, and took no notice of me as long as they 'talked chiffons.' I repaid myself by noticing her. It was singular how a face so very common in its elements, a mere little Jewish physiognomy, if you considered the details, became positively beautiful when animated. Still more singular was it that a girl, picked up from the streets, so to speak, should at once have acquired the utmost drawing-room elegance. If the reader has seen her play Lady Tartuffe, the only modern part she played, he will probably remember the drawing-room grace of her manner. It was this, reduced to drawing-room proportions, of course, which I remarked when, quitting the millinery, she sate down, and began to talk of England, the theatre, Jules Jamin (who was then plaguing her life with irritating, because unanswerable, objections), and the Exposition. Other visitors dropped in, and the conversatioin became general. When I took leave, she begged me to come and see her again before returing to England ; but I never did, for I felt that I should see nothing more. The impression she produced on me was that of a woman with a wonderful temperament, very little intelligence, very little sympathy, and irresitably fascinating manners."

MATERIAL FOR INTERNAL DECORATION.—A correspondent of the Builder suggests that the agates, and other similar stones, found upon the sea beach and in gravel, might, by the aid of steam, be cut and polished at an expense small enough to admit of their being used, set in cements, after the manner of mosaic, as a facing either for walls or entablatures.

THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL 187

[column 1] were they in the bright schemes they projected, that I dared not dispel the charm.

"As Emily's malady was rather seated in the entrance of the throat than the lungs, her oice was not affected; but rather acquired, as the never-ceasing hectic wore he away, a tone more silvery than usually belongs to humanity. Indeed, with her pure complexion and beautiful colour, the diamond clearness of her eyes, her delicate frame and musical tones, she seemed like those embodyings of nature's fairest proportions, imagined by the painter and the poet in their highest strivings after an ideal.

"From the strength with which Emily still conversed, and even walked, I was far from fearing an immediate dissolution. Collingwood was with us one beautiful and mild summer evening, and was again speaking with enthusiasm of his approaching expedition. Emily scarcely spoke, but listened with a placid smith to his glowing narrative. At intervals we had looked out upon the still, blue vault of the skies, with its thousand lights. A pause ensued in the conversation, while everyone glazed steadily on one large star, shining brilliantly alone. Suddenly the star dipped beneath a dark cloud. Arthur, at that moment, felt a strong convulsive pressure from the hand of Emily, which he held in his own, and looked her eagerly in the face. My attention was also arrested. Emily's eyes were upraised, her lips unclosed, and there was a slight apparent struggle of suffocation. Water was immediately sprinkled on her face, her temples chafed and perfumes employed. But she moved not, breathed not. I applied my hand to her pulse, and instead of regular beating, it vibrated like the loosened chords of a musical intrument. Poor Emily was no more."

APPROACH OF DEATH.—An article on "Death," in the New Cyclopoedia, has the following:—"As life approaches extinction, insensibility suervenses ; a numbness and disposition to repose, which does not admit of the idea of suffering. Even in those cases where the activity of the mind remains to the last, and nervous sensibility would seem to continue, it is suprising how often tehre has been observed a state of happy feeling on the approach of death. 'If I had strength to hold a pen, I would write how easy and delightful it is to die,' were the last words of the celebrated William Hunter, during his last moments. Montaigne, in one of his eassays, describes an accident which left him so senseless that he was taken up for dead. On being restored, however, he says, 'Methought my life only hung on my lips, and I shut my eyes to help thrust it out, and took a pleasure in languishing and letting myself go.' A writer in the Quarterly Review records that a gentleman who had been rescued from drowning, declared that he had not experienced the slightest feeling of suffocation. The stream was transparent, the day brilliant, and as he stood upright, he could see the sun shining through the water, with the dreamy consciousness that his eyes were about to be closed on it for ever. Yet he neither feared his fate nor wished to avert it. A sleepy sensation, which soothed and gratified him, made a luxurious bed of a water grave."

A CHILD'S FAITH.—In the Highlands of Scotland there is a mountain gorge twenty feet in width and two hundred feet in depth. Its perpendicular walls are bare of vegetation, save in their crevices, in which grow numerous wild flowers of rare beauty. Desirous of obtaining specimens of these mountain beauties, some scientific tourist once offered a Highland boy a handsome gift if he would consent to be lowered down the cliff by a rope, and would gather a little basket full of them. The boy looked wistfully at the money, for his parents were poor ; but when he gazed at the yawning chasm, he shuddered, shrunk back, and decline. But filial loe was strong within him, and after another glance at the gifts and the terrible fissure, his heart grew strong, his eyes flashed, and he said : "I will go, if my father will hold the rope!"

And then, with unshrinking nerves, check unblanched, and heart firmly strong, he suffered his father to put the rope about him, lower him into the wild abyss, and to suspend him there while he filled his little basket with the coveted flowers. It was a daring deed, but his faith in the strength of his father's arm, and the love of his father's heart, gave courage and power o perform it.

LOVE is like a diamond with flaws in it ; it is precious, but imperfect.

[column 2] HEARING THROUGH THE THROAT — "Notes and Queries relates that a friend, who is so utterly deaf as to be almost beyond relief from any of the mechanical inventions now in use for the aid of persons afflicted with deafness, walked into a chapel and took his seat on one of the open benches. He heard nothing of the sermon then there delivered, until, from mere listlessness, he placed the rim of the crown of his hat in his mouth, when he heard distinctly. He has frequently repeated the experiment in the presence of the writer, with the same result : and where the opportunity is offered him, he places his hate between his lips, and carries on a conversation, speaking in the usual way, and hearing as described. The experiment has been made with many deaf persons, and generally with success. The "query" is : Is it the open mouth, or has the vibration of sound on the hat any thing to do with the effect produced? Look on a crowd of listeners, eager to catch the voice of the speaker—they sit with open mouth : "With locks thrown back and lips apart," "in listening mood," etc., is the poet's description of the "Lady of the Lake." It is almost impossible to make use of the hat as an auricle ; but it may be that if science would apply its efforts to hearing through the throat, following nature as a guide, more would be done for the sorest ecil that can afflict humanity than has yet been effected. "The obstructed path of sound" may, perhaps, be uniformly reached in this way.

It is a familiar fact that sound is conveyed to the sense of hearing through the medium of the teeth. A striking experiment of this may be made in the following manner: Take a bar of steel, of convenient weight and size (say a steel poker(, suspend it by a string, hold the end of the string between the teeth, and put your fingers to your ears. Then let the steel strike against the fender, or the grate, and you will hear a ringing clang, like that of a deep-toned church bell.

Col. —, of New York city is one of the deafest men we ever saw, excepting of course, the deaf and dumb. But he is passionately fond of music, and strnage as it may appear to the reader, there is nothing that he more enjoys than a concert. We have seen him listening enraptured, not only over performances upon the piano, but quartettes, and other concerted music, it which stringed and wind intstruments have parts.

The process by which he does this is exceedingly simple. The Colonel stands by the side of the piano during the performances, holding between his teeth one end of a pine stick, the other end of which rests upon the sounding-board of the instrument ; and is thus enabled to enjoy the music as keenly as any of the rest of the party. And, what may be considered the most remarkable feature of the exhibition, it is a fact, that by this process the deaf man can hear the performance, even when there is no part for the piano and the other instruments, while the latter are sounding, and the harmony is conveyed to the sense of hearing by the simple medium we have described.—N. O. Picayune.

AN OLD COIN.—The Wilson (N. C.) Ledger tells the following of an old coin ploughed up in a field near Rocky Mount, Nash Co., N. C. :

It purports to have been coined in the year 734, A. D. Two lions, with extremely curly tails, occupy opposite angles on the one side, while the corresponding angles are filled with altars. This side is similar to the old Spanish pistareen. On the other side we have every conceivable mark and sign. Two pillars surmounted by two somethings with the figure 8, shockingly executed, intervening. Beneath the 8, and paralell with the base of the pillars, are the letters P. V.—then follows the date of its coinage, as before stated. We think, with others who have devoted some degree of attention to such matters, that it is a Spanish coin and as the jewellers say, of the purest gold. Its worth by weight is about seventeen dollars. This is the oldest known coin now in possession of any living mortal, as the oldest coin in the Duke of Richmond's famous collection only dates back to 922, A. D.

BUNKER HILL RELICS.—One of the places in England just visited by the Hon. R. C. Winthrop, was the old Chapter House of the Chester Cathedral, which is now the library ; and here he saw two standards, somewhat tattered and torn, suspended over the doors. On enquiry, he was told that they were the standard of the Cheshire regiment, and that they were used in America, at a certain battle called Bunker's Hill : where it was said only three of this regiment escaped without injury of some sort. The keeper said it was understood that the Americans got behind some sort of a fence or hedge, where they could shoot others without being hit themselves!

[column 3] ARE BABIES TO BE TAUGHT TO WALK?—We copy the following from the Southern Medical and Surgical Journal :

"People talk about 'teaching babies to walk;' but babies do not need teaching, for they will be sure to get up and walk when their legs are strong enough, and it does them harm to do so before ; in this as in very many other things, babies would be all the better for being left to themselves. But this does not suit some mothers, who are in a hurry to see their children walk ; such mothers cannot rest content without putting their children into leading-strings, or go-carts, or leading them with the hand. All that they generally get for their pains is the sight of their children's bandy legs and crooked ankles, caused by being forced to talk before their time. Who would be a baby?

