Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

Till; SOUTHERN SENTINEL IS PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MOUSING, JSY T. LOMAX &, CO. TEXNENT LOMAX, Principal Editor. OJire on Randolph street. Citcnmj D c,p a vim cnf. Conducted isy CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ [WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.] What my SouJ says in Sadness. BY ERNEST SOLE. I. I know, O Lord, the flower that opes When mon itig tints are gleaming. May droop ere evening’s roseate rays O'er hill and vale an streaming. 11. Yet well I know the odor sweet Ot that lost flower, is scenting The breeze that murmurs o’er the lea, Its meek-eyed love lamenting. m. The star, O God, in yon blue vault, So brightly now that’s beaming— May fade from out the spangled sky, Where myriad orbs are teeming. IV. But it hath sent one silver ray, To cheer my pathway given— To lift my weary spirit iTp A night-time nearer Heaven. V. The gorgeous sight that charms each sense Informed with beauty's seeming, Will leave but sadness, tears, regret That I was only dreaming. VI. To weary souls all fainting here, Comes thus the radiant vision— A glance to give through prison bars Into the land Elysmn. [WRITTEN TOR THE SENTINEL.J REVERIES OF AN INVALID. A philosopher once resolved to commence with the morning’s dawn, and devote the whole day to following the movements of a child, hoping to derive great assistance in the study of metaphysics during the process. \\ lien twilight came on, he was perfectly wearied and exhausted, and the only conclu sion to which he had arrived was, that of all .animals, man was the most restless and tin- j reasonable. He had intended to take notes ; of all that occurred, hut he found everything I could he included in the compendious word, motion. It is as exceedingly difficult to follow the movements of a feverish imagination, and yet there is something in the wild aberrations of mind, with its reins momentarily loosely floating, more interesting than a sober and connected train of reasoning. [ will try to describe some of these vague and wander ing thoughts, just as they originated, drifting me along hero and there, without guide or compass, on the pathless ocean of incerti tude. Have you ever felt the throbbings of fever in your veins, in your temples, your brain, till every pulsation resolved itself into a prayer for coolness ? Till there was but one vision of beauty in the whole, wide universe—and that was ice? It was in just such a state as this, the other evening, that the visiop passed over me, or rather held me, spell bound, in its icy folds. Oh! it was such a lovely moonlight night! So icy pure—so silvery bright! The beams, as they floated on the face of the earth, look ed like an ocean of quivering water, and I thought I was borne along on the current, without any volition of my own, a burning speck, which all that oeean flood of bright ness could not quench. The waves seemed warmed around me, but far away, they glit tered so cold, so pure, so clear, if I could on ly reach one of those sparkling ice islands, I would never more sigh for the forfeit bowers of Eden. Floating onward and ever on ward, 1 could see figures, shaping themselves out of the bright, frosty atmosphere,so beau tiful and tantalizing—so wooing, so mocking —now beckoning with transparent, glittering hands—now waving hack the approach with forbidding, threatening gestures! They were the iee spirits abroad on their moon light revels, and imagination cannot conceive of their resplendent beauty. All! let poets rave about mermaids, sitting on the coral clifls ot ocean, braiding their sea-green ring lets—of maids enticing the river Gods with their strains of more than mortal melody; but they cannot compare with the ice spirits, the Aurora Borealis children of a feverish imagination. They rise in clusters above the foam-crested waves. Their hair flows in ringlets of diamonds; their eyes are the cold, bright northern stars, sparkling under lashes .of frozen mist; their smile, the reflection of moonlight on the polar seas. They come nearer and nearer. I feel their pure, chill breath on my burning cheek; they stretch out their cold, glittering arms, and I feel my self slowly, lingeringly, closely clasped to their bosom of iee. ‘['he vision vanishes. The beautiful mock ing spirits are gone. There is nothing but the still i ’night moonbeams shining in through the lattice-work, silvering the large leaves ot the vine and making bright, ~auzy festoons, looped up by beams and fastened by stars against the flower-twined frame work. The night-breeze rustles through the long trailing tendrils, clambering over the bars, and shakes the crimson blossoms that enrich the deep green of the leaf-work. How like the whisper of invisible spirits