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occasionally address a brief and muttered
prayer to the jewelled figure of Mary-moth
er, which stood forth in ostentatious relief
upon a pedestal of porphyry taken from the
ruins of the Alhambra. Bowing his head
to the dust, and crossing repeatedly brow
and breast, did Spain’s king thus bumble
himself, as if to deprecate the anger of the
Virgin, and to bid her bless his deed of
blood. Neither bread nor meat was borne
to the lip; but the stillness of the ‘great de
sert of Zahara reigned over and upon the
hour, even until the last grain of sand in the
glass had run out its race, and the cruel
measure of time was full. Philip was then
satisfied. He threw himself upon a couch.
“The traitor dies!” ejaculated the king.
An audible murmurran around in response.
The time lias expired some minutes!”
continued the king ; “ and your enemy,
Count of Biscay, has passed with it away,
like the leaves of the olive before the blast
of the sirocco!”
“My enemy, sire!” replied Don Ramirez,
with some affectation of surprise.
“ Yes, man !” said Philip, almost mali
ciously. “Why echo our words? Were
you not liis rival in the affections of the
Lady Estella: and can two claim the same
bride, and be friends ? True, hitherto we
have not spoken in council upon this mat
ter; but our royal word is pledged, and the
maid and her vast possessions are yours.
Ob, count! men may talk of the ingratitude
of kings, but never can we forget the ser
vices of that real friend to Spain, who first
discovered the treasonable correspondence
with France in this our pampered minion,
the ingrate Guzman !”
It seemed that Biscay’s count could have
spared this premature declaration of his de
votedness. Shame is ever the informer’s
portion, gild it as he may.
“ With deep reluctance was my sad duty
to your majesty performed,” was the answer
of Don Ramirez; but he faltered in accent
as he spoke, feelingthat although he looked
not in the faces of the chiefs around, their
general expression was aught but friendly.
A pause ensued. Tarraxas coughed audi
bly, while tlie hot blood of D’Ossuna re
kindled in his veins atthe words just spoken.
The sensation was unbearable. Alonzo
struck his sheathed sword with his gauntlet,
as he sought in vain to catch the eye of Don
Ramirez.
“Before tlie betrothed of my murdered
friend shall be the bride of this proud man,”
thought the youth, “ will I also lie in the
Guzman tomb 1 To morrow he my day of
reckoning.”
The conversation was resumed by Spain:
“Your zeal, Don Ramirez, shall not pass
unrequitted. The savior of a throne, and
it may be of our dynasty, must be rewarded
in no vulgar manner. At early morn we
bade you arrange with our heralds-in-ehief
the patent of creation to tlie rank of Duke
and Governor of fair Valencia. Is the
parchment yet ready for signature ?”
Trembling with the full tide of emotions
consequent upon the complete success of
long-cheri3lied aspirations—agitated with
the natural feelings of gratified ambition—
eagerly grasping at the prizes of beauty,
wealth, and rank, now poured around him
—Don Ramirez hurriedly drew from his
vest a vellum scroll, and presented it rever
entially to the king.
“To sign this,” said Philip, taking the
roll with an air of mingled grace and ma
jesty—“ to subscribe this patent be our first
public act to-day. The headsman lias long
since dealt the traitor his meed, aud no oth
er rtoment of time can he so fitting in which
to reward the faithful savior of our crown
and life;” and the king displayed the parch
ment. “Ha!” cried Philip, suddenly aud
impeteously; “Mother of Jesus, what have
we here?”
• • • • • •
Again the legend carries us to the cell of
the doomed. That fearful chess-game is
over at last. Don Guzman has checkmated
Ruy Lopez, and his awful triumph is per
fected. The duke rises from his seat.
“ I am once more the devoted servant of
my king,” said the condemned prince to
Calavar, in accents of dignity, and it might
be pride.
The executioners prepared rapidly to
work forth their calling. Billet aud blade
were speedily fnade ready. The prepara
tions were completed. The duke advanced
to the altar of sacrifice, with that profound
air of tranquility only to be based on con
scious innocence within.