"But though a baby should not be hurried in walking, it should be allowed to keep moving all day long, while it is awake, for the limbs cannot get strong unless they are used. The best plan is, to put a piece of soft matting and a piece of carpet on the floor, and put baby down upon them to stretch, roll, and tumble about like other young creatures. If it has a ball or a rag doll to crawl about after, it will be 'as happy as the days are long,' and will besides, be very little trouble, and be making its limbs strong, ready to walk by-and-by. It is a great pity to accustom a baby to be nursed, for it only does it harm, and gives the mother a world of trouble in the bargain. In the summer, it is a good plan to spread the matting and carpet on the grass in the garden, and put baby down on them, to use its limbs in the pure air and light. In short, wherever it is, and whatever it does, it should keep moving all the time. The birds, the beasts, the fish, and the creeping things are scarcely ever five minutes together in the day-time. Moving brings life and health to all things, babies among the rest."—Ranking's Abstract.

THE LONDON TIMES OFFICE.—Mr. Story, son of one of the proprietors of the Rochester Democrat, writes to that paper an account of his visit to the office of the London Times. We copy a portion of his narrative :

"One of the most interesting and novel departments of the establishment is that in which the stereotyping process is carried on. You know, perhaps, already, that every number of the Times is printed from stereotype plates, thus saving a great part of the wear and tear of the type. The sterotype plate is taken from the 'form' in three minutes, by a new process, invented by a Swiss, and known only to him. A thin layer of soft and damp papier maché first receives the impression of the type, and after it has been hardened by the application of heat, the melted lead is poured on, which is to fom the stereotype plate. The papier maché has the power of resisting the action of the melted lead, and comes out of the fiery trial uninjured, and almost unscortched.

"The plates are re-melted every day after the issue of the day is printed from them, and the waste of typemetal from the day to day is very slight. By this power of multiplying the number of form from which the same side of the paper can be printed the Times can use three or four presses at once, and thus print its 59,000 copies, on an emergency, in two hours' time. The Times employs in its establishment some 350 persons. It has eighteen reporters at the Houses of Parliament, and for these, as well as the majority of its compositors, the working hours are the night hours, exclusively It owns four cabs, which are employed solely in carrying reporters and reports at night to and fro between Printing-House Square adn the palace at Westminster. The reporters relieve each other at the Houses every quarter hour, and thus, though the debate in the Commons last till four o'clock in the morning, the Times give it in full by sunrise, though it cover two whole pages of the journal."

OYSTERS..—Regarding oysters, these delightful esculents enter so largely into the comforts and happiness of life, that a word in the praise may nt be amiss. No entertainment is complete without oysters. Men bet oysters; women dote upon oysters; children cry for oysters. Before the sotening influence of oysters, human austerity bends, and kindness irradiates features before dark with clouds. Their odour is as grateful to the nostrils as the odour of virtue is to the inward sense ; we inhale the steamy and savoury effluence from the kitchen as a harbinger of pleasant tastes ; fancy burns in anticipation of fancy roasts, or indulges in stupendous imaginings of stews, and poesy winds its shell—an oyster shell.—in sounding the praise of oysters.

A DEVOTED Christian woman was instructing her little nephew in serious things, and showed him a picture in Fox's Book of Maryrs, where Christians were being torn in pieces by lions in the ampitheatre. THe child looked on for some time in silence and evident sympathy, when all of a sudden he exclaimed, "See that poor little lion; he can't get any!"

190 THE COURANT A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.

some of these personal" attacks to be answered in another place than the columns of a newspaper. But I take it that they are not so answered, because some hody concerned feels the absurdity of having duels about n mere piece of newspaper criticism.

I want the Mercury to acknowledge that Dr. SiMs is fair object for criticism. If his works enjoy immunity, why not all the works in the world? If do not admire Dr. S1MMs' writings, have not, 88 A citizen, and particulnrly as editor, the right to shew my reasons, and get something like a respectful answer if any body differs with me on the point? If Simms write very ill-natured and utterly indefensible piece of abuse against EDGAR A. POE. is it not just to say that SiMMs did so because POE had severely reviewed him? If not, why say so of Mr. OVERALL? SIMMS' notice of OVERALL was simply insolent : POE's notice of SIMMS is so just that no man who knows any thing about the subject can deny it. The rule fails again to work both ways: all of OVERALL's critiques come from his spite and revenge, they say, for the old review; but now they will be very apt to say that SIMMS' mention of POE contained no spleen at all ; and immediately will appear in the Charleston papers long articles of simple assertion and wild indignation, without a sign of an argument. Save us from the anonymous style of criticism! The Oak-Vale Correspondence, this summer, regarded for two weeks as a piece of irony, full as it was of the hyperbole of praise of myself and the section of country where I live, and in the true newspaper style, asserting all good for me, and asserting all evil for Dr. SIMMs and the low-country. Let a critic come out with his name to the article--neither side can tell what to make of some of these anonymous contributions--as in the case of the Oak-Vale letter: at first suspected that it was written by an enemy, while the truth was, it came from well-meaning but not very discreet friend.

Now, will the Mercury give any body the credit of calmly coming to the conclusion against SIMMS honestly, as that editor might against LOWELL, or as I might against SIGOURNEY? If so, do let this absurd controversy cease; and beseech the editor of the Mercury, who I know is a gentleman and a man of sense, not to attribute every thing written against Dr. SIMMS as the prompting of private malice. No decent man would stoop 80 low, and the world is not so bad, after all: I cannot believe that malice is the source.

As to Dr. SIMMS' not being engaged in this controversy, contemporary must have forgotten the Sonnet published in the Field and Fireside, a production which one of our country exchanges pronounces almost Byronic"

From the Field and Fireside.

SONNET. BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS,

--" The little dogs, How they bark at me."--KtNG LEAR.

I've roused the kennel ! They are at my heels, The whole cur rabble the promiscuous packSneak, Skunk, and Scurril, dogs of low degree, Who think my shadow much too large for me! One growls, one yelps, another squeaks or squeals--- Well, with such venom, that in teeth they lack, A stick, a stone, would send them howling back, But where the profit? "Twere but loss of time, And he who hath his goal in sight---such goal As rouses all that's God-like in the soul--- Who sees his temple, with its towers sublime, High, in the distance, with great dome and arch, Looking fond welcome, urging him to march--- Hath little need to chafe in heart or mind, Content to leave the curs s0 far behind!"

This is highly complimentary to all who find themselves compelled, as critics, to speak severely of the DocTOR; sneak, gkunk and scurril " the reader must be puzzled to see how he could huve condescended to throw back the stick, or stone which would have sent " them howling back.' We only allude to this to correct the mistake of our contemporary. Dr. Simms has entered it, and has insulted, not only ins intellectual equals, but men who rank very far ahead of him in letters. After all, if he writes for the Public, he must submit to the judgment of the Public, and it will not do to undertake to muzzle public opinion by anonymous contributions, which, in default of argument, fill up a column with invective.

I, the chief-editor of this paper, have written thus much, to state clearly my own position in publishing the article of Justitia." I desire that Mr. OVERALL shall have a fair hearinghe has been loaded with insinuations of all kinds as to low and mean motives in his reviews of SIMMS, and in allowing others the use of his columns. He has a perfect right to review SIMMS, or any other author; most certainly, if SIMMS, as editor, found it his right to review, OVERALL, as editor, must have the same. Why charge malice and low motives, because one finds fault? Why should not OVERALL charge base truckling to get into SIMMs' favour, in the case of all who have been praising Dr. SIMMS in Charleston ?

I do hope that this affair will be put a stop to. Unfairness of the Charleston press to OVERALL chiefly induces me to publish the article of "Justitia." I know Mr. OVERALL; he may feel resentment for the old injuries, but he is not the man to bring his personal pique into his newspaper. It is gratuitous assumption to say that he did, and for one, I do not

believe it of him, nor of any other honourable man. The thing is preposterous. He found fault with Dr. SIMMS, as people have done with WORDSWORTH and TENNYSON, and all other authors, because he regitl'ded Dr. SIMMS as an offender against the established Jaws of criticism. H. H. C.

"Lizzie Petit."

We do not see why the Northem papers are making such loud lamentations upon the news that this gifted lady is going on the stage. Should she become as distinguished as CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN or Mrs. MOWATT or JULIA DEAN, we rather think it would be a matter for congratulation: that she has histrionic abilities is to be pre-supposed, as she is a woman of sense, 11nd would scarcely take such a step without some good reason.

"A young and charming Southern belle and authoress, whose works were published a year or two since, by the APPLETONS, contemplates, it is rumoured, making her debut on the stage, before a New York audience, some time during the present autumn. We regret,that she should forsake the pleasant, 11,nd, to her, familiar paths of literature for the thorny and unknown walks of the drama. But we venture to predict that the laurel wreath is now growing that will crown her brow, which-ever profession she may pursue."

So wails our contemporary of the Home Journal.

" Charles B. Fairbanks,

"Author of' Aguecheek'-a volume from which we made sun­dry extracts a few weeks since-died recently in Paris," says the Home Journal. His death is the more to be lamented, inasmuch as he gave great promise of future success in literature. His writings have been much p.dmired for their clearness and chasteness; his mind was preeminently quick in appreciation of any thing good or beautiful.

For the Courant.

Threads Gathered from the Web of Life,

BY MAUD IRVING,

FRIENDSHIP.

What is life worth without friendship ? We all need it, all desire to possess it, and are miserable and unhapy without it. If there be aught that dieth not,, 'tis deep, true friendship--immortal as the soul. We all need a dear, confiding friend, on whose faithful bosom we can lay our weary head, and confide the story of our present joys and sorrows, and the hopes of our future.

