The Georgia citizen. (Macon, Ga.) 1850-1860, August 02, 1850, Image 1

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The Georgia citizen., August 02, 1850, Image 1

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Newspaper Page TextVOL. I. , - jgi si, mmii * , •r.f) Friday niornin?, in Macon, Ga. on th follow. CONDITIONS : v pid ttriclly I* •deantt - - Si 00 per annum If not oo paid ‘ ‘ * 3 00 , -vril VJrcrtisem-’nts will be made lo conform to the following pro- i vwon* of the Statute ; ‘ . . . _ * J of Land and Negroes, by Etecutor*, Administrators and Guard un*. are required by law to be advertised in a public gazette, suty day* previous to the day of sale. rhese vales must be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between •ke hours of ten in the forenoon and three ip the afternoon, at the vnm House in Use county hi which the property suuated. Thr sales oflVMonal Property must be adverted mhke manner for- , ‘’£& Debtors and Creditors of an Estate must be published forty ! that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for Utrt w sell Land and Negroes, must be published weekly for four or Utters of Administration must be published thirty dcn< —for Dismission trjin Administration. mmuMf, ** month- for D.s ti *Kion from Guardianship./rf* d-iy.*. , K*’*s for foreclosure of mortgage, must be published m*uAlw,for f.MT month— for establishing lost papers. /.r f*e full ,'p.ir, oj tkrte for compelling titles from Executors or Administrators where . hoad has been giren bv the deceased, the full spacr of tkrtc month. rrofessiona! and Business Cards, inserted, according to the follow lac Kale i , Tor 4 lines or lew per annum - - $. 00 in advariee. “ 6 lines ** “ * * “ * OO ~ ** „ 10 .. u . . SlO 00 “ “ iy Transient Advertisements will beelsargedbl.per square of 12 I „!*er lew. for the first and 30 rts. for each subsequent insertion.— na th'-se rates there will be a deduction of 20 percent, on settlement, r hen advertisements are continued 3 months, without alteration. ►-y \u letters eicept those containing remittances must be post paid or frer. ‘ and others who will act as Agents for the -Citizen wiy retain 20 percent, for their trouble, on all tush subscriptions fjr warded. OFKk’E on Mulberry Street. East of the Floyd House and near flic Market. il'ljr ]M% Conan; For the Georgia Citizen. THE AGED OAK. ST MRS. CAROL IXE'LEE li F. N TZ. Hail, tree of the iirest I thou stamlest sublime — Like a prophet of nature—a beacon of time— 'Mul beauty, luxuriance and bloom— Thy branches of verdure have faded away ; Yet thy tomb in its majesty baffles decay, And seorns the approaeh of its doom. Like ft remnant of glory, one circle of green That twines its bright leaves round thy brow, is still seen. ! To crown thee the monarch of trees— The eve becomes weary in measuring thy height, Which towers far above, ‘mid the regions of light. And catches alicavenlier breeze. The tempests of ages around thee have rav’d, The storm-spirits o’er thee, their dark pinions wav and. Yet in strength, thou withstood'st their wil l war— The thunders of ages above tiiec have roll'd. Their lightnings have chain'd thee, yet none can behold On thy temples, the print of the sear. Methink*, as I gaze on thy prond-lifted form. Thou defter of thunder, and lightening and storm — A voice, as of days that are 'out ‘s forth from thy trunk, like the murmuring sound, That rustles along* the pde. withering ground. When sweeps the autumnal blast. When my branches were young, and in loveliness play J. With the zephyrs of summer that woo'd in their shade, No landscape like this wav around. Where harvest fields glow and green tallies spread wide, The wilderness stretch’d in its darkness and pride, And the wild Indian lurking was found. Where innocent flocks unmolested no-v stray h'e.ir the dwellings of man, in the brightness of day. The beasts of the forest would ream— The bison, in lordliness stalk'd through the wood, And the wild wolf ferocious, and thirsting for blood, Then made in the caverns, his home. Where beauty now hallows the walk or the grove, And youth twines the garland of friendship and love, The serpent unnoticed would wind— For no footstep e'er c ross'd o'er its glittering path. But the red man's, who wander'd for prey in his wrath, And east not his glances behind. When in stately luxuriance, I towered o'er the scene, Is the noon of my strength, not a vestige was seen Os all that my infancy knew— The forest had bow'd to the arm of the strong, And the traveller, wandering in safety along Repos’d in the shadow, i threw. Where the savage ador'd the Great Spirit, and gaz'd With idolatrous eye on the altars he rais'd, The temple of Hod was beheld— A*d the prayer of the Christian, like incense as^uding, W ith anthems of triumph and gratitude blending, Rose pure, on the gale, that they swell'd. Now wasted and shorn of my strength, I reninin A seeptreless monarch, alone on the plain, Yet firm on my tempest-roek'd throne— The glories of nations have fled since my birth, The mighty been swept from the face of the earth, And the sun of the conquered gone down. But that