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THE SOUTHERN’ SENTINEL
IR PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY MORNING,
MY
T. LOMAX & CO.
TENNENT LOMAX, pi%cir.a editor.
OJfice on Randolph Street.
Citmu'u Dcpftilm cut.
Conducted by CAROLINE LEE ttENTZ
[WRITTEN EXFKESiLY TOR THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL.]
BELL AND ROSE.
BY CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ.
Mrs. Raymond had been so absorbed bv
her schemes for Bell, and her plans to secure
for her the exclusive devotion of Mr. Urvin,
that she had, in a measure, lost sight of
Frdik. As he had said nothing more of
Rose, she imagined Uiat there was no possi
ble danger from tiiat source, and Bell had
never mentioned tiiat her name had ever been
breathed by the Ups of Mr. 1. rvih. Many
a time hid Bell formed the resolution of
speaking to him of the farmer’s daughter,
but an unconquerable dread (if having her
fears confirmed, always paralyzed her tongue.
Though she dared not think he had any pe
culiar interest in herself, there was no one i:.
her own circle, whose rivalship she feared,
’and she felt sure she had conquered his lior
fdrof a belle. He evidently sought her soci
ety, and paid her the great and on oistaka
Lie compliment of addressing her as a ra
tional, intelligent and immortal being. Mrs.
Raymond grew very impatient at this state
of things, and counselled Bell to assume cer
tain airs and graces, which she had the good
house to perceive would only create disgu-t
or ridicule.
The evening after Frank’s exciting visit to
Rose, as he was lounging on a sofa, near
which his mother was seated, while Bell iiit
ted about the room, superfluously busy about
nothing, some chord of remembrance was j
struck which vibrated to the name of Rose I
Mayfield, ft might have been a dried acacia
sprig, put as a mark in one of Frank’s books, j
or a withered rose, or tiie engraving of a j
cottage, but whatever it was, the image of
Rose came, a charming vision befoie her i
urtind’s eye, and forgetting the presence of j
her mother, Bell suddenly asked Frank when j
he had seen Rose Mayfield.
Roused from a deep reverie by the abrupt
question, Frank, unprepared to make an eva
sive answer, and disdained it if he were, re- i
plied :
“I saw lier this very afternoon.”
“ Phis afternoon!” excl timed Mrs. Ray- j
mond. “What! that farmer’s daughter ! that !
low girl, with whom I forbade you having
the least intercourse! Frank, Frank, how
biselv you have deceived me!”
“I deny the charge!” cried-Frank, spring
ing up and looking as brave as a lion, “i have
never deceived you. When you laid your j
commands upon me, I told you I was no ’
longer a boy, nor would 1 be treated as ;
such. I never promised- obedience—! never |
meant to do so.”
“Frank!” cried- Mrs. Raymond, pale and
trembling with passion. “Is tide, the respect 1
have a right to claim ? This insolent defiance
of mv express prohibition—this outrage to
propriety—this disregard of your own social
position—thb shocking example to ) r our 1
sister!”
“In every dm g else l have tried to conform j
to your wishes, mother, but I cannot adopt j
votir narrow prejudices, or sacrifice the hap
plness of my whole life to cold, heartless
pride.”
“Frank, there is not another gentleman in
this city, who would degrade himself as you
have done!”
‘•What tic you think of your admired Mr.
Urvin—your glass of fashion and your mould
of form ? Did I not meet him this very af
ternoon, riding from her gate ? He is her;
most intimate friend; the brother of the lady i
in whose home she was educated, and where j
she acquired that exquisite refinement and :
grace of manner 1 have never soon equalled.
Ask him the next time you see him, what he
thinks of Rose Mayfield.”
“Mr. Irvin!” repeated Mrs. Raymond, in j
a raises! voice. “1 cannot believe lie has an y
interest in her, unless it may lie charity. 11 is i
attentions to Bell have been too marked and
exclusive to allow of such a thing, even if lie
were tempted to stoop so low.”
“Mother!” cried Bell, whose face bad-tur
ned as pale as death, while Frank was speak
ing, “Mr. Urvin has never committed himself
to me, by word or look. He has never man
ifested for me, more than the interest of a
friend—never.”
“Every body is talking about his attentions
to you, andiyour admiration of him. Every
body is congratulating me on your brilliant
prospects. It is your own fault, if he is not
your declared lover—if vou charnii him one
moment, you repel him the next A gid with
hall your attractions might have secured him
long ago.”