When we grow weary of the strife and turmoil of busy life, it is sweet to hold communion with a loving and kindred spirit; one who can weep with us in sorrow, and rejoice with us in joy; a whole-souled, true-hearted, sympathising friend. Not the summer friends that round us gather, and lay their offering on friendship's holy shrine, while prosperity surrounds us. Ah, no! no holy ties of friendship bind their hearts to ours. They are like the summer flowers, that bloom in their exquisite fragrance and beauty as long as the warm sun sheds its genial rays, and the refreshing summer showers bedew them with new life and beauty, But, when the sun no longer sheds his life­giving rays, and the refreshing showers cease to fall, and the cold, bleak winds of winter sweep rudely past, they bow their heads, and we see them no more. So with the friends of a day ; their willing offering is laid upon the shrine of friendship while prosperity sheds her beaming light, but when misfortune casts her dark shadow across our path, then where are the friends of a day? They, like the flowers, are withered by misfortune's blast, and in their weakness, they bow their heads, and are seen no more.

True friendship never dies; 'tis like the ever-green tree, that grows the brighter by exposure to the rude winds of winter. When trouble, anxiety, and perplexity surround us, the true and sympathising friend is found ready to deny himself or herself any thing to contribute to the happiness of the loved one.

Friendships, when formed in early youth, are lasting. After long years of separation, friend of friend looks back. to the days they spent in each other's society, with pleasurable emotions, and feel as if their youthful days had again returned; but, as if suddenly awakened from a pleasant dream, they find themselves surrounded by the stern realities of life.

Death may mark a dear and faithful friend as his victim, and rudely snatch him from our side, and tear him from our bosom, as he breaks a link in the chain of early love, and plucks a bright and blooming flower from the wreath of early friendship. The soft and gentle beams of that mild and loving eye may be for ever dimmed and darkened, the sunny smile that played around the lips of the loved one, may be for ever chilled, the form that to us was so dear, may be laid low in the cold embrace of dreamless rest, in the deep, dark grave. But why mourn for the one we love? What though our wreath of friendship be broken? he has gone to a happier home in "the better clime," where sorrow can not come, and where hopes a.re never blasted. Our wreath will bloom again, our broken chain will be re-united, when we have crossed the dark stream of death.

BEULAH.---The Philadelphia Bulletin of last Saturday evening has the following commendation of Miss EVANS' last book: "The name of the author of this volume is new to us, but she will make it well and favourably known to the world. Her book if it is a maiden effort, is a remarkable one, and in any case it is an excellent one. The story, simply as a story, is one of well-sustained interest, with carefully drawn characters and animated, easy dialogue. But she aims and accomplishes something beyond this. She has studied and thought much on theological and philosophical subJects, and she carries several of her characters through the stage; of doubt that so often embarrass young minds, into a state of healthy, happy faith in sound religion. A little diffusivness of style may be excused where there is so much to admire, and there is really so much of the latter that we can heartily recommend the story as one of the best and most, instructive that has lately appeared.

THE Evening Post has been shown a curious book of Latin, printed in Germany in 1703, entitled Nugre Venales, filled with jests, epigrams and humourous poems. Among the poems is one entitled Pugna Porcorum, per publium Percium, poetam, or "The Battle of the Pigs, by Publius Porcus, poet," consisting of about three hundred lines, every word in which begins with the letter p. The poem bears this motto:

Perlege porcorum pulcherrima praelia, potor; Potando poteris placidam proferre poesin.

Of course the battle described is imaginary, like the War of the Cranes and Pigmies. or the Battle of the Frogs and Mice. If the poet had lived in our day he might. have immortalized himself as the poet of the great Battle of the Pigsties, which the police and the Paddies are now waging so fiercely. The Post can conceive of nothing but German patience and labour capable of producing such a prodigy of alliteration as the poem in quest.ion.

DID MAHOMET BELIEVE 1N H1MSELF?--However strange it may appear, the heavenly origin of his revelations, obtained though they were from such infallible and imperfect sources, appears to have been believed by Mahomet himself. It would be against the analogy of his entire life to suppose a continuing sense of fraud---a consciousness that the whole was a fabrication of his own mind---an impious assumption of the name of the Almighty. Occasional tloubts and misgivings, especially when he first submitted to Jewish prompting, there may have been: but a process similar to that by which he first assured himself of his own inspiration, would quickly put them to flight. The absence of spiritual light, and of opportunities for obtaining it, which excused this marvellous self-deception in the early prophetical life of Mahomet, can not be pleaded for his latter years. Ignorance was no longer then involuntary, The means of reaching a truer knowledge lay plentifully within his reach. But they were not heeded; or rather they were deliberately rejected, because a position had already been taken up from which there could be no receding without disrespect and inconsistency. The living inspiration of God vouchsafed to himself was surely better and more safe than the recorded revelation of modern prophets: it was, at any rate, incomparably more authoritative than the uncertain doctrines deduced from them by their erring adherents. Thus did ignorance become wilful. Light was at hand; but Mahomet preferred darkness. He chose to walk "in the glimmerings of his own fire, and in the sparks which he had kindled."---Muir's Mahomet.

From the Charleston Courier.

Carolina in the Olden Time,

EDtTORS COURIER:-This little work, of which we see a favourable notice by Judge John Belton 0'Neall, in a letter to the Newberry Sun, is from the pen of a talented lady of our city, who, though an octogenarian in age, appears to be still young, or unsenescent in mind. Though it has more the character of a domestic, or family chronicle, than of a public history, 1t 1s both mterestmg and valuable, from the simple and pleasing pictures "in little "-which it presents of the primitive manners and social habits of our colonial ancestors or of the hearty, hospitable, and good plain folks of "the olden time." It is, however, principally occupied with an account of the family and descendants of the venerable Land­grave Smith, who was the only one among the Provincial nobility created under the constitution of Mr. Locke-whose genealogical tree took root and flourished in our ungenial soil; and which in spite of its exotic character and the crowding native growth by which it was surrounded-continued to bear fruit, and still does so, as is sufficiently shewn by the little work we are noticing, as it is a windfall from one of its winter-green, and yet widely spread and ever-extending branches.

Having received, as we have mentioned the commendation of a judge, who has been accustomed to do Justice, an "expression of our own favourable opinion of it" would be a mere "ditto to Mr. Burk_e;" and we, therefore, refer to it chiefly for the purpose of callmg attention to the fact that it forms the only authentic memorial that we have of one of the early benefactors of the State, or of the individual, to whom it owes the introduction of the rice culture: the first, and long the most enriching of our Southern staples. The precise locality, also, in which this literally golden grain was first planted, is indicated, and authentically stated by our authoress, to have been in a small patch, or lot, of low ground in the rear of the Land­grave's residence on the north corner of East Bay and what is now known as Longitude Lane. He has, however, met with the usual fate of those who confer, or are selected by Heaven to confer,. benefit on their species-neither the place of his birth or hie burial being now known, except to his descendents, and those who have read the pages of the "Octogenarian Lady."*

It would be well, we think, if this spot were signalized by a monument to his memory, which might be raised either by the rich planters of our lower country, or the State itself: though its utilitarian enterprises and speculations leave it in general, but little to spare for the payment of mere debts of gratitude.

CULTOR.

* His tomb-stone, broken and fallen from its place, is now lying on the grond, on the plantation which he settled and long cultivated, on back River, in St. John's Parish, where it will probably soon be boned in the grave it was intended to mark and protect.

THE COURANT A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 191

THE SONG OF THE BACCHANTE.

BY FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN.

I. Bacchus and I were intimate friends, When earth was damasked with blooms of youth, Together we roamed to its utmost ends, We drank by the shores of the Persian Seas: We reeled over sun-lighted Indian slopes, And under the shadows of gum-dropping trees We pictured a Future of golden hopes, Singing Bacchus ! sweet Bacchus ! Let all who hear us follow! Bacchus ! Io Bacchus ! Echo hill-echo hollow !

II. Like a rose faint-flushed was his skin so fair, And round as a rose-bud his perfect shape, And there lay a light in his tawny hair Like sun in the heart of a bursting grape, I loved him madly-he loved me too; Together we drank of his wondrous wine; But better, far better, the purple dew When kissed from his lips as they clung to mine. Singing Bacchus! dear Bacchus! Sweet night to day doth follow! Bacchus ! Io Bacchus ! Whisper hill-whisper hollow!

III. I drank from no mouldy flask, not I! Couched on a tressel of sweet-smelling pines, All the day long on my back I'd lie Under a heaven of pendulous vines. Bacchus leaned lovingly over, and bruised Bunch after bunch till the grape-blood Blood fell— that as through his fingers it oozed, Changed into wine through some mystical spell. Singing Bacchus ! great Bacchus.! Bid us no more to follow. Bacchus! Io Bacchus! Slumber hill—slumber hollow.

IV. Thus we trooped into god-loving Greece, Dancing down by Achaian rills, Swinging our magical goblet of Peace, Shaped in the heart of the Lydian hills. Our altars smoked on a thousand isles, Our praise was hymned on the Tuscan shore, And lapped in welcome, and sunned in smiles, Our days were golden for evermore ! Singing Bacchus ! god Bacchus! The eager nations follow! Bacchus! Io Bacchus! Thunder hill-thunder hollow !

INTERESTING ITEMS.