it sounds! Another vision rises. It comes from an icy cold world, and a feeling of inexpressible re pose is di.Tused over the restless, panting spirit. It comes from the land of coolness and rest. It is not the breeze that sighs through the vine leaves—it is the breath of those who have mingled again with the ele ments from which they were orginally cre- VOL. Ilf. ated. ‘I hey never speak but in the silence of the night. They never come forth but in the moonlight hour. Thus the vision flows: Oh! ’twas a dream—a sweet, a dewy dream — Sent to refresh me, in the feverish hour ; The cooling murmur of the forest stream, The west-wind whispering to the fainting flower. Oh ! blessed mother! I, once more a child, On thy dear bosom, in thy arms reclined— Thy lips of love met mine and gently smiled, Thy tender hand my burning one entwined. I felt thy fingers on my throbbing brow, 1 hy breatli sighed softly on my glowing cheek ; Oh ! angel ministrant, where ait thou now ! Speak to me, mother, blessed mother, speak! Thou hast no voice—thou tumest on my gaze Eyes of immortal depth—my spirit quails Beneath tlu-ir still, unfathomable rays— Lamps of the toir.b! what mist your brightness veils ? Again I seem alone. Mv head is laid On the damp grass, beneath the willow's boughs; The pallid moonbeams glimmer through the shade, And the night air in rippling coolness flows. I see a marble stone gleam pure and w hite— The dead, my soul, the dead arc sleeping near— My mother’s name gleams in that ghostly light, That blessed name! then, wherefore should I fear I Oft, in my dreams, I've seen that sacred mound : That gleaming marble in the church-yard’s gloom : There have 1 knelt and wept, while sweeping round, I’ve felt the chilling shadows of the tomb. Dear, sainted mother ! in tiie languid hour Os pain and richness, how my heart has thrilled O'er childhood's memories, and each besom flower With more than earthly redolence been filled ! It was not all a dream. There lingers vet A life, a warmth—a deep, immortal glow— My soul with thine in heavenly trance ha? met, While dim and cold Time’s billows roll below. And we shall meet azain, my spirit saith, Where sorrow, pain and death can never come ; 0!i! for the wings of a triumphant Faith! Oh! for that land of glory, light and bloom ! With the soft lulling of the midnight gale, the holy vision passeth av v, leaving behind a balmuess, a coolness, a divine repose, that is not born of this world. If it were possible to describe fully and clearly a reverie like this! There certainly are moments when the wall that separates us from the spirit land, which sometimes seems of iron darkness and thickness, is thin and clear and brittle as glass—when we fear to move, lest it shiver and break—and we find ourselves iti the un veiled presence of the mystery of mysteries. Byron says a change came o’er the spirit of his dream—and so there came o’er mine. Os all forms of existence, that of reverie ap proaches nearest the heavenly. The body is but an accident. It might belong to any one else for any interest that we may feel in it. Only let it lie still and feel a breeze stealing ovei it, and it will trouble no one, unless the demon of fever gains possession of it. Oh ! delightful reverie! Oh! soothing, vague dream of existence! quietude succeeding painful excitement—subsidence of the stormy waves of thought! There is more of the earth, earthy, in this phase of the dream-picture; but it is the flowers, the bloom, die sweetness of earth ; nothing dark or subterranean about it. The iee spirits no longer come glittering, smiling, in their cold, unearthly beauty; the angel spirits no more glide between me and the moonbeams; there are earthly forms and earthly faces, all wearing the stamp of a heavenly mission—all mingling so with spir itual dreams, one cannot tell where the ideal and the real meet. There is a sweet maiden, of a Saxon name, with blue, loving eyes, and a glad, af fectionate smile, who seems formed to be the miuistrant of peace and comfort to the suf fering children of humanity. How quiet and gentle are her motions! How calm and ten der the accents of her voice! She comes near—she bears in her hand a crystal dish, in which the most beautiful crimson blends with the purest white. A cool, refreshing dew gems the crystalline surface of the ves sel. Angels of mercy and ministers of con solation ! it is some of Slrupper’s delicious strawberry cream—the nectar, the ambrosia of the Gods! But alas! the dewy glass vanishes—the blushing cream melts into air —the loving, blue-eyed maiden disappears, and nothing is left to fill the aching void. Yes—another comes —another damsel, as kind, as gentle and as good, with a gladder smile and a more joyous accent ; and the perfume of violets embalms the air through which she