Power, to w hom tuitions and empires have bow'd, Who has robb’d of their lustre the mighty and proud, W ill prostrate iny form in the dust— That Power, who the changes of nature controls — Who can cheek the dark ocean of time as it rolls— Eternal. Almighty and Just ? THE BEAUTIFUL. BV C. D. STVART. Thou eanst not clasp the beautiful And call it all thine own, The beautiful is given for all And not for one alone; It is God’s love made visible In earth, and sea and sky, A blessing wide as time and space For every human eye. The foam that crests the ocean-wave And sparkles to the light. The star that gems the brow of mem And glorifies the night, The brook, the flower, the leaf, the bird, Whatever glads the sight— Ir, God’s own loving gift to all, The beautiful and bright. And blessed ‘tis, and beautiful T hat this one gift at least, I ictics the cruel tyrant's power, And dream of wicked priest, For spite of chains, the slave can sec Hod's love is with him here, la beauty's light, in beauty’s joy, And beauty's blessed cheer. -“V nd God be praised! for evermore. For this, his blessed boon, The BKACTiFCL—which all may share, And none can share too soon \ The beautiful, which purifies , And leads us up to Him, Who is its source, its life and light, Lrom flower to Seraphim. -- 1 „ r Jliiori'llitmj. Revised for rtie Georgia Citizen. The Uifl’s of Kenhawa. BY MRS. CAROUSE LEE lIEXTZ. There are many scenes in our own country, which we would wilingly make a pilgrimage to visit, if we were obliged to >eek them in foreign climes, but be ing our oicii, they are comparatively unvalued. We slight the liberal immunities of nature, for the more costly advantages of art. AVo hasten to Transat lantic climes, anxious to acquire that travelled ele gance, that high burnish of manners, which we are ljd to believe the very atmosphere of the old world can impart. We go on. gathering the fragrance of continental flowers, while the blossoms of our native hills, pour their healthful fragrance on the unheed ing breeze. This truth was forced upon my mind, when after returning from an European tour, I late ly travelled amid the mountains of the West, and saw the sublime prodigality with which Nature had lavished some of her most magnificent gifts, where they seemed to have baffled the approaches of mail. My conscience actually upbraided me, for the glow ing enthusiasm which had led me to other lands, while the rich beauties of my own lav unvisited and unappreciated. There is such a charm in the word classic. It seems to combine all that is venerable, lovely and immortal. If we could only imagine some of these virgin solitudes classic ground, we would find myriad temples, carved bv nature’s hand as majestic as the temple of Jupiter Capitoßnus, groves as deep and solemn as the gardens of Acade mus. and waters as pure and inspiring as the dews of Castalia. V* liy does the rock of Leucadia. excite a thrill of emotion, whenever its name occurs in Grecian storv ( Is it because it leans so gracefully and grandly over the murmuring waves of the lonian, or because it gleams with such dazzling whiteness above the grey sea surge l No, it is there that the “burning Sap ho lov'd and sung.’’ That rock resounded with the death notes of her impassioned lyre, those storied waves became her winding sheet. These recollections occurred to me, as I stood on the cliffs of Kenhawa—and since this scene is associated in my miud with a most sad and interesting incident, should I ever revisit the spot, it , would lx 1 with far deeper emotions than the remem brance of the Lesbian songstress ever inspired. The 1 rock of Leucadia is commemorated as the theatre of a splendid but guilty sacrifice—the sacrifice of geni us and passion to their own unhallowed fires. The : cliffs of Kenhawa are consecrated in the memory of a few individuals, bv the disastrous fate of one, who i;i loveliness and purity far transcended the gift ed but misguided Saplio. —Those most nearly and deeply interested in this event are now in a foreign clime, and by substituting fictitious names, I believe I may relate the scene, as it was described to me, without wounding the sacredness of domestic sensi bility. It ir- not necessary that I should give a mi nute description of my journey or fully explain its motives. —The cause of my excursion was indeed 1 most unroraantic, being no other than a business of a most pressing nature. Hut as it had called me from the endearments of home, immediately on my return from a far-off laud, while my heart was wann ing in the glow of affectionate welcome, which was diffused around me,* something of melancholy and disappointment mingled with the feelings with which I continued my solitary route. Ilad Ino other ob ject in view than mere description, I would linger on every mountain, which kissed through dim mist the , bending sky, —on every wild precipice that frowned over the fearful current it guarded. Hut in this in stance, l would rather imitate the winged traveller, , who takes in short glimpses of beauty, as lie flies, and rests not till some sheltering tree attracts his weary pinion, where he can gaze leisurely upon his far blue element and listen to the echoes of his own wild harmony. “It was towards the close of a sultry day I ap proached these majestic cliffs. Description has not yet exhausted its powers on them —and I will at tempt to define the impression they left on my im agination. 