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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
Q{n Jllustrateir tllccklg Journal of Bellco-Ccttreo, Science anb tl)c 2lrto.
m. C. RICHARDS, EDITOR.
©riginal |Joetrn.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
STANZAS:
ON THE BANKS OF THE EDISTO.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ.,
author of ‘ouy rivers,’ ‘yemassee,’ ‘atalantis,’ &C.
River, that still go’st brightly,
Though sweeping to the sea,
And chauntest daily, nightly,
Thy own dirge-melody ;
Methinks thy murmur strengthens
The purpose in my soul,
And, as thy progress lengthens,
I seem to see my goal.
I seek, as thou, an ocean,
The sea of human life ;
Won, by its wild commotion,
And striving with its strife ;
Vain would we fondly linger
Where green shades woo our stay ;
We both obey a finger
That points us on our way.
Yet, downward as thou rovest,
How glad thy waters make,
The green banks which thou lovest,
And the zephyrs where they wake ;
They wake among their willows,
And they laugh with welcome still,
As thy downward-lapsing billows
Lift their lilies with a thrill.
The blue bird stoops to carol,
As thy glittering streams go by,
And the bay tree and the laurel,
Bend above thee with a sigh ;
But the sigh is of a pleasure
That may take no wilder voice ;
While the great pines share the treasure,
And to welcome thee rejoice.
If thus my course may gladden
While I hurry to the deep,
Sure my heart shall never sadden,
When ’t is swallow’d up in sleep;
I, too, shall hear sweet voices,
That requite me as I run,
And the pleasant thought rejoices,
I shall only grieve when gone.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
PRAYER DURING BATTLE.
FROM THE GERMAN OF KORNER.
BY WALTER H. GRISWOLD.
Father, I call on thee !
Lurid’s the smoke of the cannon battling ;
Fierce is the glare of the death-shots rattling ;
Leader of battles! I call on thee :
Father, wilt thou lead me !
Father, wilt thou lead me !
Lead me to victory, lead me to dying ;
Lead me to scenes which brave souls arc trying ;
Lord, as thou wilt, so lead thou me !
God! I acknowledge thee !
God! I acknowledge tlice !
When autumn’s sere leaves the winds may sunder,
When the battle storms, with bellowing thunder,
Fountain of Mercy! confess I thee!
Father, wilt thou bless me !
Father, wilt thou bless me !
In thy hand is placed my life, God of Heaven !
Thou again canst take; —thou hast it given.
Or living or dying, bless thou me !
Father, I will praise thee !
Father, I will praise thee !
Tis no strife for wealth, — that moves us coldly ;
Nearest rights, with the sword, wo fight for boldly ;
Falling or conquering, for these I praise thee.
God! wilt thou receive me !
God ! wilt thou receive me !
hen the thunder of death my soul is greeting ;
hen from opened veins my life is fleeting,
Oh then, my God, receive thou me !
Father, I call on thee !
f nadilla, New- York.
popular (£alco.
THE SCHOOLMASTER’S DREAM.
AN IRISH TALE.
BY MRS. S. C. HALL.
James O’Leary was a schoolmaster of great
learning, and still greater repute; his school
was the most crowded of any school within
fifteen miles of Killgubbin —yet he modestly
designated it his “Small College,'’ and his
pupils “ his thrifle of boys.” O’Leary never
considered “the Vulgarians” —as he termed
those who only learned English, writing, and
arithmetic —“worth counting.” No boy, in
his estimation, merited naming notice until he
entered Virgil; he began his school catalogue
with “the Vargils;” but was so decidedly
proud of “ the Homarians,” that he often re
gretted that he had no opportunity of “ taking
the shine out of thim ignorant chaps up at
Dubling College,” by a display of his “ Gra
cians”—five or six clear-headed, intelligent
boys, whose brogues were on their tongue ;
whose clothes hung upon them by a mystery;
and yet, poor fellows! were as proud of their
Greek, and as f©nd of capping Latin verses,
as their master himself.
JamesO'Leary deserved his reputation to a
certain extent, as all do who acheive one.—
In his boyhood he had been himself a poor
scholar, and traveled the country for his
learning; he had graduated at the best hedge
school in the kingdom of Kerry, and at one
time had an idea of entering Maynooth; but
fortunately or unfortunately, as it might be,
he lost his vocation by falling in love and
marrying Alary Byrne, to whom*, despite a
certain quantity of hardness and pedantry, he
always made a kind husband, although Alary,
docile and intelligent in every olher respect,
never could achieve her A B C’s. This he was
fond of instancing as a proof of the inferior
ity of the fair sex. James looked with the
contempt at the system adopted by
the National schools, declaring that Latin was
the foundation upon which all intellectual
education should be raised, and that the man
who had no Latin was not worthy of being
considered a man at all.