moves; a crystal vase, in which the \ce-bcains sparkle, glitters in her hands. She administers the cooling draught, when, just as it is about to touch the thirsty lip, it dries up, leaving nothing but the empty cup of Tantalus—the fever of unsatisfied desire. “I will not deceive you,” exclaimed a mild, sympathizing voice; “for my office is to bind up the wounds of disappointment and to heal the sorrows that man i* born to !eel. If there must be suffering, be it mine to relieve. If there must be a shadow, be it mine to gild and soften the edges.” Ah! I knew that voice, and I know the expression of that gentle, sympathizing coun tenance, “that seems to love whate'er it looks upon.” Often and often has it come, in the night-time of care, and left an impression of hope and brightness behind it. But it will not now remain long. Between it and me the Chat tahoochee is now rolling: and it rolls be tween me and the fair-haired maiden, who wears the name a beauteous Saxon damsel once adorned: and it rolls between me and the maiden embalmed with the violets’ sweet perfume, and many another angel spirit, too: and it rolls a watery barrier between me and that well-remembered saloon, where straw berries and ice-cream temper the sultriness of summer’s burning heat. It is all a mirage. There is nothing but memory left. Nothing but memory! Ah! memory is a great deal. What would life be without it? Reveries! Well, I suppose * reveries are very foolish things; but Ike Marvel has writ ten a whole book about reveries, which every body loves to read, from the simple fact that they are idealities, and that there is not a word of truth in them—that is, of real ity. But realities are sometimes very sweet, and make us cease to sigh for what is be yond our reach. What a delicious cloud of fragrance is floating near! What a charm ing bouquet comes, bearing the greetings of friendship, associated with the charms of re finement and taste ! The rich breath of the glowing oleander—the sweet and graceful honeysuckle—the most beautiful of roses— the waxen petals of the cape jasmine—unite to grace this token of kindly sympathy. Nor is this all- Green and refreshing clus ters of newly gathered grapes, shew how beautiful the assemblage of fruit and flowers may be! Yes! tin's is a beautiful world! It is full, overflowing with beauty and kind ness, and yet we are often unconscious of it, from its very diffusiveness. Like the air we breathe, it is all round and about us, and we only know how happy it makes us from our wretchedness when it is withdrawn. There is so much to admire and love,’ we sigh for capacity to take in the full amount of blessedness. llow can a single heart take in the boundless circumference of God’s m nicies? Yet, there are so many strange people in the world, one knows not what to think of them. They walk along through paths all strewn with flowers, with as much indiffer ence as if they were wading through weeds. “What is the use of this fading tinselry?” they say ; “we have not time to gather it and so they hurry along and gather up hand fuls of yellow dust instead; and they rush along the shore of life, picking up pebbles and sand, lotting the pearls and diamonds go, as too much trouble to gather. They must dive for the pearlsAtd filter the sand for dia monds. The pc*ides lie smooth on the sur face, arid thev. shine in the sunbeams almost as brightly. Well, whether we gather pebbles or dia monds, pearls or sand-grains, the great ocean of truth keeps rolling on, and we are borne on with it. Whether we gather flowers or weeds, the great garden of Nature keeps blooming on, and the air of life is laden with the fragrance. Life itself is a long, beautiful reverie. In the fitful fever and unrest, the strife and tur moil of existence, we dream of the ice spirits that will come with their breath of frost and cool the veins, panting with excitement and throbbing with heat. We dream of the spirit ministrants, fanning us with their wings of love, and tempering with their cool, celestial plumage the sultriness of weight and care. We dream of the loved ones, whom space severs and distance divides, but whose hearts are a part of our own identity, and make but one pulse with our own. By and by, the fever will pass away—the reveries will pass away—and who can tell the brightness, the beauty, the glory of the awakening? “Eye hath not seen it, nor hath ear heard it, nor hath it entered into trie heart of man to conceive it.” But God knows, and it is the office of Faith to wait, and trust, and believe. C. L. 11. Quincy, August 31, 1852. I WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.] LITERARY NOTICES. 