“Let not this act of rashness be visited as
guilt upon my king, OGod!” prayed the
Guzman audibly. Ruy Lopez prostrated
himself in a coiner of the chamber, and with
his face wrapped in his robes, poured forth
almost hysterically the service of the church
for the dying and the dead. The unhappy
bishop could not bear to look upon innocent
blood poured forth as water.
Calavar laid his rough hand upon the
duke’s shoulder, in order to remove the ruff
from his neck. Don Guzman drew hack
gravely.
.“No part of thee or thine may touch a
Guzmau, saving that steel 1” said the duke,
as be himself tore ofT the impediment, and
bared his finely-mouled throat for the blow.
Don Guzman, we say, reclined his head
• upon the billet, and gave the word to strike;
hut a shout like the comingof a mighty band
of warriors rang through the distant halls,
and the door was dashed open, ere the thirsty
axe could drink its draught. At the head of
many nobles, D’Ossuna rushed in and threw
himself upon the rescued duke, while the
narrow cell thrilled with the loud hurrah of
Don Tarraxas.
“ The noble and the innocent 1” cried the
Joung Alonzo. “He lives, and he is saved 1
ly own loved cousin 1 I durst not hope to
find thy spirit yet on earth!”
“But just in time, dear boy,” whispered
the duke, as he swooned away upon the
block. Death could'be better borne by that
bold heart than the stunning consciousness
of life and honorable acquittal 1
Ruy Lopez lifted the noble Guzman, ex
ultingly in his arms, and theduko recovered
sense hut to find himself in the hall of ma
jesty, his friends warmly crowding around,
and Philip himself hanging over the couch
with an eager expression of delight and
satisfaction.
To dwell on the close of this scene were
tedious as unnecessary. Don Ramirez, in
his agitated triumph, had given a wrong
parchment to the king, and its contents
proved the forgeries and treasons of its ow
ner. The whole exposed a plot to remove
the Guzman ; and thereby net only weaken
the chief defences of the throne, but extin
guish for ever a most hated rival. Sicken
ing were it in the moment of joy to dwell
on this in more minute detail. The duke’s
innocence was completely proved, and for
mally proclaimed iu loudest tones by the
high constable. Calavar and Iris gloomy
band were first recalled, from their stunning
sense of stuperfaction and bewilderment, to
consign the black-hearted Count of Biscay
to the Guzman’s late keep of stone, and
three days afterwards Madrid witnessed the
traitor’s well-deserved death on the public
scaffold.
The joy of the court, meanwhile, knew
no bounds. The noble Guzman was over
whelmed with embraces and congratulations;
and the passages of the critical chess-game
were minutely and evensuperstitiously dwelt
upon.
“My friend once more!” cried Philip.
“How could I be so blind, so hasty, so un
grateful to thy long and tried services? Nev
er may my folly Ire expiated!”
“Sire,” replied the duke, “name it not
again. Such words of kindness from my
sovereign outweigh a thousand lives 1”
“ The king took the arm of Don Guzman.
“Friend,” said Philip, “he thou very
sure we may not be thus twice unjust. Tlie
finger of God is marked in this matter, and
Iris interposition has been indeed miraculous.
To offer thee additional rankor wealth were
vain, arid would he an insult to thy puresoul
of honor. To hand dovVn to thy posterity
this providential escape, it is our royal will
that the Guzman shield do henceforth bear
a bright axe argent, on a chess-field azure;
and he it our duty to provide that thy nup
tials with the fair Donna Estella he held
with fitting pomp and splendor, within the
month, iri the halls of our own Escurial
here. Jesu Maria, assoilzie our soul from
the sin of blood so nearly laid upon us 1”
Tlie monarch crossed himself in silence,
and turned to Ruy Lopez. Gloomy and
bad as was unhappily Philip’s general de
portment, there were not wanting moments
through life in which the virtuous principle
strove successfully for the ascendancy. None
are nil good, andsutcly of men none areal
together wicked. We arc fearfully fash
ioned.
“Ruy Lopez,” said Philip, with a smile,
“methinks the church of Spain has gained
a stalwart tlefender in her new bishop.
Thou shalt be consecrated lord-prelate in a
jewelled robe, for the chess game thou hast
this day played 1”
“ May it please your majesty.” replied
Ruy Lopez, “ never before felt I joy at re
ceiving checkmate.”