ART OF LEISURE NEARLY LOST —Adam Bede says: "Surely all other leisure is hurry compared with a sunny walk through the fields from 'afternoon church'—as such walks used to be in those old leisure times, when the boat, gliding sleepily along the canal, was the newest locomotive wonder; when Sunday-books had most of them old brown leather covers, and opened with remarkable precision always in one place. Leisure is gone—gone where the spinning-wheels are gone, and the pack-horses, and the slow wagons, and the peddlers who brought bargains to the door on sunny afternoons. Ingenious philosophers tell you, perhaps, that the great work of the steam-engine is to create leisure for mankind. Do not believe them ; it only creates a vacuum for eager thought to rush in. Even idleness is eager now—eager for amusement: prone to excursion-trains, art museums, periodical literature, and exciting novels: prone even to scientific theorizing, and cursory peeps though microscopes. Old Leisure was quite a different personage; he only read old newspapers innocent of leaders, and was free from that periodicity of sensations which we call post-time. He was a contemplative, rather stout gentleman, of excellent digestion—of quiet perceptions, undiseased by hypotheses; happy in his inability to know the cause of things, preferring the things themselves. He lived chiefly in the country, among pleasant seats and homesteads, and was fond of sauntering by the fruit-tree wall, and scenting the apricots when they were warmed by the morning sunshine, or of sheltering himself under the orchard boughs at noon, when the summer pears were falling. He knew nothing of week-day services, and thought none the worse of the Sunday sermon, if it allowed him to sleep from the text to the blessing—liking the afternoon service best, because the prayers were the shortest, and not ashamed to say so ; for he had an easy, jolly conscience, broad-backed like himself, and able to carry a great deal of beer or port-wine---not being made squeamish by doubts and qualms and lofty aspirations. Life was not a task to him, but a sinecure ; he fingered the guineas in his pocket, and ate his dinners, and slept the sleep of the irresponsible ; for had he not kept up his character by going to church on the Sunday afternoons? Fine old Leisure! Do not be severe upon him, and judge him by our modern standard; he never went to Exeter Hall, or heard a popular preacher read ' Tracts for the Times,' or 'Sartor Resartus.' "

BOY-LOVE.—The passion of love in boys bears about the same relation to genuine love that green fruit does to ripe. Women of a little experience soon learn that it is not quite safe to trust boys with the secrets of their hearts, as they are apt both to misinterpret and misrepresent any little freedom of manners. At this period, the imagination is morbid from weakness and inexperience ; and a proneness to boast of what their vanity construes into advances on the part of ladies is among the least ill consequences of flirting with boys.

THE world caresses the rich, however deficient in intellect or morals, and avoids the poor man of merit, in the threadbare coat.

ART OF LOVE-LETTERS ON THE DECLINE.—A London journal, crticising a new volume entitled "Love-Letters of Eminent Persons," says:

"Love-letters will soon be reckoned as belonging to the curiosities. of literature, and classed with the productions of bygone times, like chivalry and the troubadours, and with them disappear for ever. It, therefore, behooves us to cherish these real gems of epistolary literature, and place them in a casket by themselves. Of all the varieties into which epistolary correspondence may be divided, the greatest and widest interest attaches to what are termed love-letters. From the perusal of letters written in the intimate confidence a tender passion excites—where truth is, or ought to be, the basis of all that is penned—we get a better insight into the character of a person than we can possibly obtain from letters written in the course of duty or friendship. In the seven bulky volumes which constitute the correspondence of Lord Nelson, the letters addressed to Lady Hamilton, the hero's 'Guardian Angel,' are, beyond all comparison, the most attractive and interesting. Napoleon, amid scenes of carnage, could abstract himself from the horrors around him, and sit down and pen those tender, playful epistles to Josephine, which excite our smiles, and make us forget the soldier in the husband. No sooner is the battle lost and won, and the shout of victory raised, than a missive of congratulation, void of all the pomp and circumstance of war, is dispatched to the dear ones at home, without whose sympathy the hardest won victory would be barren. Napoleon greets Josephine from Marmirolo, and sends a kiss to his wife's lapdog. Nelson batters Copenhagen, and—composes verses to Emma, his 'Guardian Angel.' Herein love, the great leveller, places the drummer-boy on a par with his general, and forecastle- Jack on a footing with his admiral."

THE SECRET OF lNCOMBUSTIBILITY.—ln February, 1677, an Englishman, of the name of Richardson, came to Paris, and gave some very curious performances, which proved, according his statement, his incombustibility. He was seen to roast a piece of meat on his tongue, light a piece of charcoal in his mouth by means of a pair of bellows, seize a bar of red-hot iron in his hand, or hold it between his teeth. This Englishman's servant published his master's secret, which may be found in the Journal des Sciences. In 1809, a Spaniard, of the name of Leonetto, gave performances at Paris. He also handled a bar of red-hot iron with impunity, passed it through his hair, or stepped upon it ; drank boiling oil, plunged his finger into melted lead, put some on his tongue, and ended his performances by licking a piece of red-hot iron. This extraordinary man attracted the attention of Professor Sementrici, who began carefully watching him. The professor remarked the tongue of the incombustible was covered ; with a grey layer, and this discovery led him to try some experiments on himself. He discovered that rubbing in a solution of alum, evaporated to a spongy state, rendered the skin insensible to the action of red-hot iron. He also rubbed himself with soap, and found that even the hair did not burn when in that state. Satisfied with these investigations, the physician rubbed hill tongue with soap and a solution of alum, and the red-hot iron produced no sensation on him. The tongue, thus prepared, could also receive boiling oil, which grew cold, and could then be swallowed. M. Sementrici also detected that the melted lead Leonetto employed was only Arcet's metal, fusible at the temperature of boiling water.—Memoirs of Robert Houdin.

THE MOUSTACHE.—In the reign of Louis the Thirteenth, of France, whiskers (moustaches) attained the highest degree of favour at the expense of the expiring beards. In those days of gallantry, not yet empoisoned by wit, they became the lover's favourite occupation. A fine black moustache, elegantly dyed and turned up, was a powerful recommendation to the favour of the fair sex. They were still in the fashion in the beginning of Louis XIV.'s reign : and this king, with all the great men of his time, took a pride in wearing them. They were consequently the ornament of Turenne, Conde, Colbert, Corneille, Moliere, etc. It was then no uncommon thing for a favourite lover to have his moustaches died, turned up, combed, and dressed by his mistress; and hence a man of fashion took care to be always provided with every little necessary article, especially whisker wax. It was highly flattering to a lady to have it in her power to praise the beauty of her lover's moustache, which, far from being disagreeable, gave his person an air of vivacity ; and several even thought them an incitement to love. But the levity of the French caused several changes both. in their form and name ; there were Spanish, Turkish, guard-dagger whiskers, nay, even royal ones, which were the last worn, the smallness of these proclaiming their approaching fall—Encyclopedia Britannica.

LITERARY MEN AND THEIR WIVES,—do maintain that a wife, whether young or old, may pass her evenings most happily in the presence of her husband, occupied herself, and conscious that he is still better occupied, though he may but speak with her and cast his eyes upon her from time to time; that such evenings may be looked forward to with great desire, and deeply regretted when they are passed away for ever. Wieland, whose conjugal felicity has been almost as celebrated as himself, says in a letter written after his wife's death, that if he but knew that she was in the room, or if at times she stepped in and said a word or two, that was enough to gladden him. Some of the happiest and most loving couples are those who, like Wieland and his wife, are both too fully employed to spend the whole of every evening in conversation.—Sara Coleridge.

OLD MAIDS.—Old maids are, if possible, more laughed at than old bachelors, though I know not with what reason. It is generally supposed that old bachelors are such from choice, while old maids are so from necessity. Public impression is here again at fault, at least in some cases, where women remain single from their own desire. But those who are looked remain single from their own desire. But those who are looked upon as the real old maid, are a class of females who by now means of their own free choice, array themselves in virgin white; but like certain desolate countries in the middle ages, they continue free because no one ever thought them worth the trouble of conquest. They have outlived their time, and, like certain unskilful archers, bent their bow till it broke.

WHEN Dr. Lucas, a very unpopular man, ventured on a speech in the Irish Parliament, and failed altogether, Grattan said: "He rose without a friend, and sat down without an enemy."

THE HON JEREMIAH CLEMENS, of Memphis, Tennessee, and the author of "Bernard Lile," etc., has a new volume in the press of Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, entitled the "The Rivals"— an historical novel relating to the life and times of Aaron Burr. Mr. Clemens was formerly United States Senator from Alabama; but, in connexion with the Hon. Solan Borland, is now editing the Memphis Enquirer.

LADY MORGAN's effects, from carpets and enamels to little legacies given to Lady Caroline Lamb by Lord Byron, and bequeathed or given to the "painted Sydney" by "Lady Caroline" herself, are about to come to the hammer. The sales take place on "Sydney Lady Morgan's premises in London."

THE readers and admirers of that vulgar book "Guy Livingstone," may be interested to learn that the author is engaged in publishing a story in Fraser's Magazine.—Sat. Press.

POWELL, whose picture of the "Discovery of the Mississippi by De Soto," is in the rotunda of the Capitol at Washington has been commissioned by the State of Ohio to paint "The Battle of Lake Erie," for the Capitol of that State.

THE SONG OF "OLD ARM CHAIR."—It is estimated this song, set to music, has cleared the publisher over $200,000. The following receipt shews its original cost: "Received, May 14, 1841, of Mr. Charles Jeffreys, the sum of two pounds two shillings, for copy-wright of words of song written by me, entitled ''l'he Old Arm Chair,' music by Mr. Hine. ELIZA COOK."

The song has since cost a Mr. Kyle, of London, about $10,000, (costs of suit,) in contesting an injunction restraining him from printing and selling it.