“Mother!’* said Bell, with a dignity of
manner so unwonted, so unnatural, that Mrs.
Raymond almost doubted her identity. “I
have never tried to secure or captivate Mr.
Irvin. I formed the rash design of doing so,
when I heard he avoided an introduction to
rue. But in his presence, every vain and
foolish thought dies within me. I only feel
his immeasurable superiority, and the scorn
and contempt he must feel for every little
and low-born artifice. I have never thou- hr
myself worthy of him. I believe Rose May
field to be so. The first evening he ever was
here, 1 overheard him utter her name in a
tone of no common interest, and I felt a con
viction that ho loved her. I am sorry for it,
for Frank’s sake.”
VOL 111.
“Really!” cried Mrs. Raymond, getting
more arid more angry, “you will drive me
crazy, talking about this gi !. If I thought
Frank had one serious thought cf marrying
sdeh a one as she—of linking himself to such
low cdri-.iections—he should never darken
these doors again.”
“Weil, mother, 1 have had a great many
serious thoughts about marrying her, and I
have not given them up yet, iu spite of mv
formidable rival. lam determined to enter
the flats with him, and be who wins must
wear her.”
“I suppose you will assist your honorable
father-in-law in the work of the farm,” said
his mother, in a cold, jeering tone.
“I should not think myself degraded by
so doing. That lit tie cabin would be to me
lovely as the bowers of Eden, with a Rose,
sweet as tiie rose of Sharon, blooming there
for me.”
“Ridiculous! absurd! insuring!” cried
Mrs. Raymond, traversing the carpet with
the true tragedy step. “If you must talk in
this outrageous manner, 1 desire you to leave
the room. Your presence is too oppressive.”
“Willingly, my dear mother. I was just
thinking of taking a walk in the garden.
Come, Bell—the star-light is beautiful, and
the night breeze is laden with the fragrance
of a thousand flowers.”
Winding his arm round Bell, they were
about to leave the room together, when sud
denly turning back, be approached his moth
er, and said :
“1 am sorry, I am grieved, that I have dis
pleased you, my mother. Forgive me, if I
have uttered any thing disrespectful or defy
ing. 1 would not forget my duty as a son,
while I assert my independence as a man.
Will you not give me your hand in token of
reconciliation ?”
“1 want no hollow professions,” replied
she, turning haughtily away, and rejecting
his offered hand. “Actions speak louder
than unmeaning words. There can lie no re
conciliation that is not founded 1 on obedi
ence.”
The brother and sister left their exaspera
ted mother, and sought the balmy stillness of
the flower garden. They walked in silence
till they reached an arbor of lattice work, lit
erally covered with odoriferous vines. There
they sat down, when all at once Bell leaned
her head upon his shoulder and burst into
tears. He did not ask her why she wept, for
his heart told him why. But he was strange
ly affected by tears falling so copiously from
eyes so unus.d to weep. His own eyes glis
tened with sympathy, and pressing her ten
derly to him, he said ;
“If we are both doomed to be unhappy by
the same cause, and our mother casts us in
anger away, we will only cling more closely
to each other, Bell, and love each other with
a fonder, deeper love.”
C H AFTER IV.
“Look on a love, which know- not to despair,
Rut all unquenched, is still my better part—
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart,
As dwells the gathered lightning in the clone!.”
[Byron.
“Riches, like insects,
Wait but for wings, and iu a moment fly.”
[Pope.
Mr. U rvin purchased an elegant house,
and had it furnished according to bis own
classic and magnificent taste—a widowed la
dy, a distant relative of bis, presided over the
establishment —and tiie world said all this was
preparatory to his marriage with Bell Ray
mond. When invitations were issued for a
party at this splendid Bachelor's Hail, as it
waS'.st-yled, a thrill of pleasurable excitement
went through the heart of tiie social circle.
But tiie deepest thrill was felt in- Mrs. Ray
mond's vain, ambitious bosom.
“This,” thought she, “will lie a decisive
moment. Should he distinguish Bel! by pub
lie attention in bis own borne, it wii be
equivalent to a declaration. As for this coun
try girl, Frank’s jealousy has exaggerated
her pretensions. Very likely his sister might
have taken her as a companion or an under
ling, and if Bell did hear hi n mention her
name, he was probably recommending: bet
as a chambermaid or a seamstress. I never
saw anv tiling like the infatuation of these
children.”