1 had been previously warned of a path, which diverging from the public road, served as a guide to the traveller’s curiosity ; and dismounting at the entrance, I drew near the verge of the prec ipice, and I am not ashamed to acknowledge that 1 wound my arm around the trunk of a tree, which bent near the edge of the rock, to give me steadi ness to look down a chasm of more than eight hun dred feet. It seemed to me that I was gazing into the secret depths of nature, and about to fathom some of ife sublimest mysteries. Far below lay the waters of the Great Kenhawa, which there had forced its mountain passage, and hastened on to pour its tributary wealth into the silver lap ot the Ohio. There they flowed pure and silent, eml>os omed in grandeur and solitude, —yet so diminished by distance, the broad stream winding mid almost perpendicular hills, appeared no more than a blue riband curling through the dark velvet folds ot some ancient tapestry. On either side towered the guar dian mountains, those mighty monarch*, crowned with the regalia of heaven, the purple royalty ot a summer’s sunset, floating over their robes of living green, and wreaths of gilded vapour fancifully dec orating the heavy magnificence of nature. The clouds rolled downward through the shadows the* stately rivals threw upon each other’s brow, and bowed themselves, over the silent waters, and look ed on their beauties mirrored in their depths. The sense of my utter loneliness came over me oppress ively ; I longed for human sympathy. I felt in a manner I had never done before, the actual presence of thedivinitv, and the conviction was awful to me. Omnipotence sat enthroned on those regal heights— omnipotence brooded over that deep abyss—the spirit of God breathed in the cool, spiritual air that was flow ing around rne. In a kind ot sublime abstraction, I knelt on the precipitous altar, and the prayer I of fered up, was far more fervid than any which had ever ascended from my heart, in a temple made by man. But my devout enthusiasm began to subside —I wanted companionship with my fellow clay. The wings of the spirit are glorious, but the dust ot ; earth clings to them, even w hen plumed tor heat en, and clogs their upward flight. I tho Tight ot Henry Clifton, the playmate of my boyhood, the triend who had travelled with me through the follies and rivalries of a collegiate life, in uninterrupted harmo ny —and who had sworn to share with me the hard er struggles and higher resolves of advancing man hood. —He was indeed a gifted being. In him in “JnDcpcuiicut in all tilings —Neutral in Notl)ing<” MACON, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, AUG. 2, 1850. tellectual superiority, moral worth and social attrac tion w ere most singularly and happily blended. AA e bad sat down together at the banquet of literature, drank together from the deep wells of science, and gathered the flowers of nature from the same wide garden. He had a sister too, sweet Virginia Clif ton ! She was one of those fair, imaginative be ings, who sport above the dull atmosphere of life, like the soft mist of the mountain, gilt with the hues of heaven, and reflecting them back to earth. I never saw such strength of fraternal love as Henry ; exhibited for this his only sister. They were or phans and all the world to each other. The remem brance of her was wont to come over him like a . chastening angel, in the hour of convivial mirth, holding him back from the brink of temptation with mild, rebuking influence, preserving him from all unhallowed contagion, and surrounding him with a region of purity and light. 1 loved her too, —but with a different feeling from youth’s first wild pas sion. The sentiment partook of the elevation of her own mind, and while she allowed me the place of a second brother in her affections, I was not con scious of wishing a higher distinction. When I parted from her, two years before, from a distant clime, 1 felt an inexplicable presentiment, that I was never to gaze upon her sweet face again. I thought I saw a dim shadow pass over her brow, such as I have watched floating over the disk of the moon, sadden ing, yet not veiling its radiance. Though 1 had left her in all the morning freshness of youth, her im age never came back to me unclouded —that mel ancholy shadow was always flitting over her face, associating the thoughts of gloom and mortality, with the bright vision of youthful loveliness. On i my return, 1 found my father unexpectedly involved in the intricacies of law, and my first object was the fulfilment of filial duty, which impelled me, a solita ry traveller, to the mountainous regions I have par tially described. The same vague apprehension I which had followed me in foreign lands, sileuced i the enquiries which affection suggested. I knew that Henry was to establish himself in one of