1. Pierre; or the Ambiguities —by Her- ; man Melville. New York: Harpers. Transcendentalism must possess a strange- ; ly infectious power. For here is the author of “Typee” transformed into as absurd a dream- J eras now rejoices in the patronymic of Y oung America. Lennox, with its learned ! neighborhood, certainly does not. suit thevov ager of “Mardi.” He had better take to the j sea again. Eugene Sue never spun a story of more impossible [dot; Alexander Dumas never de picted more unreal characters ; nor did George Sand ever send into the world a book i of as questionable morality. The style, j moreover, abounds in affectations and barba- : risms; the efforts to be funny, are ludicrous I only from their failure; and the attempted eloquence degenerates into merest rodomon- j tade. His heroic announcement that he writes not in conformity with the rules of art —and he might have added, of nature—to him may seem very grand, but to us sounds snob bish. Whatever the “ambiguities” of the vol ume, one thing is indubitable—namely, that a more perfect abortion in literature than Pierre, has not been sent into the world for . some time. 2. The Blithedale Romance —by Nathan- : iel Hawthorne. Boston: Ticknor & Cos. j A critic in the Christian Inquirer —a Uni tarian paper, published in New Y'ork—speaks thus of this book : “It is the most brilliant j gem of the Satanic school of American Lit- j erature; it is such a book as Mephisto- j pheles might have written, in his calmer and more contemplative moments, when, weary of tempting men to renounce their higher as pirations, he muses upon the hollowness of human life, he sketches the most exquisite sentiment, and most commanding wisdom, in order the more to deck the victim for sacri fice upon his own altar of selfishness and pride.” This judgment, to us, is unjust z* it COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING. SEPTEMBER 16, 1852. is harsh and untrue. What could have pro voked it, we are at a loss to conceive ; the more, as it comes from a paper, in the main, creditably Catholic and enlightened. To our mind, Blithedale is the most finished and exquisite of Mr. Hawthorne’s books. There are but five characters in if, as in the Scarlet Letter, and the House of the Seven Gables, (this triple recurrence of it would imply that that number has a charm for our author,) and as little incident. Nevertheless, our interest from the beginning, never for an instant flags. This famous analyst and painter of human nature, captivates you by tiie skill and nicety of his procedure. The superficial man of the world, changed into a cringing shadow ; the earnest, half noble, half deluded woman, spurning the restrictions of her sex; the con fiding, womanly heart, that wins the strong man’s love; the calm student of human life, and the herculean philanthropist, absorbed in the cure of others, until he himself is diseas ed beyond recovery—are all delineated, as none but Hawthorne could draw them. The moral of Hollingsworth’s character consti tutes, we should say, just the study for many New Englanders. He is the exact type of the sincere abolitionist, affording all such, who will take it, a profoundly true view of their own condition and danger. The whole storv preaches, with strongest emphasis, the inefficiency of all reforms, where egotism is not excluded—in which the benign soul of the Gospel is not incarnated. Passing strange, then, is tho condemnation of the “ Inquirer ,” when such a searching religious discourse is offered by this volume. Perhaps the self-projection of the blacksmith, bapti zed with the name of humanity, may touch the critic in a tender place. With our warm gratitude to Nathaniel Hawthorne for another rich contribution to our instruction and pleasure, and our thanks to the Publishers, for tho handsome manner in which they have “got up” this last work of our greatest romancer, we commend the book to our readers with all warmth, assuring them that in it. they shall find a treat rarely afforded by the issues of the press. The Literary World. This is the title of a weekly paper, pub lished in New Y ork,by E. A. & G. L. Duyc kinck. We have for some time thought of directing the attention of our readers to it, and now an occasion offers. We well recollect, one day, some years since, looking over the papers on the counter of a pejfodical depot in Baltimore, when our eve I fitted on a journal with this title. A youthful sybarite in literature, we eagerly looked to see what feast this board offered. We found it wholesome and pleasant. Since that day—it was the birth-day of the paper, and the first issue, to which we refer—no week has passed without our hebdomadal banquet with Mr. E. A. Duyckinck—one of the most genial and reliable of critics—and a corps of friends worth}’ to share his compa ny. Wherever we happen to be, East, West, North, or South, we regularly seek out our place at the board. Indeed, we bad rather miss our best