Bell looked forward’ to the evening with
no anticipations of triumph. A great change
had cone over her. The light and flimsy
materials which had long disgiised the nat
urally fine proportions of her character, had
gradually been burning out in the pure and
vestal flume kindled in her heart. Vanity
and love cannot exist together, they cannot
breathe the same atmosphere; for humility,
with softening shadow, follows the footsteps
of love, and the eye. fixed with adoring gaze
on the perfections of another, forgets-to ad
mire its, own radiance.
Bell was indeed greatly changed. Her
mother scolded and fretted; and said that she
was grown.dull and stupid, and actually los
ing her beauty for want of animation. Bell
had learned to think that beauty was not the
only charm that could captivate the heart of
man. The dark, searching eye, whose glance
rested upon her with sucli power and inten
sity, penetrated far deeper than the surface,
and she felt as if there was a kind of omnis
cience in its beam—as if all her folly and
waywardness were laid bare before it, neu
tralizing the transient admiration that beau
ty might inspire.
It was late when the}’ entered the crowded
rooms, for Mrs. Raymond always liked to
creates sensation wherever she went. As
they passed along with slow steps through
the human waves that divided to make a
I passage for them, to the lady of the house,
Bell started as if a shock of electricity ran
through her frame. Through the vista made
by the opening, she saw their host, at the
upper end of the illuminated apartment, and
standing by him, with her arm linked in his,
was a young girl, whom she had never before
met in the balls of wealth and fashion. And
in unadorned white, she was not more con
spicuous for the simplicity of her dress, than
for her sweet and blooming loveliness. She
looked like a rose freshly plucked from the
wild wood, in all its dewy fragrance and
i purity.
j “Who is that beautiful girl leaning on the
| arm of Mr. Urvin?” asked Mrs. Raymond in
a tone of wonder and alarm.
Bell looked every where but at the right
j _ °
place. She felt a mysterious reluctance to
. mention aloud a name which would ring as the
j death-knell of all her hopes. Mrs. Raymond
repeated the question impatiently of Frank,
whom she had by no means restored to fa
vor. He, for reasons best known to himself,
was equally blind and obtuse. He could net
j distinguish Mr. Urvin, though his stately fig
ure rose above all tiiat surrounded him. He
; turned his head to the right and left—looked
! every where but straight before him—whife
his face reddened: and his brow contracted.
’ In the meantime, Mr. Urvin said something
in a low voice to the young lady, who, with?
i drawing her arm, drew modestly back from
the blaze of the’ chandelier, while Mr. Urvin
advanced to meet his guests; Mrs Ray
mond’s jealous fears were somewhat soothed
: by the maimer in which he accosted Bell,
1 offered 1 her Id's arm-, and requested tiie privi
| lege of introducing her to a young frifend of
j ids, who was a stranger in the city, and to
whom lie had promised the pleasure of her
acquaintance. Mrs. Raymond’s eyes eager
i ly followed* the graceful figure of her daugh
j ** ° ~ O
ter, so beautifully contrasted with the tall
form ofher conductor,-and as he bowed bis
bead, evidently conversing with her in a low,
earnest voice, till Ids sable hair almost touch
ed her lustrous- ringlets, her hopes rose from’
their unexpected prostration.
“There, Frank! you can see her now.
She is standing by that flower-stand yonder,”
repeated she. “ What-a beautiful profile,-arid
: fine-turned bead! Wiio‘can she be?”
“Do you think her pretty?” asked Frank,
in a tone of indifference. “Really, you lmve
a strange taste ! Do you not think there is
j something low and vulgar in her air? 1
shrewdly suspect, she is a parcenue.”
“I ought not to wonder at your difference
of opinion,” said Ids mother iii a tone of sar
casm; “since you have lately given such a
proof of the refinement and fastidiousness
jof your own taste. This young lady has a
i decidedly distinguished air, and rriust be
! somebody, or Mr. Urvin would not have hon
• ored her by bis attention. See—he is intro
ducing her to Bell. Why don’t you go and
seek an introduction yourself,instead oflook
ing so red and stupid, and- staring at her so
strangely ?”
“Well, I will go, and then introduce her
jto you, mother. Perhaps she will look bet
! ter on a nearer view.”
Mrs. Raymond seated herself where she’
could watch the trio, now standing by the
i pyramid of flowering plants, which formed a
; blooming back-ground to their figures, and
’ brought them out in strong relief.