AUSTRALIAN FORESTS.—In no part of the world did I ever see such absolute mid-day darkness as occurred in many spots of this forest. Not a ray pierced the dense shade, and the eye ranged through the melancholly colonnades of tall black stems, and along the roof of gloomy foliage, till it was lost in the night of woods—midnight, with the Australian sun at its meridian! We were perhaps the more struck with its peculiarity, because the reverse is the character of the Australian bush: for the foliage of the gum-tree is so thin and so pendulous that when the sun is overhead, one rides almost as though there were no trees. If there is such a thing as a sinumbral tree—a Peter Schlemil of the woods—it is the gum-tree. It was a singular and pretty sight to see, as, we did this day, during one or two momentary bursts of sunshine, large flocks of parrots dart across our path, like a shower of rubies emeralds and sapphires, glittering for an instant in the watery beam, and vanishing as quickly in the gloom of the wilderness.—Travels Abroad.

SOLD.—"A young man from the country" writes to complain that having seen Fowler & Wells' advertisement to the effect that they had on exhibition "the skulls of the most noted men in the world," he went there, and was disappointed in not finding the skulls of Napoleon III., Garibaldi, James Buchanan Edward Everett, Henry A. Wise, E. Meriam, and Horace Greeley.—N. Y. Saturday Press.

THE STOMACH.—I firmly believe that almost every malady of the human framers, either high-ways or by-ways, connected with the stomach. The woes of every other member are founded on your belly-timber ; and I must own I never see a fashionable physician mysteriously consulting the pulse of his patient, but I feel a desire to exclaim, " Why not tell the poor gentleman at once, 'Sir, you have eaten too much ; and you have not taken exercise enough ! ' "The human frame was not created imperfect. It is we ourselves who have made it so. There exists no donkey in creation so overloaded as our stomachs. Head's Bubbles from the Brunnens.

A WRITER in the Atlantic Monthly says: Richard Greenough once told me, that, in studying for the statue of Franklin, he found that the left side of the great man's face was philosophic and reflective, and the right side funny and smiling. lf you will go and look at the bronze statue, you will find he has repeated this observation there for posterity. The Eastern profile is the pourtrait of the statesman Franklin, the Western, of poor Richard.

BEAUTY.—Beauty has been called "the power and arms of woman.'' Diogenes called it "woman's most forcible letter of recommendation." Carneades represented it as "a queen without soldiers," and Theocritus says it is "a serpent covered with flowers ; while a more modern author humorously defines it ''a bait that as often catches the fisher as the fish." Nearly all the old philosophers denounced and ridiculed beauty as evanescent, worthless and mischievous. But, alas! while they preached against it, they were none the less its slaves. None of them were able to withstand "the sly smooth witchcraft of a fair young face.''

"Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, And beauty draws us by a single hair."

A really beautiful woman is a natural queen in the universe of love, where all hearts pay a glad tribute to her reign. But, it is nevertheless true, that the geographical standard of beauty is various and unstable. As Cowley sings:

"Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape, Who dost in every country change thy shape, Here black, there brown, here tawny, and there white."

JUDGE DALY, of New York, in the course of his decision "in the matter of John Snook for a change of name," remarked that the name of Washington was originally "Wessyngton,'' which signifies "a person dwelling on the meadow-land where a creek runs in from the sea."

COQUETTE.—A coquette has been defined a woman who wants to engage the men without engaging herself. She is a composition of levity and vanity, whose chief aim is to be thought agreeable, handsome, and amiable, whether she really is so or not. A witty author compared such a woman to a fire-eater, who makes a shew of handing, and even chewing live coals, without receivmg any danger. She 1s always playing the part of love, without realizing its passion.

THE last words of the Old Testament are a fearful threatening: "Lest I come and smite the earth with a curse." The last words of the New Testament are a benediction: "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.'' coat.

192 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.

For the Courant.

TO FANNY.

The thievish bees, that through the day Despoil the painted flowers— The furtive winds, that steal away The scent from sylvan bowers—

Tho stream, that but a moment sleeps In its inconstant bed— The moon, o'er the moorland creeps With Tarquin's stealthy tread—

All clements, of every kind, That rove with such unrest, Are emblems of tho artfu mind That dwells in FANNY's breast.

THE GOLDEN HORN.—On gala days the unruffled and lucid surface of the Golden Horn is gay with the multitude of boats that are gliding on to the scene of festivity, and tho shores are covered with motley crowds of persons loitering on the way. And then come pouring into the glen richly gilt taalikas, with festooned curtains of bright coloured silk, such as Queen Mab might fancy, drawn by one or two horses, guided by a man walking by the side of the carriage with long reins; fantastic, roomy, springless arabas, containing a dozen persons, drawn by dove-coloured oxen with red trimmings—the tail attached to a piece of bowed wood that is decorated with heavy tassels of red worsted, and, passing over the back, is fastened to the yoke. Frankish men and women on horseback, and occasionally a European carriage, detract from the romance of the scene.

IN matters of conscience, the first thoughts are best; in matters of prudence, last thoughts are best.

THE COURANT

IS PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY, AT Columbia, S. C., BY W. W. WALKER, JR., & Co., AT TWO DOLLARS PER ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.

Rates of Advertising: One square of eight lines, or less, solid Minion, one insertion $1 00. " " " " " " each subsequent " 50. All advertisements from parties at a distance must be paid in advance.

CAROLINA HIGH SCHOOL, Columbia, S, C. PRINCIPALS { A.. B. BRUMBY, A. M.—Latin and Mathematics. J. WOOD DAVIDSON, A. M.—Greek and English. ASSISTANT, T. BEZANCON—Graduate University France—French. Terms $30 per session. May 5, 1859. 1—tf

SOUTH CAROLINA INSTITUTE FAIR. TO be held in Charleston, November 15th, 1859. Competition open to all. Fair for the promotiou of ART, MECHANICAL INGENUITY and INDUSTRY, At their large and commodious Building in the City of Charleston, S. C., commencing on TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 15th, 1859.

Suitable Premiums will be given for the best specimens in Art, Mechanism and other branches of Industry ; also for Cotton, Rice, Sugar, Tobacco, Corn, Wheat, Rye, Oats, Potatoes, and other Agricultural Products.

All Articles entered for Premiums, must be sent in on or before Friday, the eleventh day of November next, and directed to the care of Mr. Thomas Aimar, Clerk of the South Carolina Institute, Charleston. Articles may be sent after that day for EXHIBITION ONLY,

Contributors to the Fair are respectfully requested to send full descriptions of the articles, and such general information as may be of use to the Judges, and suitable for publication. Every attention will be paid to all articles sent for exhibition. Aug. 1859. 16-tf.

SHINGLER BROTHERS, DEALERS in Exchange, Uncurrent Money, Land Warrants, &c. No. 7 Broad Street, Charleston, 8. C. [May 5, 1859. 1-tf

LAGER BEER, (AT THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN BUCK.) WE now inform the citizens of Columbia and the surrounding country, that we are able to supply them with the healthiest LAGER BEER in the world. It is brewed out of malt and hops and mineral spring water. l!'or sale by the barrel, dozen and gallon. Every two hours a small barrel put fresh on draught. JOHN SEEGERS & CO., No 101 Richardson Street. Aug. 11-59. 15-tf.

ALLEN & DIAL, IMPORTERS and Dealers in English and American Hardware and Cutlery, Iron, Steel, Nails, Castings, Mill-Stones, Bolting Cloths, Mill-Irons, Sugar Pans, India Rubber and Leather Belting, Carpenters', Placksmiths' and Tanners' Tools, Housekeeping and Furnishing Hardware, Agricultural Implements, Lime, Cement, Plaster, Paints, Oils, French and American Wmdow GIass, Guns, Rifles, Pistols, Shot-Belts, Powder-Flasks, Powder, Shot, &c.; wholesale or retail; at the sign of the Golden Pad-Lock, Columbia, S. C. J. M. ALLEN. J. C. DIAL. May 19, 1859 3—tf

WEARN & HIX, :No. 170 MAIN STREET, COLUMBIA, S. C., ARE prepared to execute Portraits, from Miniature to Life Size, in all departments of the Photographic Art. The public are invited to call and inspect specimens of the new and beautiful IVORYTYPE. May 5, 1869. 1—tf

THE FOURTH ANNUAL FAIR OF THE State Agricultural Society OF SOUTH CAROLINA, WILL DE HELD AT COLUMBIA, Ou the 8th, 9th, 10th and 11th of November, 1859.

THE Executive Committee of tho State Agricultural Society of South Carolina, beg leave to call the attention of the citizens of South Carolina, and the Southern States, to their approaching Annual Festival. Tho Premium List is a very comprehensive one, and Premiums will be awarded on every article of merit coming within the range of the AGRICULTURAL, HORTICULTURAL, and MECHANICAL Departments, as well as the FINE ARTS, LADIES' FANCY WORK, and DOMESTIC ECONOMY.

In addition to the large and admirably-arranged Halls for the accommodation of Exhibitors, tbc Committee have made other very important improvements, which will add much to the comfort and enjoyment of visitors.

A SPACIOUS AMPHITHEATRE will also be in readiness, to seat some thousands, and add to the interest of the Exhibition. The track for the exercise and display of "fast trotters" has been put in order, and the trotters already entered promise something exciting.

Visitors will be passed over all the Railroads in the State, during the week of exhibition, for one fare. All articles and animals, intended expressly for exhibition, will be passed, (at the owners' risk) over all the Railroads in South Carolina without charge, except the South Carolina Railroad, and Cheraw and Darlington Roads which will demand one-half freight. Visitors should take the precaution to procure Return Tickets when they pay their fare, to avoid embaressment and delay. Exhibitors will please give the Railroad Officers timely notice of such animals and articles as they many wish transported, as well as the time ancl point of delivery.