dinner, every week, than the good cheer of the Literary World. By habit and gradually ripening love, it has become essential to us as the daily walk and the greeting of friends. Mr. Duyckinck has grown to us as an old and much-valued chum —although we never saw him in the flesh — and we believe we would as soon resent an injury or insult offered to liirn, as to our selves. Ha ving so long enjoyed it, we are desirous that bis society shall be shared by all our friends. Therefore this notice. The paper contains, first: Three or four reviews of the chief new books of the week; then briefer notices of tho rest; then come re ports of the meetings of the principal learned societies of tiie country, followed by one or two choice poems; after which comes as del icate and judicious a criticism on Art, as one would wish to see; then a serving up of per sonal gossip of the literary and artistic nota bles, and as spice, we have a budget of va rieties, funny enough, and often genuinely humorous. At the close of this part of the print, there is a list of all the new books pub lished in the country during the past week. In addition, we have the advertisements of all the principal publishing and importing houses ! of their new and forthcoming publications.! The columns of this paper are devoted to the cause of sound learning, and catholic criti- ’ cism; and we believe, upon the whole, we trust its judgment more implicitly than those ! of any literary journal in the country. In- ‘ deed, it is the only true catholic in literature i which we now recollect in the land. All the rest are mouth-pieces of some party or 1 clique. While recognizing and applauding excellence whencesoever coming, and speak ing out its mind right freely about pretension and humbuggery, it is not afraid to say tiie j true and right word of the South—a merit* we should not fail to appreciate at its due worth. There is no toadyism in this, but a genuine friendliness to all that is noble, and a sovereign contempt of all that is mean, which does one good, when partisanship and ; polemics are so generally in vogue. In con clusion, let us say to every man who would keep posted up in the affairs of literature and art, your best plan is to order the Literary World, from the .Messrs. Duyckinck, New Y’ork. I Marco Paul’s Voyages and Travels— by Ja cob Abbott. New Y ok: Harpers. Oh! what a chance the youngsters have 1 now, with the best talent of the country wri ting books for them. The Abbotts deserve I the heartiest gratitude of the rising genera tion, for the numberless contributions they have made to their profit and amusement. — To Jacob, especially, for his admirable series of biographies of tiie noteworthy; and now for their new series, intended to make our home-staying little ones acquainted with the locality, habits, and belongings cf the differ ent sections of our own country, and to open the eves of those who travel, to see more fully and accurately what is to be seen. Here is a road-cap New Y ork boy, twelve years old, given in charge to his cousin to travel, because he is delicate, and pick up what can be found upon the road. Such is the simple plot of the books. Four volumes have already reached us, viz.: New York ; Erie Canal; Forests of Maine; Vermont; giving, in a simple and natural style, results of close observation and large intelligence. None can read the volumes without being in terested and instructed. A good moral in fluence exhales from these, as from all the Abbott books, rendering them doubly valua ble. They should constitute part of the li brary of every child in the land. The History of the Restoration of Monarchy in France —by Alphonse Do Lamartine. 2d volume. New York: Harpers. The brilliant historian of the Girondins, is again before the American public, in this handsomely translated volume. It is virtual ly the story of “The Hundred Days,” extend ing from the return from Elba, to the defeat at Waterloo. We need not assure our read ers that the hook abounds in vivid descrip tions of persons, scenes and events, combi ned with eloquent strains of reflection. His point of view is that of a Frenchman, of course; an admirer, but not a worshipper, of the great Napoleon. It is not unlikely that his dislike of the nephew, may have influen ced to some degree, his opinions and por traiture of the uncle. Nevertheless, there is nothing palpably unjust towards tho man whose name, for twenty years, sums up the history of Europe. Moreover, the persona ges who surrounded the Emperor, in the main lost in his dazzling effulgence, are here brought out into stronger relief than is usual; so that the whole phantasmagoria—when Eu rope turned pale at the name of a mortal, and a kingdom of millions, which a day be fore had hooted at his name, now crouches at his horse’s hoofs—when Paris is charmed from sullen silence to boisterous acclaim, and the final die for the world’s throne is cast at Waterloo—passes before us in the stately pomp and gorgeous splendor of Lamartine’s description. [WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.] FOREIGN CORRESPONDENCE. ASCENT OF MT. VESUVIUS.v July, 1852. Mv Beak C : As I have already told you, one of the first objects that meet the eye of the traveller, on his approaching Naples, is Vesuvius. It is perhaps the first thing he looks for, and it is certainly one of the first, after he has shaken Ihe dust of travel off from his clothes, that he starts to visit. Os the thousands who annually visit Naples, hardly one fails to mount its steep sides.