The king laughed, and of course the
courtiers all laughed too. The humor of
the moment was to make mirth at but little.
Their hearts were full.
“And now, gentlemen, we hid yc forth
with to the banquet,” resumed the monarch.
“ Os all Spain’s kings, never had she one so
famished ior food as Philip at this present
happy moment. Let the cover for our no
ble friend, Don Guzman, be placed at our
own right hand, and ho the trusty Bishop of
Segovia seated on our left. To dinner, to
dinner, and that right speedily 1 Your arm,
my Guzmati 1”
#*###*
And thus did chess save an innocent man,
and thus did Ruy Lopez get his bishoprick.
Doubtless was it meant as a retrospect of
this event, that Ruy Lopez, subsequently,
in Iris Treaties on Chess, printed in Alcala,
1561, heads his second chapter with these
words i “Eli que'se tracta el juego e ocio
loable, no solo permitirsc, pero ser necessa
rio para la conservacio dela vida humann.”
Can enthusiasm go farther? and are not all
real chess-players enthusiasts, from the very
nature and constitution of our noble and be
witching pastime?
An Old Coat. —A man in anew coat is
never at rest. At home he is uneasy for
fear the act of sitting should disarrange its
primeval smoothness, and abroad he is still
more uncomfortable inasmuch as the transit
of every passenger fills him with inexpressi
ble dread of an unpropitious contact. He
steers like the pilots of old, an uncertain
and dangerous course, a baker Iris Scylla,
and a chimney sweep his Charybdis. Now
an old coat labors under none of these dis
advantages. If anew coat is like a trouble
some stranger, an old coat is like an old ac
quaintance. However restricted your famil
iarity may have been at first, time renders
you perfectly at ease with each other, and
all ceremony is forever banished. An old
coat is equally favorable to retirement and
to learning, for when your coat is old, you
lose all Inclination for gadding out else
where; it acts as a gentle moralist, recall
ing your mind from external pomps and
vanities, and bidding you look within. And
then, again, how an old coat enables you
to plunge headlong into a whole train of ad
ventures, regardless of what place or com
pany chance may tlmiw you into. And then
what an enviable independence of the
weather is felt by a man in an old coat!
What a Spartan scorn lie manifests for
coaches and umbrellas! To him the “pel
ting of the pitiless storm” brings no great
terrors; his is no coat to be spoiled.
There is a preacher in New Orleans, run
ning a strong opposition to Miller, on the
prophecies. He quotes from chap. 6, v. 4,
of the Revelations, which says:
“ And there went out another horse that
was red; and power was given to him that
sat thereon to take poace from the earth,
and that they should kill one another; and
there was giren to him a great sword.”
He that sat on the red horse, and to whom
was given the “great sword,” he contends,
is Governor Dorr, and the beginning of the
Rhode Island war, he positively asserts, is
the beginning of the end of the world.
Strong Opposition. —A chap “out west”
came very neur being married lately, ac
cording to his own statement. Tho only
reason why he was not married appears to
be that tho girl, her parents, as well as the
rest of the folks, were opposed to tho match!
sd>urwm is sst sxt as<© is & apit*
Fromtbe Magnolia.
THE BATTLE-FIELD OF LIFE.
We sit down in our, arm-chairs, in the
cool of the piazza, and rdad, with philosophi
cal composure, daily accounts of the wrong
done to man by man; nation#suffering from
the spoiler—from the abuse of legislation—
from the denial of justice. We fancy and
flatter ourselves that all this belongs to an
other condition—does not concern us—as it
immediately concerns anotherpeople. The
sanguine hues of hope enable men, in all
situations, to find the most favorable aspects
and colors for their own fortunes; and we
learn to take for granted that the storm
which rends the dwelling of our neighbor,
will pass over, leaving our roof-trees totally
unscatched. Such is the confident nature of
man, strong always in his self-assurance—
bolstered always on thelulling and deceitful
pillow of hope. We take no interest in the
matter, except as mere spectators —ameteurs
gathered to an exhibition, and feeling our
hurnahity only touched as wo discover that
the victim is not a beast but a man. When
the storm descends and disturbs our quiet—
when the holt falls and shivers our roof-tree
—we start and wonder, inconceivably an
noyed, greatly frightened, scorched, per
haps, and with some bruises to meditate
upon. But not one of us recollects to have
had any warning that such an event was to
happen.