“Frank seems to have made an impres
j sion,” thought she, noting the radiant blush
! and smile with which she received his low
bow. “fie is a handsome boy, and knows
j how to make himself agreeable, too. Per
haps this young lady is an heiress. If she is,
Heaven grant that she may cure him of his
| disgraceful partiality for that farmer’s daugh
ter! But supposing Mr. Urvin himself- ”
i She would not admit the painful suggestion
that pressed upon her thoughts: It was not
very long before Frank approached lier, arm
in arm with the beautiful stranger. It is sel
dom, on a first introduction, especially in a
buzzing crowd; that one hears the name dis
i , °
tinctly. Perhaps Frank did not articulate as
clearly as usual, or her hearing might be
a little obtuse. She certainly understood him
, to sav Miss Haymead; and nothing could eX
j ceed the cordial politeness of her manner.
| Fiank--had expected a start of amazement,
; a look’ of embarrassment and displeasure.
He could not account for the‘smiling ease and
; suavity which animated her manner, but he
rejoiced in it. He soon, however, was made
i aware of the truth, by her addressing the
young lady as Miss Haymead. Whether
Rose (for every one must know that it was
Rose Mayfield thus suddenly transplanted i
among: the exotics of fashion,) did not-notice i
the mistake, or whether she was deterred’
from correcting it by the flashing movement
of Frank’s eye, she suffered it to pass-with
i out comment. Mrs. Raymond appeared en
chanted; by her conversation, and Frank,
yielding himself to the joyous influences of
the present moment, forgot his jealous mad
ness, and his spirits rose and sparkled and
effervesced, till Rose caught the contagion
and laughed as gayly as Bell had done in her
own cottage home. i
Frank was not disposed to monopolize one
who was invested with the attractive charm
of novelty, and who, rumor said, was a niece
of the distinguished host. She was surroun
ded b}’ admirers, eager to secure her atten- j
tion, and even the beautiful Bell was 1
eclipsed by (Ire blooming eottage maid.
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 14, 1852.
“Have you ascertained if she is an heiress,
Frank?” asked Mrs. Raymond of lier son.
“Yes, mother! She has an inheritance rich
! or, by far, than any one in this assembly, and
what is more, it is secured by such inaliena
ble rights, that it cannot be taken away from
her.”
“I trust you will profit by the opportuni
ty,” cried the worldly, scheming woman.
! “She’s evidently pleased with you, and I have
jno doubt you will succeed, if you try. Y’ou
i cannot now bestow a thought on the low
girl, whom you pretended to admire so
much.”
“Nevertheless, mother, she is just as pret
! tv and accomplished as this charming Miss
Hayflower.”
“Ridiculous! Let me hear no more of this
j folly.”
“But Mr. Urvin—you forget him. How
can I contend with such a powerful rival?”
“How do you know he is vour rival 1 ? I
told you before, that the world had given him
to your sister, and his attentions have justified
the report. Besides, you- are much younger
i and handsomer than he rsv”
“Thank you for the compliment, mother;
: bid she may not see with your eyes.”
: Before the company dispersed, she took
| the most elaborate pains to seek Miss Hay
j mead-and enquire her address', that she and
! lier daughter might have the honor of calling
on her.
“I reside in the country,” answered the
young girl, looking down, while a smile play
ed upon her lips.
“Indeed! I shall certainly trouble Mr. Ur
vin to direct us to your residence.”
“Your son has my address, madam,” said
Rose, with £ blush which Mrs. Raymond
j hailed as the surety of his success. Another
j circumstance elated lier spirits—Mr. Urvin
: accompanied Bell to the carriage, and wrap
| ped her shawl’ around her with his own
hands—an attention she had not seen him be
j stow upon a lady before.
“What a charming young lady Miss Hay
mead is!” exclaimed.she, as the carriage roll
ed over the pavement.
“Miss who ?” cried Bell, elevating her
: voice. Frank'gave her arm an admonishing
pinch, and whispered, “hush’!”
“Miss Haymead! The young lady who
created such a sensation to-night. lam sure
you must’ know whom I mean.”
i “Oh, yes! the beautiful stranger. Were
you really pleased with her, mother?”
“Pleased! 1 was charmed—and lam glad
the scales have fallen from'Frank’s eyes at
last, so that lie can perceive what true beau
ty and gentility is.”
Bell burst in to one of her old musical
laughs.