— Some for the frolic of the tiling—a few out of real curiosity—others to boast of it, (though a very meagre boast)—and many, be cause it is one of the things to bo “done,” and they will be twitted with not doing it. 1 heard one poor fellow groan out at the table d’hote, “Y es, 1 suppose 1 ?nusl ascend, but I wish the thing would blow np to-night!” I confess I was influenced by all these consid erations. I had heard a good deal of the fun of a scramble up a mountain of an inclina tion of 45 deg., and wished to realize it. I had a curiosity not only to see a crater, but to look down the very mouth of the monster that had quenched two famous cities so pret tily. And besides, honestly, I did want to talk about it. People prate about a laudable curiosity, but in nine instances out of ten, curiosity is nothing but vanity. We wish to know more, that we may tell how much we know. It is no less a man than Pascal, who says: “People would never traverse the sea if they never were to speak of it—for the mere pleasure of seeing, without the hope of communicating what they have seen.”— Therefore, if I can give no better reason for seeing a certain place, 1 will always give this: “I wished to be able to say, I have seen it.” Naples is situated a little to the right (as one faces the water) of the crest of the Bay, embracing, with its immediate suburbs, a cir cuit of about 12 miles. Vesuvius lies to the left of the Bay, and so near, that the land feels its inclination to the very water's edge. The smoking cone is, therefore, the prominent object of view from the balco nies of Naples, and it is a thing looked at too, not as a matter of course, but as a matter of enjoyment. I don’t know in what the fasci nation of certain favorite mountains consists, but there is a fascination. As at Geneva, I never rose from my bed without running, cn chemise, to look at Nit. Blanc, so at Naples, I never bade that beautiful Bay good morn ing, without stopping to watch the smoke curl down the sides of Vesuvius. And the most fervent wish of every stranger as he ga zes at it, is—“Oh, that there would be an erup tion while I am here !” That young lady, who, in my last letter, was breathing of the cypresses and vines, counted upon an erup tion, I’ve no doubt—for as virtue rewards its i worshippers, so does romance—and one of her romantic realizations was to be, I am confident, an eruption. Did not Lord Nevil and Corinne witness one ? why shouldn’t she? The Neapolitans, too, love Vesuvius; it is a pet mountain with them; it confers a kind of glory upon their city, to have so dan gerous a neighbor, and I don’t think they would consent to have it removed, though it were to threaten them with a weekly shower ot hot stones, ft is amusing to see them stop to observe the stranger who may be looking at their favorite; they look into his eyes, and then across to the mountain, talking elo quently with their mobile features, and walk away with a strut which says, as plainly as need be, “magna pars sum.” 1 don’t think I ever emerged from the hotel without being saluted by half a dozen coachees with, “Ves uve, (Vesoove,) M’sieur?” which reminds me very forcibly of the dowu-easters’ “Sara logue.” A good day is of the first importance—if must not only be clear, but windless weather —else the light ashes blown in your face, ( ‘till tears shall drown the wind,” as Mac beth says,) or sulphurous vapor choking nose and mouth, shall make a witch’s weather for you. We were favored—during all my stay at Naples, there was but one good Vesuvius day, and that we appropriated—cloudless, windless, glorious—in a word, (for poetry’s sake,) the sky ol Italy. I say so in order to be orthodox, but you have in Columbus, this same sky, 250 times a } - ear; all the romance about ii came from the children of misty Al bion, who never see but a patch of blue sky— Dutch tailor measurement. We took a car riage and rode gayly along the busy shore of the Bay—dashed through the town of Portici— (N. B. All the Neapolitan coachees are Jehus, and the vehicles are called Volantes —flyers;) and pulled up suddenly in the midst of the next town, Resina. I know not what for, but in less than five minutes, I was on the back of a por.v, heading briskly, through a narrow lane, for the mountain. How all this hap pened, I know no better than you. I had not been forewarned of the* exact modus of mounting Vesuvius, (though it seems there is a modus)—l had seen no horses. The coachee had given no wink, as I could see. I had been through Resina, twice or thrice before, and the like had never happened.