The world is Very much the same always.
What has happened once, is very apt to hap
pen again and again ; and there is no situa
tion, country, people, or laws, secure from
danger, overthrow, and violation. Thereis
a common lot, whether we live in hot or
cold, in Africa of Nova Zembla—whether
we live under despotism or democracy—
with President or Sultan. The old world’s
history is very likely to be ours, for, most
unhappily, we have the most .perfect faith
in the old world’s models. We still hanker
after the Egyptian flesh-pots. The same
events which led to the desolation and de
struction of ancient empires, are active in
hostility to our own. Thesame animal man!
—with all Iris capricious appetites —hisfierce
passions—his unbridled lusts —his love of
ease, of power, and indulgence—heishere,
also, scarcely changed in any one respect
from what lie was five thousand years ago.
Amidst the overthrow of empires, the rise
and fall of dynasties and nations, the fluctu
ations of peace and war, the discoveries and
inventions of ait and science—amidst all
changes, he, alone, has suffered none. He
remains the same—fond of ease; fond of
power; reckless of right in the prosecution
of his purpose; a sycophant in his feeble
ness, a tyrant in bis strength; forever watch
ful of his moment, and always preparing
new nets in which to snare his prey. There
are some influences in modern times which
make him less openly dangerous, and which
provide us with better means of defence
and security, than were possessed by the
ancients. But we daily perceive that, how
ever the spoiler may forbear his robberies
with the strong hand of violence, we yet
become the victims of liis cunning, and our
own miserable follies. His gins snare our
feet when liis knife fails topierce ourthroats.
Our wealth diminishes, our labor becomes
unproductive, and our children, bred up to
great expectations, too frequently inherit
only beggary and shame. How painfully
frequent lias been tlrissort of history, of late
years, in our Southern country. How sad
have been the fluctuations of for tune in some
of our noblest families:—fluctuations which
can lie ascribed to evil counsellors only; to
the weakness, the folly, and the false pride
of the parties themselves, and an economy
which seems to have done nothing but err
from the beginning. An agricultural com
munity like ours, which resembles so greatly
a feudal aristocracy, is very apt to suffer
from false impressions. Our population,
sparsely settled, do not often commune to
gether—do not know each other—and the
wisdom of communities depends very great
ly upon tlieconstaut attrition of their mem
bers. Without this attrition, the minds of
ordinary men rust; for God has intended
that man should be a social afiimal. It is
in consequence of the advantage which he
possesses in this respect, that the mind of
the citizen is apt to be more subtle, more
prompt and active, than that of the farmer;
and it is in consequence of this difference
between them, that the simplicity of the
latter so frequently subjects him to the cun
ning of the former. While we are thinking
wliat to do, the citizen has done it. While
we are asking what road to take, he has
taken all roads; and if he wishes a track,
which more than any other will peculiarly
serve his purpose, he finds little difficulty in
persuading us that we can do nothing more
thoroughly patriotic than to hew it out, and
blaze it—under his directions!
The truth is, the wits of man were given
to them for some purpose. It he can live
l>y them, he will. But he can only live by
them with the assistance of your hands.
Man, therefore, if you let him, is the natu
ral enemy of man. You can only defend
yourselt against him, by the exercise of your
own wits. If not, you are just os legitimately
his game, as the dull turkey whom he snares,
or the timid deer, which flying, he shoots
down. It is not our counsel that you should
snare and shoot also; for that would bring
us to the savage.state again: but do not
drowse over your rights, do not loiter in
your duties, do not sleep in the prosecution
of the grand march of existence. Use your
own wits in what concerns your own inter
ests ; lend your money with your own hands,
instead of deputing this duty to a hank; so
shall you possess the power of choosing
whom you shall assist, and be able to exer
cise the sweet charity of forbearing to press
the unfortunate debtor for his dues. So
shall you also stand some chance of keeping
some of your property from the general
wreck of hank-insolvency. Indolenne of dis
position, and a mercenary ddsire to secure
larger profits, are the true reasons of most
persons in lending their money by means of
such an institution, instead of lending it di
rectly to him who seeks the loan. This is
given as an example purely, hut the arts of
speculation are as numerous as the leaves
on the tree, and the sands on tlie sea-shore,
and the man who hopes to evade them, must
always keep his wits about him.