“I am glad to see you ih such spirits,” said
her mother. “Mr. Urvin talked with you a
great deal to-night. I hope he said some
thing to the purpose.”
“He never seems to utter an aimless
word,” was the rej IV.
“Precious are the words which the lips of
wisdom utter,” added she, in a low, solilo
quizing voice.
“They be white-winged seeds of happiness, wafted front
the islands of the blest!
Which thought carefully tendeth, itt the kindly garden
of the heart.
They be sproutings of an harvest for eternity, bursting
through the tilth of time,
| Green promise of the golden wheat, that yieldeth angels’
food.
They be drops of erysthl dew, which the wings of ser
aphs scatter,
When on some brighter Sabbath, their plumes quiver
mo.-t with delight.”
“Why, Bell, I thought you did not’ know
more than six lines of poetry’ by heart,” said
Frank.
“These are the very six lines l do know.”
“And how came you to remember these?”
“1 heard Mr. Urvin quote them.”
“I think it was time he was saying some
thing more substantial than poetry,” inter
rupted Mrs. Raymond angrily. “Tell me,
Bell, has he not spoken to you of marriage
yet ?”
“He has spoken of marriage in general,
but not in particular, mother.”
“1 think-lie is old enough to make up his
mind.”
“Y*ou forget Rose Mayfield, mother, and
what Frank- told you about her.’’
The darkness-ref night concealed her coun
tenance, and her mother did not notice the
tremor of her voice.
“Rose Fiddlestick !” she exclaimed. “Nev
er mention that girl’s name in my presence
again. It really makes me sick.”
“And me, too,” repeated Frank, scornfully, j
“I am quite disgusted with it, since I have j
heard that of Miss Haymead.”
Mrs. Raymond felt as if she could have 1
killed the fatted calf for her repentant prodi- i
gal, as soon as they arrived at home, so de- <
lighted was she with the return of his native
aristocracy.
[ TO EE CONTINUED. ]
The following commencement to ale- ‘
g-al document, to which our attention was
once called in a bnsiness matter, is curious j
enough. The parties mentioned were Eng
lish people, the names not being uncommon
on the other side of the water:
“James Elder, the younger, in right of
Elizabeth Husband, his wife,” &c. &c.
Ex-Senator Hannegan Acquitted.— j
The Fountain (Ind.) Circuit Court failed to j
find an indictment against Hon. E. A. Han- j
negan for the murder of Capt Ponoan. {
[written for the sentinel.]
|FOREIGN CORRESPONDENCE.
September, 1853.
My Dear C.: Take we another jaunt
; along the shores of this enchanting Bay, viz.,
j to Bake; if we do not arrive therein this letter,
!we will in the next. This excursion is gen
erally “done” (as the Johnbullism has it) in
a day by the swallow-traveller, though item
braces enough to occupy a week. I, too,
did it in a day, cramming temples, baths, Ro
man villas, blue bays, into my fatigued brain
—sweating, toiling, donkeying, dreaming.
! All this smacks too much of method, of sub
j ordination to matter-of-fact guide's, I am well
; a ware,- but travellers are victims; they do as
they are bidden ; they wander no loriger at
their own will, (“sweet will,” if you like;)
they move’ about in certain well-defined
channels, and if they stray out of these, they
are liable to be snapped up for trespass.
Taking a carriage at the door of the hotel
; —(there are always dozens eager to bore you,
and their drivers are ready, at a moment’s
i warning, to take you to the end cf the penin
j suk—tiie very toe of this geographical boot
! —or would undertake, for a few more “car
lini,” to drive yotr across five Mediterranean,
take a round through the Lybi-an desert, and
so home by way of Constantinople—all this,
too, without jumping down from their box to
sto\V an additional bisouit in their pocket)—
we rolled briskly over the chiaja or quai, this
time having the Bay on our left. The first
object of interest is the g-rotto of
It is a long tunnel pierced through the moun
tain, which, on this side, girdles Naples, is
i about a mile long, and certainly has not one
j whit of that gloom with which the ancients
invested it. it; the drive of the Romans, it was
perhaps a narrow, gloomy Stretch; briefly ven
tilated, and full of dust. Now, it is a paved
thoroughfare, forming a much more conve
nient communication with Bake and its ad
jaceritdes, than the road over the mountain.