— But now there seemed a spirit of divination on the part of the handy gentlemen who have Vesuvius in charge. I was not even asked : where I was going, but I was put on to a po : ny in a trice, and the pony broke away, at a I whist! from the guide, for the mountain.— There is no danger of not knowing how to proceed in that country. Guides and volante drivers have systematized matters, and they play into each other’s hands admirably. Put money into your purse, jump into a carriage at your hotel door, say ‘'Vesuvius,” just as one says “020 Broadway,” and you will | reach the top—never fear—and be launched to the bottom, if you wish it. The volante man dashes off—the message precedes him telegraphically. “I’m coming with a Vesu vius party”—a guide, all accoutred, meets you at the proper point—(you know lie has to do with you as soon as you put eves upon him)— at a stroke of his trident, horses, ready caparisoned, rise out of the ground—(l do believe they are stabled in the womb of tiie mountain, for they know their work so well) —a huge cane is given you by a lanky “Flibbertigibbet,'’ who drops on to your horse’s crupper. You must take it—it is Ve suvius 1.-. v; indeed, you take it instinctively, for you feel yourself to be at the heck of cer tain agencies you have nothing to do with. \ ou find scout.? on your way who have been advised oi vour coming—food awaits you in the “Hermitage,” and I am mistaken if the old mountain itself does not belch out a re cognition of you. All this is so smooth arid nice that the chances are you will begin to hug yourself a little, and think you are of some importance; hut when all is over and you are back again at Resina, you find that it was not you, hut the purse, that was wor shipped. The dollar is mighty. ‘Phe bridle road i3 just a passability and that is all; it is a path over wide fields of la va ; donkeys or horses, which can find no Other occupation, take you over it slowly, but securely. Yet in the midst of this desert lava-tract, on the warm slopes of the moun tain, grows the famous lachrynafe christi wine, slicking its delicious flavor out of the very rock. We reached the Hermitage in about two hours. One may drive, I found, quite to the Hermitage by a good road, constructed, I suppose, at the expense of the King, who has a very neat retreat at the base of the cone, in which he sleeps about one night in the year. Why we did not take this road, the guides and the volante-men can alone explain. By not doing it, the latter sa ved his horses several hours of labor, easily earned his fee for the day, and besides, put a pretty penny into the hands of the horse owners. It would he no libel to call all this trickery, hut it is so innocent as compared with some things I could mention, that I let it pass. This Hermitage is a kind of half-way house—a “hospice,” where you are “taken in,” i. e., lightened of your surplus silver, before you commence the ascent of the mountain, a his is all accomplished un der the farce of your buying oranges and iachrymae christi, in order to contribute to the support of an honest hermit who lives there. There is always a programme, as all the world knows, for visiting every place of notoriety, and every body travels by pro gramme. Now, “it is written” that every TERMS OF PUBLICATION. One Copy, per annum, if paid in advance,...s2 00 “ “ “ “ “ in six mord.s, 2 50 “ “ “ •* “ at end of year, 300 RATES OF ADVERTISING. One square, first insertion, - - - - - $1 00 “ “ each subsequent inseriion, - 50 A liberal deduction made in favor of those who advertise largely. NO. 38. body must stop at the little inn of Bake and eat of the Acheron oysters, and every body does it. It is also written that every body must stop at the Hermitage and drink of the anchorite’s wine, and every body does this, too. A succession of hermits have dwelt here for I know not how long—the mantel and the beard descending very much as tho Grand Lamaship does, i. e. by caprice or favoritism. Lest you should think I am se vere, I simply add, it is not necessary to he a priest, in order to enjoy this pleasant little monopoly of oranges, lachrvmre christi, and roguery. A valet-de-cliambre of Madame de Pompadour, once enacted this farce here.