A. P. CALHOUN, R. HARLEE, D. W. RAY, J. F. MARSHALL J. A. METTS, W. R. ROBERTSON, R. J. GAGE Executive Committee. October 6, 1859, 23—6

FAMILY GROCERIES. J. N. & T. D. FEASTER HAVE on hand, and are still receiving, a choice article of Sugar-Cured Hams, Bacon Strips, Sides and Shoulders, Lard, Goshen and Country Butter, Smoked and Pickled Beef, Pork and Tongues, Mackerel, Salmon, Sbad and White Fish, Extra Family Flour, Rice, Potatoes, Beans, &c., Pickles, Preserves, Spice, Pepper, Ginger and many other articles appertaining to the GROCERY business, which they offer at Low Prices for CASH.

A carefully selected assortment of the best Wines, Brandies, Ale, &c., kept constantly on hand, all of which we Warrant Pure. Give us a trial, and we will endeavor to give satisfaction. Our terms are strictly CASH.

June 30, 1859. 9-tf t

S. G. COURTENAY & CO., No. 9 BROAD STREET, BOOKSELLERS and Stationers, Cheap Publications, Magazines nnd Newspapers. Charleston, S. C. [May 5, 1859 1-tf

URSULINE ACADEMY OF THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION, COLUMBIA, S. C.

THIS Institute has resumed its Academic exercises, in the building lately known as the "AMERICAN HOTEL." It is hoped it will receive the patronage it merits.

TERMS-PER SESSION:

Board and Tuition, including washing, mending, etc., etc., $110

EXTERN	PUPILS	Senior Class,	$30
"	"	Junior Class,	$20
"	"	Preparatory Class,	$16

Languages, Music, Drawing, Painting, Postage, Books, Stationery and Embroidery, form extra charges. Further information may be obtained at the Academy. 22-4 Sept. 29

PAPER COMMISSION WAREHOUSE, AND PRINTERS' DEPOT,

FOR the sale of Writing, Printing, Envelope, and Colored Papers, Cards, and Printing Mitterials of all kinds. Agent for L. JOHNSON & Co., Type Founders, R. HOE & Co., and other Printing Press makers. Printing Inks, of best quality, at Manufacturers' Prices.

TO MERCHANTS.

The subscriber begs to call attention to his Large Stock of Writing and Wrapping Paper of all kinds, which he will sell very low for cash, or short credit on large sums. JOSEPH WALKER, 120 Meeting Street, Charleston, S. C. May, 5, 1859 l—tf

DR. M. GROSS & CO.'S

UNRIVALLED Vegetable Compound, the HYGIENE BITTERS. For sale, wholesale and retail, by JOHN SEEGERS & CO., Agents, Oct. 6, 1859. 23—tf. Columbia, S. C.

TO TRAVELERS,

SCHEDULE OF THE SOUTH CAROLINA RAILROAD. Northern Route,

Stations	D. Trains	N. Trains
Leave Charleston,	10.25 a.m.	8.30 p.m.
Arrive at Kingsville, (Junction of the Wilmington and Manchester Railroad)..	4.50 p.m.	4.40 a.m.
Arrive at Columbia,	6.30 p.m.	6.45 a.m.
Leave Columbia,	5·00 a.m.	1.30 p.m.
Leave Kingsville,	6.45 a.m.	3.30 p.m.
Arrive at Charleston,	1.00 p.m.	11.00 p.m.

Western Route.

Stations	D. Trains	N. Trains
Leave Charleston,	3.43 a.m.	2.30 p.m.
Arrive at Augusta,	1.13 p.m.	8.15 p.m.
Arrive at Charleston,	5.30 p.m.	5.20 a.m.

Through Travel Between Augusta and Kingsville.

Stations	D. Trains	N. Trains
Leave Augusta,	10.10 a.m.	8.15 p.m.
Arrive at Kingsville,	4.50 p.m.	4.40 a.m.
Leave Kingsville,	6.43 a.m.	3.30 p.m.
Arrive at Augusta,	5.30 p.m.	5.20 a.m.

May 5, 1859 1-tf

F. W. HOADLEY, ATTORNEY AT LAW AND SOLICITOR IN CHANCERY, (Formerly of Columbia, S. C.,) LlTTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS.

PARTICULAR attention given to the collection of claims in any part of the State, buying and selling of lands, locating swamps and overflowed lands, entering land at the General Land Offices, and paying taxes on lands in any county in Arkansas . .June 16, 1859 7-ly

F, PATTERSON & CO., WHOLESALE and Retail Dealers in Books, Stationcry, Fancy Goods, Daily and Weekly Newspapers, Magazines, &c. Corner of King and Society Streets, Charleston, S. C. N. B.-Miscellaneous and Mail Orders for Goods, whether in our line or not, promptly attended to. [May 5, 1859. 1-tf

COLUMBIA ATHENAEUM, NO. 194½ RICHARDSON STREET,

LIBRARY contains about 2,800 volumes. Reading Room has on file leading English and American magazines, and newspaper from the principal cities of the Union.

Proprietorship-One Hundred Dollars. . Annual subcription-Fivc Dollars per annum, payable in advance.

The Library and Reading Room are open, daily, from 9, A M., to 1, P. M., from 3 to 5, and from 7 to 10, P. M.

Hon. W. C. PRESTON, Pres't. W. W. WALKER Jr., Secretary. May 19, 1859 3-tf

WOOD, EDDY & CO'S SINGLE NUMBER LOTTERIES! (CHARTERED BY THE STATE OF GEORGIA,)

CAPITAL PRIZE FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS!

Tickets only Teu Dollars!

WOOD, EDDY & CO., MANAGERS. (Successors to S. SWAN & Co.)

THE following Scheme will be drawn by Wood, Eddy & Co., Managers of the Sparta Academy Lottery, in each of their Single Number Lotteries for September, 1859, at Augusta, Georgia, in public, under the superintendence of Commissioners.

Class 36 draws Saturday, September 3, 1859; Class 37 draws Saturday, September 10, 1859; Class 38 draws Saturday, September 17, 1859; Class 39 draws Saturday, September 24, 1859. On the plan of Single Numbers. 50,000 Tickets. Five Thousand Four Hundred and Eighty-Five Prized ! Nearly one prize to every nine Tickets.

Magnificent Scheme, to be Drawn each Sat'y in Sept' r.

1	Prize of	$50,000	1	Prize of	$1,500
1	" "	20,000	50	Prizes of	500
1	" "	10,000	100	" "	400
1	" "	5,000	100	" "	300
1	" "	4,000	100	" "	l50
1	" "	3,000	100	" "	100

Approximation Prizes.

4	Prizes of	$400	Approximating to	$50,000	Prizes are	$1,600
4	" "	300	" "	20 000	" "	1,200
4	" "	250	" "	10:000	" "	1,000
4	" "	225	" "	5,000	" "	900
4	" "	200	" "	4,000	" "	800
4	" "	150	" "	3 000	" "	600
4	" "	100	" "	1:500	" "	400

5,000 Prizes of $20 Prizes are 100,000 _______________________________ 5,485 Prizes amounting to $320,000

WHOLE TICKETS $10; HALVES $5; QUARTERS $2 50. Remember that ev~ry prize in the above Scheme is drawn and payable in full without deduction. ' Certificates of Packages will be sold at the following rates which is the risk : '

Certificates of Packages of 10	Whole	Tickets	$80
" " "	Half	"	40
" " "	Quarter	"	20
" " "	Eighth	"	10

SPARTA ACADEMY LOTTERY. Class No. 513, draws Wednesday, September 28th, 1859, on the Three Number Plan. Seventy-eight Numbers-Fourteen drawn ballots,- Nearly one prize to every two Tickets.

ONE GRAND PRIZE OF $30,000 !

1 Prize of $13,7 421 5 Prizes of $1 500 5 Prize of 2,000 10 " " ' 600 &c., &c., &c., &c., &c.

34,412 PRIZES AMOUNTING TO $567,962 ! Whole Tickets $10; Halves $5; Quarters $2 50.

In ordering Tickets or Certificates, enclose the money to our address for the Tickets ordered, on receipt of which they will be forwarded by first mail.

The List of drawn Numbers and Prizes will be sent to purchasers immediately after drawing.

Purchasers will please write their signatures plain, and give their Post Office, County and State.

All prizes of $1,000 and under, paid immediately after the drawing; other prizes at the usual time of Forty Days.

Notice to Correspondents.

Those who prefer not sending money by mail, can use the Adams Express Company, whereby money for Tickets, in sums of Ten Dollars, and upwards, can be sent us at our risk and expense from any city or town where they have an office. The money and order must be enclosed in a Government Post Office Stamped Envelope or the Express Company cannot receive them.

All communications strictly confidential. Orders for Tickets or Certificates, by mail or Express, to be directed to WOOD, EDDY &CO., Augusta, Georgia, or WOOD, EDDY & CO., Atlanta, Georgia or WOOD, EDDY & CO., Wilmington, Delaware.

A list of the numbers that are drawn from the wheel, with the amount of the prize that each one is entitled to, will be published after every drawing, in the following papers:-Augusta (Ga.) Constitutionalist, Mobile Register, Nashville Gazette, Richmond Dispatch, Pauldmg (Miss.) Clarion, and New York Times.

May 26 1859 4-ly

194 THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.

before I could 'recover it. "Thank God!" I exclaimed, "that trouble's over!" as I once more got upon terra firma. Ascending the hill, I saw a large fire on the road-side. It proved to be the wagoners, going with their cotton to Pensacola. They had encamped by the roadside, feeding their horses in a trough which they carried at the back of the wagon. It made me think of Shakespeare and of Scott ; of Falstaff, Poins, and Hal ; of Effie Deans, and the great north road in England ' but it will be long, thought I, before I see a face as beautiful as I fancy Effie's was, in such a place as this, I saluted them with a "Good night !" and asked if I was in the main road.