The Citric Acid is procured from lemons.
The blind beauty of the Moor. —Death
seems not to have touched that face, pale
though it be—lifelike is the waving of those
gentle hands—and the soft, sweet, low mu
sic which now we hear, steals not sure from
lips hushed by the burial mould! Restored
by the power oflove, she stands before us
as she stood of yore. Not one of all the
hairs of her golden head was singed by the
lightning that shivered the tree under which
the child had run for shelter from the flash
ing sky. But in a moment the blue light in
her dewy eyes was dimmed—and never again
did she behold either flower or star. Yet
all the imagesof all the things she had loved
remained in her memory, clear and distinct
as the things themselves before unextinguish
ed eyes; and ere three summers had flown
over her head, which, like the blossom of
some fair perennial flower, in heaven’s gra
cious dew and sunshine each season lifted
its loveliness higher and higher in the light,
she could trip her singing way through the
wide wilderness, all by her joyful self, led,
as all believed, nor erred they in so believ
ing, by an angel’s hand 1 AVhen the prim
roses peeped through the reviving grass up
on the vernal braes, they seemed to give
themselves into her fingers; and ’twas
thought they hung longer unfaded round her
neck or forehead than if they had been left
to drink the dew on their native bed. The
linnets ceased not their lays, though her
garment touched the broom-stalk on which
they sang. The cushat, as she third her way
through the wood, continued to croon in her
darksome tree; and the lark, although just
dropped from the cloud, was cheered by her
presence into anew passion of song, and
mounted over her head, as if it were his
first matin liymn. All the creatures of the
earth and air manifestly loved the Wanderer
of the Wilderness ; aud as for human be
ings, she was named, in their pity, their
wonder, and their delight, the Blind Beauty
of the Moor!
She was an only child, and her mother
had died in giving her birth ; and now her
father, stricken by one of the many cruel
diseases thal shorten the lives of shepherds
on the hills, was bedridden, and he was
poor. Os all words ever syllabled by hu
man lips, the most blessed is—charity. No’
manna now in the wilderness is rained from
heaven, for the mouths of the hungry need
it not in this our Christian land. A few
goats feeding among the rocks gave them
milk, and there was bread for them in each
neighbor’s house—neighbor though miles
afar—as the sacred duty came round—and
the unrepining poor sent the grateful child
away with her prayers.
One evening, returned to the hut with her
usual song, she danced up to her father’s
face on his rushy bed, and it was cold in
death. If she shrieked—if she fainted—
there was but one ear that heard, one eye
that saw her, in her swoon. Not now float
ing like a small moving cloud unwilling to
leave the flowery braes, though it be to melt
in heaven, hut driven along a shroud of fly
ing mist before the tempest, she came upon
us in the midst of that dreary moss ; and at
the sound of our voice fell down with clasp
ed hands at our feet—“ My father’s dead!”
Had the hut put already on the strange,
dim, desolate look of mortality ? For peo
ple came walking fast down the braes, and
in a little while there was a group round us,
and we bore her back again to her dwelling
in our arms. As for us, we had been on
our way to bid the fair creature and her
father farewell. How could she have lived
—an utter orphan—in such a world ? The
holy power that is in innocence would for
ever have remained with her; but innocence
longs to be away, when her sister Joy has
dep'arted ; and ’tis sorrowful to see the one
on earth, when the other has gone to Heav
en 1 This sorrow none of us had long to
see, for though a flower, when withered at
the root, and doomed ere eve to perish,
may yet look to the careless eye the same as
when it blossomed in its pride—yet its
leaves, still green, are not as once they
were—its bloom, though fair, is faded—and
at set of sun, the dews shall find it in decay,
and fall uufelt on its petals. Ere Sabbath
came the orphan child was dead.* Methinks
we see now her little funeral. Her birth
had been the humblest of the humble ; and
though all inlife had loved her,it was thought
best that none should be asked to the fune
ral of her and her father but two or three
friends. The old clergyman himself walk
ed at the head of the father’s coffin ; we at
the head of the daughter’s; for this was
granted unto our exceeding love. And thus
passed away for ever the Blind Beauty of
the Moor I— Recreationstf Christopher North.