One thing is worthy of mention: once in the
year—toward the end of October—the meri
dian of the setting sun, frills athwart the
mouth of this grotto : the golden light stream
ing through it and inflaming every particle of
dust, makes a magnificent sight! Near the
mouth of the grotto, entering it from the Na
ples side, is the fnmouStotnb of V irgil—once
on a level with the entrance, now 30 or 40
feet above it. Naples was the favorite resi
dence of Virgil, and his ashes were transpor
ted thither, I believe by command of August
| fus, arid 1 in conformity with the poet’s own
wish— “tenet nunc Paflhenope” ||ic. —you re
member his simple epitaph. What fit
j dug place than this for the poet—in tfie'midst
of the scenes hallowed* by his own verse!
Bui; alas! I fear that the whole thing is orie
of those myths which man—and who can
blame him ?—loves to believe. A Roman co
hunbarium was found here, and it has been
consecrated, from time immemorial, as the
Tomb of Virgil! This is sufficient, and let all
■ the world worship it as sucli—the innocent
deception will do them no harm. It is said
tiiat the identical sepulchral urn, bearing the
well-known epitaph, existed up to 1300 and
something, when it was removed by the then
reigning monarch, to the “chateriu-neuf,”
and has never been seen since. The ruin of
the so-called tomb, is certainly a very pic
turesque one, and the view from it most love
ly. If it'has no other charm, it is certainly
venerable, from the fact that so many great
men have'visited’it. Petrarch visited it,-with
a king for ids guide; and planted the siiice
celebrated laurel, which has been renewed by
a French modern poet, Me Gasilnir Dela
vigne. The light of heaven is a blessed thing
—one appreciates it as lie emerges from
mountain tunnels and dark caves—perhaps it
was for this that I thought the landscape,
suddenly presented me, pretty. The road
from the grotto turns to the left, and’ runs
straight Over to the water, which, at this point,
juts far inland, forming the beautiful bay of
Pozzuoli and Bake—the drive along the
shore and close upon the rippling water, is
most enticing.
Arrived at Pozzuoli, our carriage was be
set by screeching beggars and venders of j
antiques, by fifties. The impudence of these
latter worthy gentlemen is beyond all par- !
allel; they thrust the obscenest antiques (?) j
in vour face without scruple—sad comment ’
upon their utter demoralization, and the in- ’
delicacy of travellers, who have encouraged
them! Beggars, too, by hordes—we could
not stir for tiie filthy crowd. Giving, one j
would think, were a good method of rid
dance—not so—one penny dropped-into a
withered palm,- will multiply your perplexity
Hydra-like. If you give, you get the credit
of being either green or generous—and one J
is as bad as the other. But we had a talis
man i c word which was to make them scamr
per in a twinkling—’twas simply “Peter.”
Shouting.the word, a gray-haired man of 60,
rose before us, (remember that all this region
is mythological ground,) brandished his oak
en cudgel, and the motley crowd vanished
with a parting broad-side of maledictions- t
Peter, be it known, i3 a guide—perhaps I
should say, the guide. He is a Neapolitan by
birth, and a tar by profession, and he wears
the tar in his face, in bis buttons, and in his
un-Neapolitanic blue “round-about.” He
has fought for the English against the Amer
icans, and for the Americans against the En- !
glish, and is therefore a good friend with
both. Now, in bis old age, he makes a profit
of the English he has picked up under the
two pennons, which English, bv the way, is
! just enough to bother you. But let us tno
| ralize a bit, a3 we trundle through the dirty
streets of Pozzuoli. Who would believe that
this beggarly collection of mud huts was once
the seat of Roman luxuriance and magnifi
cence; that these bare hills, fruitful with the
rich Falernian, were crowned with delicious
villas ; that baths, portico's, and gorgeous
temples, here abounded ! so that Cicero, in
the fullness of enjoyment of all the refine
ment of city life, pronounced it the “Little
Rome.” Oh ! imagine e stately tcga’d Ro
man in that shirtless mendicant, or a Julia
Mamtncea in that withered crone! Yet this
is true. Pozzuoli, now wretched even for
Italian wretchedness, was once the summer
retreat of the wealthy Roman—the gay Ba
den, as one snvs, of antiquity. Here was a
noble Amphitheatre, still a wondrous ruin,
and a grand temple to Augustus. Here, En
peroVs whiled’ away the hot months—here,
Roman’ valetudinarians drank the mineral
waters, and here the luxurious Cicero pass
ed many a delighted hour in his country vil
la’, which then stood upon the border of the
sea, though now far lemoved from it—alter
nating between the Quest tones Aca lon iccr
and fishing , which he might have'done
trom his very portico. Pozzuoli, too, was
once the first port in the Medib franean, and
its merchants were the English of their day
—rich and great protectionists. The remains
of the wonderful mole—built I know not
when—but restored hv Adrian and Antonine ;
the pious attest amply the durability of Ro ! -
| man public works. It once consisted of 25
. arches resting upon enormous columns--13
lot these arches’ yet remain. On one of these
piers St. Paul landed, and walked across
the country lo Oaeta, oil his way to Rome—
so said Peter, and surely Peter ought to
i know. From the end of this long mole,- that
I lunatic, Caligula, stretched a bridge of boats,
! in imitation of another royal fool—him who
| threshed the sea—quite across to the town of
I Bairn, a distance of 3000 paces. This, of
! course, was a simple fancy, a million-toy,
i like Domitian’s horse-palace. It pleased his
vanity to be able to canter over to Bake, by
; a short cut, ol a summer’s evening, instead of
i taking, the plebeian mule on the shore. He
could well do this, for his bridge was built of
j firm planks laid upon a double row of boats,
| and then overspread with sand—a miniature
Appian way, as he called it.