— Banished from Court, he cultivated a heard, turned venerable, and forgot Versailles in V esuvius. But cowl, beard nor sanctimoni ousness, could disguise the vaiet —(Nalurtnn expelles, Ac.;, you remember what Ho race says !) and the very grace with which he handed bread to his visitors, revealed the master of the peti/s soupers of his former lux urious mistress. The present occupant of the Hermitage, we did not see. The blessed man had gone to the city. There is one tiling I will say for him who lives hero—he has one of the loveliest views on earth spread out before him—and the luxury of ascending Vesuvius just as often as he chooses ! After a half hour’s rest, we remounted our horses arid rode to the base of the cone, hut a milo or two distant. The real ascent commences here. The declivity is about as steep as one can attempt, and maintain his equipoise. Good sines, long breath and legs, and per severance, are the requisites. If you are ra ther laukisli, all the better, provided it is not windy ; or if you have any of the knack of Nihlo’s “Great Wall My,” still better. For the weak and for women, a cedar chair is ready, which swings like a hammock, always preserving its perpendicular. Our party mo ved on—what with guides, understrappers and all—a small army. Not that all these are necessary, hut that they hope to make a pen ny. They offer yen a chair—they offer you a rope—they will take you in their very arms —they insist upon the arduousness of the as cent—“nobody but that accepts of their servi ces,” &c. Yon can’t get rid ol’them—a refusal! you might refuse all the way up the moun tain, and within an inch of the top they will conquer. Whoever heard of a Neapolitan beggar, coachee, or sub-guide, yielding to a refusal? Perhaps you think a wave of tho hand is sufficient to turn him off; you think he groans inwardly, with Spenser: “What hell it is in sueing, long to bide.” Pooh! sueing is their trade. The volaute man will actually walk his horses a mile by your side, and at last persuade you into the carriage; the beggar will limp the same dis tance and vex you out of your loose copper. Our path lay first over the sand, into which we sank at every step ankle-deep, hut we soon reached a lava stream, upon the edge of which we picked our wav to the top. A guide kept by my side. I was thoroughly determined not to yield to his importunities, though I knew I should. For a half hour he pleaded; he extended me his rope insinua tingly—“’twas so much easier to ascend with it;” he foisted the end of it into my hand— he was victor—his dollar was won. Putting the loop of the rope over his ox-ncck, he bent to his work. Another of his fraternity supported me from behind. Thus dragged by one and pushed by another, I mounted over the difficulties at such a pace that when I reached the top, I was completely blown. Thanks to the guides! I had the honor of being first at the top. Mounting the immense sand fringe of the crater, we stood upon its edge. I was sur prised to find the crater worth seeing. It is a huge bow], the sides of which are smoking profusely at a thousand air-holes. One side of this bowl is broken away, or caved in, (be ing entirely of sand.) Descending by this, about two hundred feet, we stood upon tho edge of the crater proper—a perfectly round hole of perhaps fifty feet in diameter—run ning, who knows what depth, into the moun tain. It is as cleanly done as though it had been bored out with mathematical precision —its sides, of course, thickly incrusted with sulphur. We tumbled stones into the crater in order to hear the echoes that roll up from those unexplored depths. To one thus stand ing within the compass of the crater, the scene is far more impressive than would he at first imagined, and it is precisely the time when one would not like, to witness an erup tion, much as he would like to see it from his balcony at Naples. Farther than this edge —the dread brink of a bottomless pit—no man ever went —except one. ’Twas a Frenchman, who, to spite his mistress, (and when did a Frenchman ever commit suicide for other cause?) threw himself down the hole. But just listen—the old mountain wouldn’t hold the revolutionary morsel—it spit him out the very next day! Ascending again, we made the entire circuit of the top, almost suffocated at times by the sulphur fumes, and then were ready for descent. Vesuvius is a huge mole of sand within a circle of rock, broken away to tho South, which, of itself, might be considered a3 form ing an immense crater. It probably was the ancient Vesuvius, and the modern is a cone of ashes and lava which has been formed within it. Between the base of this cone and the craggy, precipitous wall of rock, runs a broad belt of level ground. The guide point ed out the various eruptions, as far as known, especially the last, (’49.) You would say that the lava fairly foamed as it burnc-d along, so