Donnybeg, the parish in which he resided,
was a very remote, silent district —an isolated
place, belonging chiefly to an apoplectic old
gentleman, whose father having granted long
leases on remunerating terms, left him a cer
tain income, sufficient tor himself, and not dis
tressing to others. The simple farmers had so
long considered Master O'Leary a miracle,
and he confirmed them in this opinion so fre
quently, by saying in various languages what
they had not understood if spoken in the ver
nacular, that when a National school was
proposed in the parish by some officious per
sons, they offered to send up their schoolmas
ter, attended by his Latin and Greek scholars
—tail fashion—to “bother the boord.” This
threw James into a state of such excitement,
that he could hardly restrain himself; and
indeed his wife does not hesitate to say, that
he has never been “ right” since.
The old landlord was as decided an enemy
to the National school system as James him
self ; and the matter dropped without O’Lea
ry’s having an opportunity of “flooring the
boord,” which he bitterly regrets. James, for
many years after his establishment at Donny
beg, was exceedingly kind to the itinerant
class of scholars, of whose merit he was so
bright an example. For a long time his col
lege was the refuge of every poor scholar,
who received gratuitous instruction from “the
Alaster,” and the attention and tenderness of
a mother from “the Alistress.” This gener
osity on the part of James O’Leary increased
his reputation, and won him a great many
blessings from the poor, while pupils throng
ed to him from distant parts of the kingdom
—not only the itinerant schools, but the sons
of snug farmers, who boarded in hisneighbor
hood, and paid largely for the classics and all
accomplishments. This James found very
profitable; in due time he slated his house,
placing a round stone as a “pinnacle” on
either gable, representing, the one the terrest
rial, the other the celestial globe; he paved
the little courtyard with the multiplication
table in black and white stones; and con
structed a summer-house, to use his own
phiase, on “geometrical principles,” whose
interior w r as decorated with maps and trian
gles. and every species of information. If
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JUNE 24, 1848.
pupils came before, they “rained on him” af- j
ter his “Tusculum” was finished; and he had
its name painted on a Gothic arch above the
gate, which, such w r as the inveteracy of old
habits, always stood open for the want of a
latch. But somehow", though James’s fortune
improved, there was something about his
heart that was not right ; he began to consid
er learning only valuable as a means of wealth;
he became civil to rich dunces; and continu
ally subdued a first rate “Gracian,” who was,
it is true, only a poor scholar. This feeling, I
like all others, at first merely tolerated, gath
ered ground by degrees, until Alaster O’Leary j
began to put the question frequently to him- j
self. “ Why he should do good, and bother
himself so much, about those who did no
good to him I” He had never ventured to
say this out loud to any one, but lie had at
last whispered it so often to himself, that one
evening, seeing Alary busily occupied turning
round some preparation in a little iron pot, re
served for abdicate stir-about, gruel, or “a
sup of broth ” —which he knew on that parti
cular occasion was intended for the “Gracian,”
who had been unwell for some days—after
knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and clos
ing and clasping his well thumbed Homer, he
said, “Mary, can’t ye sit still at the wheel,
now that the day’s a’most done, and nature
becomes soporific ?—which signifies an incli
nation to repose.”
“ In a minute, dear f it’s for poor Aby—he
is sick entirely, and has no one to look to
him. The place where he lodges has no con
vayniance for a drop of whey —and if it had,
thi y’ve nothing to turn it with, and nothing
to make it of —so I’ll sit down at onct.”
“Then why don’t you sit down at once ?
Why do you sit wasting your time—to say
nothing of the sw r eet milk—and the—he was
going to say “ the sour,” hut was ashamed,
and so added, “ other things—for one who
does no good to US'?”
“No good to us!” repeated Alary, as she
poured off the whey, keeping the cuid careful
ly back with a horn spoon. “No good to us,
(fnav ?—why, it’s for Aby-the-what is it you
called him—Aby Gradus ? No; Aby the Gra
cian—your top boy—as used to be —he that
his old grandmother —(God help us !—he had
no other kith or kin) —walked ten miles just
to see him stand at the head of hie class, that
she might die with an easy heart—it’s for him,
it is ”
“Well,” replied the master, “I know that;
I know it’s for him —and I’ll tell you what,
Alary, we are growing—not to say ould—but
advancing to the region of middle life—past
it’s meridian, indeed—and we can’t afford to
be throwing away our substance on the like
of Aby ”
“ James!” exclaimed Mary
“ Ay, indeed, Mary; we must come to a
period —a full stop, 1 mean—and” —he drew
a deep breath, then added—“and take no merre
poor scholars /”
“Oh, James, don’t say the likes o’ that,”
said the gentle-hearted woman , “ don’t—a
poor scholar never came into the house that I
didn’t feelasif he brought fresh air from heav
en with him—l never miss the bit I give them >
—my heart warms to the soft homely sound
of their bare feet on the floor, and the door
a’most opens ol itself to let them in.”