The temple of Jupiteh Sernpife, of geologi
cal renown, is one of the curiosities of Poz
zubls. Its geology I say nothing about. My
friend, Dr. * * * , will hold you by the but
ton by the hour, on that point. That it once
lay under the sea, is most evident,’ though
| how thik could be possible, may Well stagger
, the scientific inquirer—for the sea to have
jvored the temple, must have'covered the
adjacent country—a fact hardly prob
able. The temple Was oiie of the lioblest of
its%ind ; it was circular iii form, and sur
rounded by 40‘or 50 square chambers. The
I cupola Wc.S supported by lt> marble columns;
of immense size. Three of these are still
standing in all the perfection of their ancient
| symmetry; it is these three, encrusted with
shells, or worm-bored, which have formed tho
1
subject of so’much theorizing. The founda
| tions of the temple are as strong as when
first laid. Mbte than a foot of water now
Covers the base, and one examines the whole
iby talking’ over brick causeways. Brokoi
columns arid highly fiiiifehed’ cornices are
, strewed about in all directions. When this
. temple was first discovered, in 1750, it was
i in •'* passably good condition—pity that pains
were not taken to'preserve it. The Amphi
; theatre of Pozzuoli is also a specimen of its
kind. IndikpCiisable to the degenerated Ro
man, was the Amphitheatre, and it # well be
hooved him to have the best in this favorite
summer resort. This was capable of con
taining 45,000 spectators. It seems to have
been built over vast'subterranean chambers,
which are now being exhumed; The whole
region around about, is interesting historical
ly and geologically. The day should have j
been spent here, but see, Peter hurries us off, !
for lie tells us we have much’to db before!
night;
The modern town of Pozzuoli, as I said, is i
wretched in the extreme; it consists of mud ‘
plastered houses, clustered upon a rocky j
height overhanging tho pretty bay. We
must remember, however, that modern Poz
zuoli was well nigh destroyed by an earth
quake in 1533. The ancient city is buried
u ider the waves. Fishermen find, now and
then, a precious antique, disclosed by the
ceaseless washing of the sea.
I am, dec.,
A NATIVE GEORGIAN.
Henry Erskine is reputed'to have been
quite as clever a man as his more famous
brother. His wit was ready, pungent, and at
times somewhat bitter. Another brother,
Lord Buchan, as is well known, was pom
pous, conceited, and ineffably stupid. Upon i
one occasion, having purchased anew estate 1
in a Very picturesque section of the country, j
he took his brother Henry down to. see it.— i
When they arrived at the park’ gate, Lord
Buchan, climbing upon the gate post, com- j
menced a vehement and florid discourse upon
the beauty of the surrounding scenery. Af- J
ter a while his language became so hyperbol
ical and his gesticulations so violent that Hen- ;
ry, being tired of so extravagant a perform- !
ance, called out to him, “I say, Buchan, if
your gate was as high as your style, ( stile ;) and
you were to happen to fall, you would most
certainly break ycur neck I 1 ’
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SO. 42.
[from the North British Review.]
AMERICAN POETRY.