"Faith, an' it's mane enough you'll find it! The horses stuck fast five or six times twixt here and the house."

Of all the places in the world to find an Irishman! But I am told you'll find them every where, and I have never failed in any part I have travelled through.

How strange are some of the coincidences of life! I left those men with a mind fully prepared for romance. Still the London road―the London wagons, with their bells―the pretty face of Effie―haunted my imaginatio, and I was vexed wtih the idea that this country was so void of romance, in itself so plain matter-of-fact. There was the wagon, there was the fire, but where was the interesting story connected with them? I had continued in this manner walking and ruminating for some distance, when a light announced that I was approaching another dwelling. Not looking for any much better reception than I had met with at the last house, I walked with some reluctance to the door. I knocked.

"Who's there?" inquired a voice in accents very different from my host of the swamp. It was a woman, and, if I could judge aright, not one of vulgar dialect.

I answered that I was a stranger, who wished to encroach on her hospitality for a night's rest.

"Come in!" was the reply, and there was kindness in the tone of her expression.

I entered. A chair was quickly placed for me by a cheerful fireside, while the smile of welcome seemed to insure comfort while I remained there. I was both wet and cold―tired and vexed at the conduct I had before met with; but my attention was too much taken up with the features and expression of one that sate beside me to feel the inconvenience. It must be nonesense, strange romance, because I had imagined that in so wild a country nothing beautiful could be met with, that in that very spot I should chance to meet a black-eyed girl. I tried to persuade myself that she was not beautiful, and again I turned my eyes from the mother to the daughter. She sate gazing with a look of pity on me; but there was something sublime in her countenance. Her face was perfect in every feature, her colour beautiful, her hair was black―was very black―and her dark, full eye seemed to gaze steadily on me. One eyebrow was slightly elevated with an expression of sympathy, and I forgot my own troubles gazing at her. The mother, however, noticed my wet clothes, and immediately offered to have them dried for me, directing Maria―which was her daughter's name―to order a fire for me in the adjoining room. As she retired, I could not help observing to the mother my astonishment in the wilderness.

"She is very beautiful―very!" I observed. The mother sighed and shook her head.

"Yes, poor girl, she was very beautiful―the pride of all my hopes―all that my wishes could have made her; but , alas! the troubles we have met with, and her unfortunate circumstance―"

Here I found the mother's feelings began to get the better of her. She was in tears. I attempted an apology for my curiosity, which had caused these recollections; and, though anxious to hear about her, was reluctant to hurt their feelings by my inquiry.

"It is seldom that we see any one in this part," observed she, changing the subject. "The country is outlandish, and none but families moving to the western country, or the wagons passing down to the city with their crops, and returning with their mar [COLUMN 2] kets up the country to their homes again, ever call at our house."

"You are very retired here," I observed.

"Yes; that was the reason of our moving into this country. There is indeed, a great difference between Philadelphia and this. "

"Philadelphia!" I observed with surprise.

"Yes, sir; we once lived there―during my husband's life," she continued; "but our family left there on account of untoward events. We once were happy and gay in the midst of our friends; we now live retired, and have fled into the wilderness to avoid the gaze of those whose smiles once were so endearing to us. I do not think that I could literally bear to meet one of those old friends whose memory is so dear to me."

I felt interested in the warmth with which she seemed to speak of days gone by, and could have sate there in my damp clothes listening to her, had not her daughter returned, and, with a smile, told her mother all was ready for me. I now had an opportunity of noticing every thing around me without being observed. The house was simply composed of logs, or, in other words, a log hut; but the furniture, the arrangements, the neatness of the spotless white linen, indicated a family at one time accustomed to comforts, if not to luxuries.

We met at the breakfast-table, and, fortunately for my curiosity, it was rainy weather.

"Have you much such weather here," I asked.

"But seldom," was the answer I received from the mother. The daughter had not spoken. She was polite and attentive; her countenance still bore that plaintive look of sympathy, which added to its natural beauty an enchanting interest; and her black eyes shone with a lovely expression. She gazed at me, and on a sudden burst of tears. Her mother spoke abruptly, requesting her to leave the room. She instantly retired.

"You must excuse her, sir. This is the cause, or, at least, the result, rather, of circumstances whic drove us, as I was telling you last evening, from Philadelphia. Sympathy is dear to a sufferer, and though it cannot remove a grief, has its influence in lightening its sting. We all love to be pitied in our distresse, and I could almost feel inclined to place an embargo on your attention, whilst I relate our past misfortunes. I am sure," added she, "that you will not pretend to start in this weather."

She commenced her story :

"My husband was an officer in the custom-house. We never were wealthy, but our circumstances were far from being straightened. Neither were extravagant ―which you will believe, when I assure you that the whole of what I now possess was saved from our income. That poor girl which you see there, and her sister, were the only children we had, and their education was my greatest pride. I don't think that I can call to my mind any of those troubles which others witness in the earlier years of their children; and it used, in fact, to be remarked that our two girls were the prettiest and best conducted in our neighbourhood. They used to attend their church regularly, and my husband's regualr habits made our home one unvaried scene of happiness and content. It was truly enviable. But we all must see our share of trouble in this world. I know it is sinful to complain, for here we enjoy all the blessings of health―we want for none of the comforts of life― but now and then I look back upon the past, and my spirit seems to murmur, for this is not like the home I left to come here. Many complain of strangers, and object ot placing too much confidence in them; but take my word for it, sir, there is truth in the saying, 'Take care of your friends and your enemies won't hurt you.' It is natural for a man to guard against his enemies, but there are more injuries come from our neighbours and connexions than from any one else. Little did I ever dream that the child of our neighbour―our next door neighbour―whom I had suckled as one of my own, for he was of the same age as my first child, who died when an infant; and I have taken the child and watched him -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- [COLUMN 3] with as much care as if he had been my own. We used to look on him as such; and when some four or five years old, he would come to see his baby-sister, as he called her, when my second child was born, if I but told him she was not his sister, the tears would rise, and the poor little fellow would sob as if his parents had disacknowledged him. When he was nine or ten, the family left the neighbourhood, to retire on a farm which Mr.── had purchased in the vicinity. We saw no more of him for nine or ten years.

"Our daughters, in the meanwhile, were sent to one of the best schools in the city. It was during the Christmas holidays that he returned, and came to see us. If he had been a relation whom we had not seen for many years, there could not have been more pleasure evinced than on his arrival. He was rich and talented, his figure prepossessing. His attentions to our Emma were but little thought of. This poor girl whom you see with me, used to be their constant companion. One evening, when they had walked out together, I was sitting alone in a little back parlour, indulging my imagination with the thoughts of happiness that seemed to glow around me. I had raised, at least in part─had suckled him as my own─and now he was about to be married to our daughter. I heard the front door open very abruptly, I thought; and my husband, for I knew his step, came hurrying along the passage. He called me, not finding me in the front room. I answered him, and he ran hastily up stairs, inquiring for the girls. His countenance told me that he was much agitated. I answered that they had gone out with ──.

"'I'll soon put a stop to that!' he replied, and left the house.

"They returned to supper, cheerful as ever. it was in the spring, and they seemed to me as beautiful as the evening itself. Supper was ready, and I dreaded my husband's approach. There was something wrong, I knew from his manner, and he was sure to return to his supper. We had sate down when he entered. His manner was very cold, and he took no notice of them. We sate down to the table, but he continued pacing the room. The young man asked him, in his usual cheerful tone, to join us.

"'I have sate down at the same table with you for the lasst time,' was his answer; 'and allow me to tell you that I think you would look better by the side of your own wife, at your own home, than sitting there.'

"I dropped my knife and fork with atonishment. Emma gasped for breath. The young man's countenance was red as scarlet.

"'I did not expect this from you, sir,' continued my husband.

"Emma would have fallen to the ground, had not the young man caught her. My husband pushed him aside, desiring him to quit the house, and that for ever. It was a long time before the poor girl recovered. We sate up with her all night. her father seemed much dissatisfied with her, as if she could have known any thing of the circumstances; and I was inclined to think that his harshness towards her was, in a great measure, the cause of her after conduct. Is it not a strange perversion, that what would have been a virute in the poor girl, had his previous conduct been different, was now considered a heinous offence? The first thing she requested, on her recovery, was, that she might be allowed, to see him once more. Her father grew violent. The first breath dishour had not sullied one of his family.