A Snake Story. — A live garter snake,
twelve inches long was found in the Savan
nah mail bag on being opened at the Balti
more Post OfficeonSaturdayevening. The
Patriot questions the snake’s right to a free
passage in Uncle Sam’s mail. His garter
ship has certainly evaded the scriptural de
nunciation under which his journeyings
should be performed by crawling. Howev
er, be has furnished a decided snake story.
Newspaper. —l positively never knew a
man in the country who was too poor totake
a newspaper. Yet two or three, even re
spectable people, read no papers but what
they borrow. As I speak generally, I hope
I offend none. If I do, the greater neces
sity to speak out. Every man is able con
veniently to take a weekly newspaper. The
cost is four cents a week. How many who
think themselves too poor to take a paper,
pay as much daily for drink ?
We very much admire the church war
den’s wife who went to church for the first
time in her life, when her husband was
church warden ; and being somewhat late,
the congregation were getting up from their
knees at the time she entered, and she said
with a sweetly condescending smile, “Pray,
keep your seats, ladies and gentlemen; I
think no more of myself now than I did
before.”
“John, how I wish it was as much the
fashion to trade wives as it is to trade hor
ses!” •
“ Why so, Peter ?”
“ I’d cheat somebody most shockin’ bad
afore night.”
@ O©OM A(L a
For tho “ Southern Miscellany.”
SKETCHES FROM THE H1LL...N0.2.
Aunt Betsy's Pedigree, by herself—Prefaced
BY QUIZ.
Judging from tlie following pedigree,
we should say that Aunt Betsy’s was an
“ uncommon smart” family, and the literary
world have to lament that they were not all
dependent upon their “ mental resources for
support.” But Aunt Betsy alone seemed
destined to “ astonish the natives” with her
literary productions. It is unfortunate that
she became attached to one who had a
“ sound judgment” but a dormant taste for
literature—otherwise she would have adopt
ed the advise of kind friends, and flooded
the world with literary gems, many years
ago. If we are not much mistaken, the
pedigree which we extract, was one of the
first literary lights that gleamed upon a
benighted public from tho pen of Aunt
Betsy.
Aunt Betsy was born a genius—at least
so says the pedigree, and who can doubt
it ? Have not the public wept, laughed, ay,
shouted over her writings? We ask the ques
tion, have they not? For of course we
know nothing of the matter ourself! Not
withstanding domestic oppression, the Pro
methian fire of intellect would blaze forth
and o’ertop the little .geniuses of the school
room. Did she not “ compare herself with
those who possessed real talents,” while
yet in her teens ? With what avidity did
she ddVour the contents of books belonging
to literary men, who “ hoarded with her
mother.” Who can tell but at that very
time the spirit of prophecy was whispering
in her eager ear the tale of future greatness,
and the gratitude of coming generations for
sundry works of vast conception, yclept
but pass we that! But she “ sup
pressed her ambition.” What an extraor
dinary spirit of forbearance she must have
exercised in thus forcing, as it were, the
very current of the turbid stream back up
on its source. W hat 1 cramp such towering
genius within the compass of a school-room!
“ The creature of imagination,” teaching
a-b, abs to numerous little ragged uhchins 1
Truly fortune delights in sporting with the
gifted.
The mishaps of herself and husband are
most pathetically described. His “ acci
dents by flood and field,” thus delineated,
would move to tears many a gentle Desde
mona. But his “ sterling qualities” carried
him through; and he has, by the mere force
of resolution, put Dame Fortune to flight
and thrived “ upon his own hook.”
“ The struggle for mere existence over
his mind has had leisure to turn to litera
ture.” We do not suppose this to be meant
in its literal” sense, that he has turned author,
but that his “sterling good sense” added to
her sublime “ imagination,” has enabled
them, jointly, to create quite a sensation
among the literati. And now, Aunt Betsy
seems about to attain the summit of her
“ high ambition,” and “ bask in the sun
shine of fame.”