the Southern cities, soon after my departure, and 1 de termined, as soon as professional duties were dis charged, to renew the socialities of friendship, be neath his own roof. 1 lie la-'t look which I cast from the cliflis of Ken , hawa, is as vivid in my recollection,as if it were the glance of yesterday, and as I continued my journey through that pale moonlight night, over the nar row road that wound along the edge of the length ening precipices, and caught silver gleams of the waters, shining coldly through the gloom while the mountains nodded their tall plumes in the night breeze, and swept their giant shadows on the skv— , the images of that scene of Alpine beauty and sub limity, covered as I saw it with the warm hues of sunset, came glowingly back ou my memory. As i am not writing my own history, only as it is connect ed with those whose characters I have slightly sketched, I will here leave a chasm in the narrative, till I arrive at the moment when I again found mv ! self in the presence of Henry Clifton, in his own opulent mansion. The first glance told me that a change had come over him, but not in bis affection forme. It was a brother’s embrace that welcomed me, and t’ e tear that fell on my cheek might have flowed from the fervor of joy. But the fair-haired Virginia came not jus wont to greet the friend of her brother. Had she left his home for another? I •fared not ask —I was bound by a kind of fearful spell —which would to God had never been broken. Clifton's face was paler than when I left him and his cheek was thinner—but the deep thoughts of man hood might have spread thatwanness on his brow, and the student’s midnight vigils wasted the bloom ot more thoughtless years. His eyes had a darker tinge—was it melancholy or that expression peculiar to high-wrought minds, when intellect and feeling come up from their silent depths, and diffuse their light and shade over the countenance ? She was not there —but lie was not alone. His wife was by his side, —a true personification of feminine gentleness and tenderness. 1 have seldom seen a face, which though devoid of the fascination of beauty, was more interesting than hers ; from the ardent, yet pensive cast of her eyes, and when they turned up on her husband, the soul of wedded love spoke in their beams —one glance would have told me, that she loved him too well for her own peace, for there was idolatry in it. Had worlds been offered me I could not have uttered the few, simple words, which were constantly trembling on my lips, “Where is Virginia ?” Henry gradually kindled into something of Iris youthful animation, while lie led me to speak of classic scenes, and he smiled at what he called my boyish enthusiasm. “I see,” he cried, “that even travel has not brush ed the gold from the butterfly's wings.” From Transatlantic themes, the transition was | natural to those associated with our own country. I | repeated the sentiments with which I commenced 1 this sketch, —“A cs,’, I added, “and I utter it with sincerity, Henry, 1 have never even in Alpine scene ry, and I have gazed upon it, in every varied form of sublimity, seen any thing which struck me as I more magnificent than the cliffs of Kenhawa.” Clifton started as I uttered these words, as if an arrow had pierced him, and his cheek became as col orless as marble.—His w ife drew nearer to him with an involuntary expression of tenderness and alarm, while her eyes turned a moment towards me, were filled with reproachful sadness. . “Good heavens,” I exclaimed,“what have I done ?” I Clifton extended his hand to me, and attempted to speak —but there was a quivering motion of his lips, which made the effort unavailing. Dark appre -1 hensions thronged in my imagination, and 1 felt . there was a mystery hanging over those cliffs, ! fraught with awe and dread not only to himself but me. “Qh ‘. many a shot at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant.” Unable to remain a passive spectator of their in explicable distress, of which 1 had been the uncon scious cause, I rose and walked the room with agi tated steps. “Come with me, to my chamber Charles,” said he, endeavoring to master his emotion, “I have become a wretched invalid lately, as my poor Mary here, knows to her cost.” She understood his wish though unexpressed, and left us in silence at the door of the chamber, whither she had accompanied her husband. Every thing in this department denoted that it was the home of an invalid, and even- comfort and luxury which female tenderness aud taste could devise or arrange were profusely scattered around. The rich scented flowers of the South shed their fading sweeet; models of nature’s loveliness and fragility, mid the selected beauties of painting aud of sculp ture. An astral lamp illuminated the room, and diffused an oriental softness of light, resembling that which flowed on the landscape abre ; But there was one object which riveted my gaze. It was a picture of Virginia placed above those vases of flowers, palely glimmering through a transparent gnuse, which was folded round the frame. The sweet spiritual countenance, the fair exhalted