Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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,,