“ Still, we must take care of ourselves, wo
man dear,” replied James, with a dogged
look. Why the look should be called “dog
ged,” I do not know, for dogs are anything
but obstinate, or given to it; but he put on
the look so called ; and Alary not moved from
her purpose, covered the mouth of the jug
with a huge red apple-potato, and beckoning
a neighbour’s child who was hopping over
the multiplication-table in the little courtyard,
desired her to run for her life, with the jug,
while it was hot, to the house where Aby
stopt that week, and be sure tell him he was
to take it after he had said his prayers, and
while it was screeching hot. She then drew
her wheel opposite her husband, and began
spinning.
“ I thought, James,” said she, “ that Abel
was a strong pet of yours, though you’ve
cooled to him of late ; I’m sure he got you a
deal of credit.”
“All I’ll ever get by him.”
“Ah, don’t say that!—sure the blessing is
a fine thing; and all the learning you give
out, James, honey, doesn’t lighten what you
have in your head, which is a grate wonder.
If I only take the meal out of thelosset, hand
ful by handful, it wastes away; but your
brains hould out better than the meal; take
VOLUME I.—NUMBER 7.
ever so much away, and there’s the same
still.”
“ Alary, you’re a fool, agra!” answered her
husband; but he smiled. The schoolmaster
was a man, and all men like flattery, even
from their wives.
“And that’s one reason, dear, why you
can’t be a loser by giving your learning to
them that wants it,” she continued “it does
them good, and does you no harm.”
The schoolmaster made no answer, and
Mary continued. She was a true woman,
getting her husband into a good humour be
fore she intimated her object.
“ I’ve always thought a red head lucky,
dear.”
“ The ancients valued the colour highly,”
he answered.
“Think of that now ! And a boy I saw
to-day had just such another lucky mole as
yourself under his left eye.”
“What boy,” inquired the master.
“ A poor fatherless and motherless craythur,
with his Vosters and little books slung in a
strap at his back, and a purty tidy second suit
of clothes under his arm for Sunday, It put
me in mind of the way you tould me you set
off’ poor scholaring yerself, darlin’!—all as
one as that poor little boy, barrin? the second
suit of clothes.'”
“What did he want?” inquired O’Leary,
resuming his bad temper; for Alary made a
mistake in her second hit. She judged of his
character by her own. Prosperity had render
ed her more thoughtful and anxious to dis
pense the blessings she enjoyed, but it had
hardened her husband.
“Just six months of your teaching to make
a man of him, that’s ail”
“ Has he the money to pay for it'?”
“ I’m sure I never asked him. The trifle
collected for a poor scholar is little enough to
give him a bit to eat, without paying any
thing to q strong man like yerself, James
O’Leary; only just the ase and contentment
it brings to one’s sleep by night, and one’s
work by day, to be afther doing a kind turn
to a fellow-Christian.”
“ Mary,” replied the schoolmaster, in a
slow and decided tone, “ that's all bothera
tion.”
Mary gave a start; she could hardly be
lieve she heard correctly ; but there sat James
O’Leary, looking as hard as if he had been
turned from a man of flesh into a man of
stone. #
“ Father of mercy!” she exclaimed, “spake
again, man alive! and tell us is it yerself that’s
in it!”
James laughed—not joyously or humorous
ly, but a little dry half-starved laugh, lean
and hungry—a niggardly laugh; but before
he had time to reply, the door opened slowly
and timidly, and a shock of rusty red hair,
surmounting a pale acute face, entered, con
siderably in advance of the body to which it
belonged.
“ That’s the boy 1 tould you of,” said Ma
ry. “Come in ma bouchal ; the master him
self s in it now, and will talk to you, dear.”
The boy advanced, his slight, delicate form,
bowed both by study and privation, and his
keen penetrating eyes looking out from be
neath the projecting brow r s which overshadow -
ed them.
Mary told him to sit down; but he contin
ued standing, his fingers twitching convulsive
ly amid the leaves of a Latin book, in which
he hoped to be examined.
“What’s your name ?—and stand up!”
said the master gruffly'.
He told him his name was Edward Moore,
and asked “if he would give him the ran of
the school, an odd lesson now and agin, and
let him pick up as much as lie could f”
“And what,” inquired O’Leary, wrill you
give me in return
“I have but little, sir, replied the boy, “for
my mother has six of us, paying to one, whose
face we never see, a heavy rent for the shed
w r e starve under. My father’s in heaven—
my eldest sister a cripple—-and but tor the
kindness of the neighbours, and the goodness
of one or two families at Christmas and
Whitsuntide, and, above all, the blessing of
God, which never laves us, w'e might turn
out upon the road—and beg.”
“But all that is nothing tome,” said O’Lea
ry, very coldly.
“I know that, sir,” answered the boy; yet
he looked as if he did not know it, “though
your name’s up in the country for kindness,
as well as learning. But I w'as coming to it
—I have a thrille of about eighteen shillings,,