brow -—the outlines of youthful grace —all shone through the dim veil with melancholy brightness. I knew at once, it was the emblem of the shadow of death —the conviction was as strong as if I had stood in the cold presence of mortality, and unable longer to repress emotion which suspense had rendered in tolerable. I bowed my head over the arm of the sofa and wept, a I feAd never done before. “I know that you loved her,” exclaimed Clifton, at last, after a silence, “which 1 think I trover could have broken,’’ —and it is due to that love, which has sanctified our friendship, to relate to you that, which has made my life at times, one long dream of horror. More than a year has passed since the name of those fatal cliffs has been breathed upon my ear —and it was as if an iee-bolt had penetrated my heart. But the calm that succeeds stormy emotion, is now settling over it. 1 can even go back to the moment when we parted, and speak of the hopes that then gladdened mv being. It were vain to tell the almost imperceptible, but certain approach es of that malady, which darkened one of the bright est intellects, which ever received its inspiration from the Almighty. I was first startled by the su pernatural fervor of her language, with starts of causeless sensibility —and the painful inquietude of an eye, which once imaged the tranquility of hea ven. It was long before 1 could acknowledge even to myself, that these symptoms were indicative of any thing more than an exalted imagination, but at length Iter aberrations of mind became too apparent for the truth to be disguised, but 1 shrunk with dis may from the thoughts of her being exposed to the pity of the world. I could not bear that any eye should witness the blight that had fallen on an in tellect, whose power and beauty had been my pride and boast. I consulted the physician so eminently skilled in mental diseases, and he urged the remedy I was most anxious to prescribe, lie advised a journey, an equestrian excursion, through scones whose novelty and variety would interest her atten tion and furnish food for an imagination consuming by its own fires. I suggested the expedition to her which she accepted with earnest delight, and point ing towards the west exclaimed, in that florid lan guage which was ever peculiar to her, “let us fol low the path of the sun to the western hills—Oh ! lovely must be bis setting beams, when shining up. Henry, through the mountain wave !” AYe follow ed the course the dear enthusiast indicated, which she pursued with unwearied spirit and unquenclra ble animation. She never complained of fatigue, nor seemed conscious of fear—and it was only when she stopped for necessary repose, that the symptoms .of her malady were distressing. AA hen her frame was at rest, her spirit panted and chafed like the imprisoned bird, barred from its forest shades and mountain heights. Once, l never can forget it, we were overtaken by a sudden tliundergust, while climbing one of the highest summits of the heaven journeying Allegheny. There was no place of shel ter —we were inevitably exposed to the elements, in a situation which l felt to be dangerous—for the nar row road edged a ravine, dark and steep as the cra ter of a volcano —and our horses startled hv the lightning, reared, and plunged on the very bl ink of the chasm—l trembled,*but ATrginia kindled into extacy as she marked the lightnings flashing, and heard the thunder echoing from hill to hill. “Has ten,” she cried, “Let us on to the summit, that we may see the tempest rolling below us, ourselves basking in eternal sunshine. Let us reach that point which hangs above our heads, high as the ea gle’s eyrv, and there we can look forth and laugh at the storm.” AYe passed uninjured through the warring clouds but I became fatally confirmed in my fears, that she had no longer any congeniality with earthly objects. Upward, upward — onward, on ward—bow often, bow painfully would she repeat those words. I had welcomed with ardor the ad vice of the physician—l longed to have her with me in the solitude of nature, where none could witness the ruin I deplored. But l began to question the wisdom of his prescription, and besought her to re turn to our own peaceful valley. In vain, she, who was wont to be so gentle and yielding, with immo vable pertinacity adhered to our original purpose. “No, no,” she would answer, “we have not yet reach ed the realms of the setting sun.’’ Must I, can 1 proceed l Surely there is a divine support granted mein this hour, or I could never thus go on, step In step, barring these fatal remembrances which have withered my youth. A cs, on we travelled till we reached that spot, whose mere name to-night chilled me into marble. I endeavored to dissuade her from dismounting, but her impulses were irresistible, and I was forced to obey her destiny. I held her back from the verge, and restrained her, most unwilling ly to embrace the trunk of a tree as an additional support. I could feel her thrill and tremble as my arih surrounded her, and marked a hectic flush on her cheek, which too often wore the pallidness of in tent thought. “The hills ! the eternal hills 1” she cried “foot stools of the Deity,” —man has never pressed with his polluting steps your sacred summits—the clouds do homage to your majesty as they bend their gil ded foreheads on your bosoms —and ye still, dark, blue w aters,’’ continued she, drawing yet nearer to the verge of the precipice, but alarmed at the ex citement other words and manner, I imprisoned her movements by a close embrace. “Ah! Henry,” said she, fixing her eyes upbraid ingly on mine, “what is it you fear ! Have 1 follow - ed you so far in these wild paths, and have you yet to learn my strength of nerves, my firm unfaulter ing step ? Release me, if you love me, and let me feel that glorious liberty which every child of God claims as a charter from the skies. AYill you not suffer me to kneel here, and supported by this rock born tree, to offer my tribute of adorat ion to the Di vinity whose presence I feel, nndwhose holy purpo ses 1 am bound to fulfil ?” Oh! madman that I was; faithless guardian of the orphan wanderer. I might have anticipated, I might have known. My brain reels; a frightful glare shoots through my memory, as the vision of horror flits near. Blind, infatuated —struck as if an admonishing cherub addressed me, I released mv arm. She knelt on the rock in silent prayer, and my spirit was calmed at the sight—oh! how fair she looked She rose, aud turning to me with an angelic smile, pointed to the depths below and ex claimed, “Henry, I have seen that spot in my dreams, bathed in the purple light of the setting sun. But the traveller approaches the west, and his twilight hues will ere long cover it as with a robe. Jar down in that watery chasm I see the shadow'of the celes tial bowers, and tie dim glitter of the palace.- of heaven. Farewell —my home L There.’ I saw her arms extended —a flutter of her white robes —Great God ! I was alone. * * * * * * * I remember nought but the echo of my own shriek ryiging its wild knell to the lone rocks and hills—one impulsive motion to follow, and 1 fell lifeless on the clirts. AATien I was restored to a vague consciousness of life, I was sensible of the slow motion of a carriage—of a mild, pitying coun tenance bending over me oti one side, and the shad ow of aged locks on the other. Again I was in darkness. How long I remained in this oblivion of horror 1 know not. When I recovered the full pos session of my clouded faculties, found myself the helpless tenant of an uncurtained bed, in one of those rude houses erected for the accommodation of the “way-faring man” in the wilderness. The same 4 gentle countenance which had for a moment beam ed soothingly on my sight, was lingering near mv pillow, and seated in the half reclining attitude of an invalid, near my couch, I recognised the white locks and wan cheek of the aged, which had bent compas sionately over my brow. It was easy to understand my debt of gratitude. These benevolent strangers had discovered me in my perilous situation, brought me to this place of shelter, the first which presented itself, in those regions which man has mostly left to the native dwellers of the mountain, and adminis tered with Samaritan kindness to an exhausted frame and “a mind diseased.’’ These travellers, a southern planter, himself a waling invalid, on a pilgrimage of health to the salutary waters of the springs, and an only daughter—( Oh ! how touching is that word onlg /) refused to detach themselves from mv unfortunate destiny. “Remain with us,’’ said the father, “be a son to my old age, and more than that, a brother to my lone Mary’s youth.” “Remain with us,” said the appealing eyes of his daughter, and I was not the ingrate to resist the en treaties of uiy benefactors. They alone knew the dark secret of my misfortunes. I had revealed it almost at the risk of again unthroning my reason, and solemnly adjured them never to allude to an event, which, hut for them, had involved my de struction. Most religiously lias the promise been fulfilled. To the world she is dead, numbered with the blighted flowers of mortality—mournt'd for a lit tle while and forgotten. The traveller who pausgs on the rocks of Kenhawa, hears not the cry of un known agony in the solitary gale. No voice comes up from the watery depths to tell of the gem that lies buried there. Oh! unfortunate gir!! thou hast an eternal monument to thy memory, and yet the , wealth of kingdoms would not tempt me to look on it again. The remnant of my story is soon told. My adop ted father was a resident of this city, which*you know has been the place of mv destination, owing ; to an inheritance left me here, by my maternal un cle—our homes were contiguous —yonder white ‘ house shaded by those tall trees, was late liis abode —where that white stone gleams in the moonshine, is now his dwelling—the aged invalid expired in mv arms, leaving me a most dear and holy legacy —his only child—my poor, devoted Mary. Fate has ill requited her worth in linking her heart to one so sad and crushed. AYith what untiring tenderness she watches mv waning health—soothes the irrita tion of my shattered nerves, and gathers around my faded senses all