We hope the public will properly appre
ciate our motives in thus presenting them
with a document, valuable not only for its
beauty of diction, but as a brief biography
of one who occupies a prominent place in
the literary community.
“I was the second daughter—my older
sister and brothers, of course, felt them
selves my superiors—and my younger sis
ter, as the youngest child, was the pet of
all. Every thing she did was lauded highly,
while my efforts were either passed over in
silence, or the defects pointed out with ridi
cule. Thus repressed at home, school be
came my happiest place, for there competi
tion was free; but while I was always near,
or at the head of my classes, my abilities
were but lightly esteemed at home.
“ I was generally a favorite with my mas
ters, though their kindness was shown in
judicious advice, rather than in that baneful
indulgence, which exempts some from the
more difficult parts of their lessons, or gives
mechanical assistance, to the great detriment
of the minds of the so favored ? mortals.
My teachers kindly explained principles,
and left me to apply them, which strength
ened my reasoning faculties, and has been
of great advantage to me through life, for,
naturally, I was extremely sensitive, and
the creature of imagination.
“As I advanced in years, I began to be
less entirely absorbed in my studies, and to
reason upon things around me. I perceived
that the pecuniary circumstances of my fam
ily were not so easy as formerly—a cloud of
care appeared upon the brow of my mother
—and when I had reached the age of thir
teen, the entire support of us devolzed
upon her. It was indeed hard for her—
bred in affluence, and living in ease so’long,
to be obliged, by her own efforts, to support
a numerous offspring, who were atthattime
of life when their pursuits were to be cho
sen, and when they most required a father’s
care. But my mother was a woman of
strong mind: she saw her appointed path,
and with firm step, prepared to walk in it.
She established a boarding house, where
gentlemen, who were finishing their medi
cal studies, and other literary men, formed
our family; and their conversation and in
struction were of great advantage to me. I
had access to their books, and my taste was
formed upon just models, while I could com
pare myself with those who possessed real
talents; and hope, one day, to show that I
had similar abilities. I attended an excel
lent school until I was about sixteen—my
older sister was married, my brothers either
in business or learning trades—so that my
mother had only my younger sister and my
self to support. She still had a small num
ber of boarders, and I was desirous to re
lieve her advancing years of part of her re
maining burden.
“I consulted my teachers as to my best
course, for I depended on my mental resour
ces for support. They advised me, with
one voice, to turn my attention to writing
for the public; aud my ambition would have
directed me the same way, but there was
one, whose sterling good sense had won my
esteem, and whom 1 looked upon as my fu
ture partner in life, though we were both
young. He hod a sound judgment, though
his taste for literature was still dormant. 1
reflected, that if I married him, literary a V tv
cations would not well accord with the calf
of my duties, which would devolve upon
me. not only the cares, hut much of the ac
tual labor of afamily. I suppressed my am
bition, therefore—took charge of a school
and while I assisted ray mother, felt myself
happy. My mind would sometimes yearn
for higher pursuits, but after the fatigues of
school hours and home duties were over, I
had little spirit left to indulge in efforts for
the attainment of literary excellence.
“Years passed on—my sister married
and, at the age of twenty, I also, with good
prospect of competence, entered on thatholy
state. But, alas 1 my hopes were doomed
to disappointment—in six short weeks fire
reduced my husband from prosperity to an
embarrassedstate—sickness was my lot, and
trouble seemed to come upon us, as if to
try how much we could bear.
“My husband preserved his fortitude, and
what was more, his even temper; but em
barrassment succeeded embarrassment, till
at the time my second babe was given us)
he was reduced to seek, in vain, for em
ployment as journeyman, in thetrade where
lie bad been master. His heart was wrung
with our situation—for my health continued
very bad, and I was obliged to exert myself
to the extent of my strength, at all times
and often beyond it, till the most fearful ias’
situde would ensue.