"If virtue but open her door to look out, vice will enter before it can be closed again─will become a familiar─and at length drive the original tenant from her home. All was in vain; what could not be done openly was achieved by stratagem. Long after we had imagined the young man had left the city, she and her sister used to meet him, under the pretence of taking their evening walk. Their father heard of it. He had frequently observed to them the necessity of full and implicit obedience to his injunctions, as the only security for his protection and love; for he could not acknowledge those as children who would not acknowledge him as a father; obedience was the first attribute of a duti

THE COURANT A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL 195 ful child. In the evening of the same day on which he heard of their conduct, he earnestly repeated this remark; it was in vain." Here we were interrupted by a voice singing delightfully, "They are gone, all gone, to the mountain's brow", and executing the latter part of the melody in a most plaintive cadence. I thought the voice beautiful. It was, however, interrupted by an hysteric burst of sobs. "It's only my daughter," observed the mother; "she is often thus. But to continue my story. The next evening they started again, for I was totally ignorant of the fact. My husband was by no means so communicative to me as he might have been, or I would have prevented their going out. Their father came before they got back, and immediately commenced telling the whole affair. He declared, with an oath, they should never darken his door again. He had returned home, he said, by a different route on purpose to meet them. He had heard from a friend which way they usually walked; he had met them, and that villain, too, was with them. "I prayed for them—I entreated; it was to no purpose. On my knees I begged for them in tears. The only answer I received was, that I might go with them, if I wanted to. No—he would not do that, either, he said, for I had never injured him; and he would not allow me, even though they were my own children, to be with such wicked wretches. He embraced me in deep sorrow, and his warm tears trickled down my neck as he declared that I was now his only comfort. when the girls returned they found the door of their home closed against them. They knocked, but no one answered. What would I not have given, had I but dared, to open it! Never, never shall I forget the night I spent. I fancied them at one time wandering the streets, the victims of some dissipitated and drunken wretch, who might be returning homeward from his night's debauch; at another time exposed to the night air, exhausted, hungry and broken-hearted. I woke him. " 'They are not both bad alike,' I said ; ' though Emma has done wrong, her sister is innocent. You might fetch her home ; the night is cold,' and I could say no more; my feelings got the better of me. "'Nonsense—nonsense! they're both alike; don't mention them again,' said he; 'her sister is every bit as bad as she is.' "Our family was ruined ; our happiness, our respectability, gone for ever. I heard no more of them, and if he received letters from them, he never mentioned the subject to me. One Sunday, after church, a gentleman, a perfect stranger, called. at our house. He called, he said, although a perfect stranger, entirely from motives of charity; nor should he have taken the liberty, had he not been requested by our children to do so. My husband turned pale with anger, for although he had in some measure recovered from the misery he had endured on their account, the mention of the subject seemed to revive all his latent anger. He spoke impetuously, assuring the stranger that if his business was connected with them, his room was preferable to his company, adding, 'And you, sir, I presume, are one of the wretches who have added to their infamy !' The stranger looked at him with a calm dignity, and answered in a mild voice: 'l am a clergyman, sir, and consequently dare not, for my character's sake, have undertaken such a trip if my motives were not honourable; and I insist on your hearing me in His name whose servant I am. Your eldest daughter is in Baltimore, where I reside. She is about to be married to Mr. S──, whose wife has obtained a divorce from him. Your youngest daughter I believe is a virtuous girl. A young officer, a friend of Mr. S──, promised to marry her, but has been gone to sea. She is now left unprotected, and it is your duty to save her. If the parent turns his back upon a child, who can he expect to countenance her! She is your daughter still. The mother bird hovers nearest to its nestling when dangers threaten, and rushes even into the serpent's mouth fighting for "With such arguments, and in a good cause, he at last prevailed on my husband to accompany him. Never was I more delighted than whilst preparing his things for him to start─never more eager to get him off. I packed some of the girls' clothes in a trunk with his, and as they were about to start, he noticed the uselessness of taking so many things. I stopped him with an embrace, telling him not to open them until he got there. He smiled as if he understood me. Never was I more willing to part with him─never had I more cause to have mourned. Five days afterwards the clergyman returned alone. He had come, he said, with painful news─I must prepare myself for the worst. On their arrival at Baltimore he called on my daughter, (this one that is here with me,) to tell her that her father was there, and was willing to receive her—that he had been successful in his errand. The young man, however, had returned in the meanwhite, and it was her determination not to leave him. "' Here he is in the other room; you can speak with him,' said she. " ' The young man came out. I knew him, madam,' said the clergyman; 'he was it libertine, a gambler, and a perfect vagabond ; he was no officer. I immediately left the room, and went down to your husband, informing him of the whole affair. His daughter, I told him, might be saved, but it required resolution. She had been deceived, it was evident, and our best plan was to get the aid of justice. Your husband was impetuous— he rushed up stairs. The door was locked. He broke it open—attacked the young man; they fought, and your husband was mortally wounded in the struggle. I came into the room as they were fighting; the young man was on the floor, with a dirk knife in his hand; your husband was kneeling on his chest. The poor girl, thinking that the young man was about to be killed, rushed up to her father and seized him by the arm, exclaiming: 'Don't kill him, for God's sake !—for the love of mercy, don't kill him!' and pulled her father from his hold. At that moment the young man plunged a knife into his beart, and he fell back into her arms, uttering, 'Maria, you have—you—you—' He spoke no more. The young man escaped me; I was not strong enough to detain him. Maria has not yet recovered her senses. You, therefore, had best accompany me to Baltimore.' "I did so. My poor girl has been childish, idiotical, or deranged, ever since. Emma was married, and I retired with my brother and this poor creature into the piny woods. My brother is dead. She is my only companion. Sometimes she will spend days without speaking. Once or twice she has partly recovered her senses for a week or so; but ou a sudden the fit returns, and she will burst into tears in her most cheerful moments.'' I was not a little affected by this narration. In the afternoon the sun broke out, and I started on my journey. I fell in with the stage, and was glad enough to meet with an opportunity of travelling in a less lonesome manner.

SISTERS AND MOTHERS.—These are ties which, like the invisible strings of conscience, bind man to the world of kindly affections, and are the last things forgotten when one leaves life. The marriage situation may be one of pure 'and uninterrupted felicity; there may be no cloud in its whole happy horizon; it may be ever sunny, and flowers spring in it at every season of the age; but even these happy ones, who are in this clime of bliss, remember long and late the claims of a sister or a mother to their best affections. The feelings inspired by both sister and mother, are all derived from sources pure as the Divinity that inspired them.

VERY CONCLUSIVE.—" John," inquired a dominie of a hopeful pupil, "what is a nailer ?"—''A man who makes nails," replied hopeful, quite readily. "Very good. Now what is a tailor?"—" One who makes tails," was the equally quick reply. "Oh, you blockhead," said the dominie, biting his lips; "a man who makes tails, did you ever! "—" To be sure," quoth hopeful; "if the tailor didn't put tails to the coats he made, they would all be jackets! "—" Eh ?—ah !—well !—to be sure. I didn't think of that. Beats Watts' logic! Go to the top of the class, John ; you'll be a Member of Congress some day."

GEN. WASHINGTON AS A REJECTED SUITOR. THE BEAUTIFUL MARY CARY. A writer in the New York Century, says of the lady who won Washington's young heart, and whose father rejected the tall young soldier because he had not a carriage for his daughter to ride about in : I shall go back iu her life a number of years, and speak of the event which made her name one of curious interest. Before she became Mrs. Edward Ambler, she was called Mary Cary. Her father was Wilson Cary, Esq., of "Celeys," in the county of Elizabeth City, descended from the noble family of Hunsdon in England. His relative, Colonel Archibald Cary, of "Ampthill," in Chesterfield, was, at his death, the heir apparent to the earldom. The worthy old gentleman seem, from all we know of him, to have been as proud as the Coneys or the Somersets, and to have thought hiti family the noblest in the land. He lived in great state, with chariot and horses, plate and velvet and embroidery—a worthy of the old school, fully satisfied with the general "order of things," and enjoying serenely the good gifts of Providence. His beautiful daughter was a great heiress, and had many suitors—the accident which befel one of them has made her remembered in many books. He was a young man of very high character, a relative of George William Fairfax, Esq., who lived at "Belvoir," on the Potomac; and here he met with Miss Cary, who came to visit Mrs. Fairfax, her elder sister. The young man at once proceeded to fall in love, which he did with an ardour characteristic of his nature. When Miss Cary went back home to "Celeys," on James River, he followed her like a courageous gallant, and laid open seige to the fair fortress. In the good old times, however, something more was necessary than the consent of the young lady, and so the youth duly asked a private interview with the awful old lord of the manor, who listened to him silently throughout. When the lover had finished, Mr. Cary rose, made him a low bow, and said that if this was young Mr. Washington's errand at "Celeys," his visit had better terminate; his daughter "had been accustomed to ride in her own chariot.'' And, with this allusion to the poor condition of the younger son, the interview terminated. Young Washington bowed and went away, and in clue time married Martha Dandridge Custis, who "resembled Miss Cary," says my authority, "as much as one twin sister ever did another." But the old tradition does not end here. Many years fled away—Mary Cary was Mrs. Ambler—and her discarded suitor was the man who had just received the sword of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown, whom the whole civilized world hailed as the greatest among the great, "the foremost man,'' not only of America, but "of all the world.'' He passed through the old metropolis, Williamsburg, at the head of his victorious troops, and the people were crazy with joy and adoration, almost. The vast multitudes nearly prevented his horse from proceeding—the calm statue on horseback passed serenely. All at once he perceived at a window, or in the crowd, his old love, Mary Cary. He raised his sword and saluted her. She fainted. Thus the story is told, and it must have had a truthful foundation, at least. But it does not seem that the lovely woman was to blame. She had not been able to return the affections of the youth—that was not all. She married him who won her heart—Edward Ambler. He was not unworthy of this noble lady in rank or character. He was descended, through his mother, from the great Huguenot house of La Roche Jaquelin, in Vendee, and inherited the honest instincts of his race. At twelve he had been sent for his education to England—he graduated at Cambridge, then made the grand tour of Europe returning to Virginia when he was twenty-one. He was married to Miss Cary soon afterwards, became collector at York, and was so much respected, that when Lord Botetourt came to Virginia as Governor, he brought a letter of introduction to the collector. He died at thirty-five, and the revolutionary war breaking out soon afterwards, his beautiful widow moved away from the scene of her grief, and took refuge in the "Cottage," far up in Hanover.

"I DO not think, madame, that any man of the least sense would approve your conduct," said an indignant husband. "Sir," retorted his better half, "how can yon judge what any man of the least sense would do?"

"I DON'T think, husband, that you are very smart.'' "No, indeed, wife; but every body knows that I am awfully shrewed.''

"WEIGH your words," said a man to a fellow who was blustering away in a towering passion at another. "They won't weigh much if he does," said the antagonist, coolly.