that is lovely in nature and art. Charles, I might l>e happy—l am ungrateful that I am not —but evqn in the arms of wedded love, comes mournfully, darkly, “That fatal remembrance that sorrow which throws Its bleak shade alike o’er my joys and my woes. O’er which life nothing bright er or darker can fling. For which joy has no balm, and affliction no sting.” Clifton ceased to speak, his exhausted voice pain fully denoting how much mental agitation had en feebled his physical strength. I have not wished to interrupt the narration, by describing the deep emo tion which often closed the lips of the speaker or the convulsive anguish which wrung the heart of his auditor. I would have spoken, but there was a suf- j locating weight on my breast, an oppressiveness in the atmosphere, a cold shuddering in my veins. I rose, and leaned from the window, that the free air of heaven might flow in upon me, and remove the ! heaviness that weighed upon my breath; but the white ghostly lustre that glimmered over the scene, fell upon my sight with such sickening brightness, I turned away in loathing. The charm of life was broken—l looked on the fair semblance of the once fairer A’irginia —I gazed on the pale features of the late blooming Clifton, then lifting mv eyes to Hea ven, 1 dared to arraign the mysteries of l’rovi dence. A few weeks after this me’ancholv evening, I ! stood on the sea-beaten strand, watching the stately motion of a ship, which had just spread her canvass to the breeze, like an eagle plumed for flight, and 1 bowed its graceful spars as the keel divided the heaving wave beneath. On the deck of that vessel two figures were seen gazing on the shore which was fast receding from their view. It was Clifton,- with his interesting-wife, who were embarked <>n the , ocean, whose perils I had recently braved for the ge- j nial clime of Ita!y, where the invalid might reno vate the wilted flowers of health, and the mourner find in absence*aml distance “Some sweet, oblivious antidote,’’ for sorrow that would not be comforted. Farewell, Clifton: as sadly fated, as richly en dowed. Thou seekest what thou wilt not find, but God speed and bless thy wanderings. AATien the wounded deer forgets in the greenwood shade that the hunter’s dart is quivering in its breast, then shall the stricken heart discover, a healing secret in the beams of a sunnier land. The malady is within, and there is no medicinal potency in nature or art : that can minister to the sickness of the soul. He alone, who bore himself ‘the mark of the archers,’can furnish a divine antidote, and bid the victim live.” ’ Should the traveller whose eye perchance may | peruse these lines, hereafter pause on the cliff's of Kenhawa, I have made indeed but a cold, imper fect sketch, if when he looks from the awful preci- j pice on those now monumental hills and down into the solitary depth, he does not feel his enthusiasm i saddened by the recollection that he is gazing in the j watery grave of ATrgini,a Clitton. “The tears that you shed iu the depths of grief to-day, may be squirted to-morrow through a hose pipe to clean the dirt off the streets, or whistle away through the squeak of a locomotive, to scare some dilatory cow off the track.” Elegant idea, that! “Tom, you sot,” said a temperance man to a tip phng friend, “what makes you drink such stuff as you do 1 Why, the very hogs wouldn’t touch that brandy. - ’ “That’s ’cause thev is brutes,” said Tom. “Poor crc-turs ! they donno what’s good.” (Original ]hym. t alley f Diamonds. BY T. 11. CHIVKRS, &. P. XXVII. Since the death of Wordsworth, the Poet-Lau reate of England, several persons have lien men tioned in the London papers as being qualified to till his place—among whom are Wilson and Tenny son. W hat any body could ever see in Wilson 10 recommend him, is beyond my Comprehension —un- less it be bombast, rant and “vaulting ambition which overleap itself and falls on the other side.*’ For if any man ever turned eompk’ta summersets in 1 his literary lofty-tumbling, and lost himself in the bewilderment of the head-swimming—he isthe man. He never did but one good thing in his life, and never will do another equal to it, and that was the writing of “Margaret Linpsay.” His “Pits Bo reai.es” is as near the dimonsohs of the “Lord Mo gul and his big black btiH,” as can fct. His egotism surpasses any thing that ever happened this side of Eternity—if not any thing that ever happened on the other. He lias all the hankering after adula tion, now in his dotage, that w e find in a Xeophite who has been petted and overpraised in bis pupil age^ Tennyson is a million times a greater man, and will dignify the office better than any man that lias ever been a Laureate. I shall rejoice to see him crowned, but would prefer Mrs. Browning, the milk white Swan ot Albion, to either. XXV ill. No man can put his finger on a single Poem bv X. P. Willis, which would authorize him to call him by the sacred name of Poet. His style hats an airy faniasquencts about it which would lead owe, unacquainted with the true Art of Poetry, to sup pose that ho possessed something of the divine af