“When we were thus almost reduced to
despair, Providence opened a way for my
kind husband, to go as supercargo of a ves
sel to a distant ynrt ; and though parting
was doubly painful to us, who had borne
sorrow with increase of love, we hoped his
efforts would he blessed. Again, however,
we were doomed to disappointment—the
vessel was wrecked, and his only consola
tion, in that dark hour, was, that his wife
and children were not exposed, with him,
to the fury of the storm—all lives were saved,
and he took passage from the West Indies,
for home. Still again disappointed—the ves
sel was driven from her course, and obliged
to enter a Southern port. Homeless, pen
niless, and almost naked, still his sterling
qualities carried him through—besought
and obtained employment—was esteemed,
and in a short time, felt justified in sending
for his family. Our union was joyful, it
may be supposed—God only can know the
gratitude of our hearts.
“Years have passed—every thing has
prospered under his hand—and the struggle
for mere existence over, his mind has had
leisure to turn to literature. He is no com
mon character, as this narrative shows; but
no one can value his qualities rightly, with
out actual intimacy. Respected, honored,
by all around him, his name is already known;
and lie has become anxious that 1 too, should
bask in the sunshine of fame. His urgency
and encouragement have induced me toplaee
before the public, some productions, which
have been well received; and in after life,
thissketchmay teach our children that ‘God
forsakes not those who do not forsake them
selves.’ ”
Macon, Georgia,
For the “Southern Miscellany.
“ Perhaps il may turn o u t n song,
Perhaps turn out a sartnon.”
The above lines, I believe, were written
by Burns, or by somebody else ; but let the
author be who he may, of one thing I am
satisfied, and that is this, they form a first
rate “ heading” for what is about to follow,
because I am not myself at all certain what
I shall write—perhaps a song; maybe a ser
mon. But I have gotten the fit upon me—
the “cacoethes scribendi,” I believe the
learned. folks call it-—the desire to writeand
the desire to print what I write, that the
world may see how much is yet unwritten
and unsung, and by-the-way that your good
readers, may know that there is another
competitor for fame about to venture upon
the stirring race. Now, I take it, that it
must produce a most pleasurable sensation
about the phrenological organ of “ desire
of approbation” in an author, to know that
hundreds of eyes are tracing the lines which
have sprung from his fruitful brain, or pen
—I don’t care whether the brain had any
thing to do with it; and to sit down in the
midst of a crowd, when the paper comes
out, and all eyes are running over its pages
to see who is in the paper, &c. &c. I say.it
must be a treat of no ordinary sort to hear
the enquiries made, “ I wonder who such
and such an one is ?” and “ who is the auth
or of this or that?” “that fellow writes
well”—“ such a lady is a graceful writer,”
and so on. Now, the anonymous writer
hears and sees all this ; hears himself prais
ed by every one; fells all the world like a
second edition of Byron revised aud improv
ed, and who but he who feels so self com
placent ? who has a right to strut larger, or
wear his hat with a more rakish set than
him ? Now, I have witnessed all this, and I
have seen it about town too. You have
some nice writers, likely to do well in the
literary world, and will doubtless rise one
of these days, if they “ keep a cuttin,” as
the saying is. I like to see them going ahead,
and weaving the Web of their own glory.
Now, I have a great thirst to become an
author, and to hear myself—though all un
known—praised by the gaping crowd ; and
to hear the eager inquiries, “ well I wonder
who he is ? did you ever 1 my gracious!
how he writes 1” Now, sir, you may think
me egotestical, and all that, and mighty for
ward, and not so modest. Well, I don’t
care a stiver if you do. lam rather more
honest than other folks—that is all. We
all love praise, and all seek it, some covert
ly, some slyly, some more openly; I am
flat-footed about it, and if you could only
give me a puff or two—none of your in
undos, but a broad up and down puff in
your “ To Correspondents” corner, it would
help me mightily. I intend to go the figure,
sir, I shall write, and I want the praise—the
honor—the glory j that’s it. That is what
lam after. lam out on the ocean of po
pular favor, with all sails set to catch the
breath—the soft-soothing, refreshing breath
of.faroe. Don’t you think I shall win the
prize ? I do. lam determined on it—no
matter what you think, or what any body
else thinks. I believe that to will it, is to
do it. So I give to all your corresdondents,
and to you, too, Mr. Editor, fair warning:
lam out—out in the field, a candidate—QOt