!• itv.vNT is file Rogers of America. lJrob
ably his poem called “Tlmnatopsis” is tho
most finished piece of verse which bus pro
j ceeded from the American press. We be
lieve that it is regarded by the Americans
themselves as their most classical produc
tion and as such it has a right to a place ia*
this notice i
Thaxatopsis.
ro him who in tlu love ot nature holds
I Communion with her visible firms, she speak*
A various language ; for his gayer hours
! She lias a voice ot gladness, and a sniilo
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy,'that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thought*”
Os the last bitter hour come like a blight
. Over thy spirit, and sad images
; Os the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
j And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
! Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ;
| Oo forth, under the open sky, and list
i 1 o nature’s teachings, while from all around—
Lilith and her waters, and the depth of air—
Comes a still voice. Yet a lew day's, and thee
| The all-beholding sun shall see no more
j In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground.
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
1 Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist
Ihy image. Karth, that nourish’d thee, shall claim’
; Thy growth to be resolved to earth again,
! And lost each human trace, surrendering up
i Thine individual being, shall thou go
| To mixlor ever witb the elements,’
j To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
| Slirdl send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould j
l Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish
j Couch more tfiagiiificent. Thou shall lie down’
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,’
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
I Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
! All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,
! Roek-ribb’d, and ancient as the sun—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between
! The venerable woods—rivers that move
In majesty ; and the complaining brooks
i That make the meadows greeu ; and pour’d round all
| Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste, —
j Are but the solemn decorations all,
\ Os the great tomb of man. The golden pun,
i The {Hahfcts, all the infinite host ot heaven,
: Are shining on the sad abodes of death.
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
| The globe tire but a handful to the tribes
; That slumber in its bosorn. Take the wings
i Os morning, and the Barcan Desert pierce,*
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his dashing*; yet the dead are there,
’ And millions in those solitudes, since first
| Tho flight of years began, have laid them down J
In their lat sleep—the dead reign there alone. Sf!
l So shalt t hou rest ; and what if thou withdraw
Unheeded by tiie living— and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
I Wi!i share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
| When thou art gone, the solemn brood of-car*
I Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom ; yetall these shall leave
! Their mirth and'thcir employments, and shall come’
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Os ages glide away, the sons of men—
The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
j And .he sweet babe, and the gray-headed man— ’
i Shall, one by one, be gather’d to thy side,
j By those who in their turn shall follow them.
I co live, that when thy summons comes to join
I The innumerable caravan, that moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
Ilis chamber in the halls ol death,
Thou go not, slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but’sustained and Soothed
By an unfaltering .trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch ‘
About him, and lies down to pleasant draams.’
In this Mr. Bryant has only just missed’
writing a fine poem ; yet, alas! “a urns is
as good as a mile.” It is not a fine poem ;
for a find poerff ought to contain something
unprecedented, in music or in meaning, and
“Thanatopsis” contains nothing new at all.
It lias beautiful movements of verse, as, for’
example,—
“ Yet a lew days, and thee
The all-beholding suu shall see no more
In all liis course.”
It has admirable tbfichfcs of imaginative de
scription, as that of,
“the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashing?.”
Yet, somewhere or other, in Wordsworth, err
Shakespeare, or Young, or someone else,
i we have met with the same movements of
j verse and nearly the same descriptive
| tonches.
It’must nevertheless be granted that such
a poem as the above is incomparably prefer*
able to many which have obtained a name
for originality, but which, in truth, are mere
ly insane endeavors after originality. “Orig
inality,” says Mr. Ruskin, “is never to be
sought for its own sake—otherwise it will be
mere aberration ; it should arise naturally
out of hard, independent study of nature.”
Mr. Bryant’s study of nature may* have been
hard, but unfortunately it has not been inde
pendent. He has paced through field, forest,
and city, observing many things ; but it has
always been with a volume of the English
poets in his hand. He ha3, however, the high
negative merit of not pretending to a great
er degree of independence than he has a just
claim.to. He is manly, accomplished, sensi
tive ir. heart, eye, and ear; but he is not,
and does not pretend to be, “original.”
Mr. Thomas Buchanan Read, as wo
learn from the publisher’s preface to his volume
which is published in England, is “one among
the youngest of America’s poets.” This
being the case, we do not hesitate to declare
our opinion that he is the most promising of
the living transatlantic poets. We know of
no other American, with the doubtful excep
tion of Edgar Poe, having so much real
feeling as is shewn in some of Mr Read’s
verses. Ilis feeling is not very* profound or
masculine, but it is real; and it presents a
refreshing contrast with the cold and