flatus; bq/ 1 his is only a manifestation of his ex treme artificiality, and not of the genius of the Poet, llis rvtlim is not his own, but borrowed *:om oth ers. Had lie possessed any originality, ho Would have invested it in a rvtlim of his own—or some no vel combination of number. Put he has done no thing of the kind—never having advanced a single step in the Art from the morning of his novitiate up to this present moment. There is nothing absolute ly idiosyncratic in any thing that lie ever did, either in prose or Poetry. There is nothing in his Poetry to raise it above a perfect platitude, but the inert ex pression. _ His Scripture pieces are only Historical Paraphrases of the Original, and no creations of Beauty of liis own. I cannot, at this moment, put my finger on a single Poem w hich stands out in bold relief from the common-place mannerism of the rest, and call it an Oasis in the Insert. The most of his rhythms are copies from Mrs. Hemail's—which are also copies, liis expression is also imitative of hers; but lie is not the hundredth part of a Poet, be cause he lacks both her religion and enthusiasm.— His Dramas are all based on those of Shakespeare— liis vivacity of Dialogue being only an ebulition of the delight inspired by the world-renowned majesty of his Orphic numbers, llis Theses are generally subjective rather than objective; and their undercur rent is didacticism. There is, in all hi> writings, an artificiality which ! betrays an euthanasia not at all to be lamented— -1 and a diietautesqueness in curtain-lifting which is • truly of the Brazen-nose Age, and greatly to be de plored. There is nothing of that sylphlike urbani ty ofgoatisni about them which characterizes the l'oetrv of Moore—but an Oriental baboonism and Nymphomania supremely disgustingy/ind whose “offence is rank and smells, to Heaveaf/* In short, i their whole tissue, warp and w oof, is manufactured ; out of the-already-mannfaetured material called, in ! the rustic parlance of the Toilet—Petticoat. XXIX. The only original thing that he ever wrote is the following, which may be found in his “Unwkitten Mi sic,’’ and was taken, verbatim , from an old writer whose name I now forget: “‘The eerie essence and, as it were, sprim/e-heade and ori (fine of all mnsiche, is the reriepleasantc sottnde which the trees of the foreste do make when they qrow.'’ XXX. A beautiful little French girl, the other day, on tying a billet with a blue ribbon to a show-white Pigeon’s neck, said, “ Fa, Porter cet err it a f objet demon eoeur, lt was the fourteenth day of the Goddess Juno, and she was about to send it to her juvenile Valentine. It was, by metonymy, a vincu la arnic tiie. XXXI. Tennyson is to England precisely what Emerson is to America—a Literary Ganymede—or. in other word-:, an Ambrosial Eclecticist. Like Theognis, the Poet of Megsira, he ought to be called Chion. EDUCATION. Aml bore it may Ik* proper to select together, in condensed form, out of the mass we have presented, what *c think is not only practical but beneficial. 1. We think it is ascertained that youth may learn the al phabet, and spell, read, write and cipher much faster by the oral method of teaching than by books. 2. That for many of the words now added to. die English i language, we are indebted to writers of the present age, who’ desire to turn themselves offupon community as learned men of the age, by sjn-aking and writing either long, new or for eign words, words w hich the common people do not under stand. The doing of which, proves that the speaker or wri ter is actually ignorant of the English language. 3. That this class of writers are chargeable in very deed, more than any other, for the addition of foreign and mongrel words into our language. Tliat the e xcuse of education is actually increased in proportion to the amount of words add ed to the Euglish language, by these would be thought to be, English writer?. 4. That all learned speakers or w riters make use of plain simple words, words in every day use, that they may be un derstood by the multitude. 5. That a knowledge of the Greek and Latin language*, arc not absolutely necessary to obtain a knowledge of the En-‘ glish language. • That such a system of education to be tohe rated in our school? is as disgraceful to the human under standing as the most corrupt tenets or practices of the Pagan religion, or of the Turkish Government. 6. That there is another class of writers, fwho no doubt’ can w rite plain English) who write a sort of negro gibberish, the doing of which is no honor to the writer, no advantage - to community, but a positive evil, it being oue of the eoumgr by which foreign and mixed w ords arc throw n into tbe En glish language. 7. That from the \ eriour sources of addition to our lan guage the number of words twenty-five years hence may rea sonably be expected to rcaeh the sum of two hundred thou sand. That in consequence of this, we contend for that plan of lnitrust’.or. of the youth of cur crun-ry by which the greatest possible amount of knea ledgo may be impart* !, at the least por.-ible ccot. anl in the shortert j^rsibU.tiiua NO. 19.