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been once misplaced, he did not become mis
anthropic, nor less hopeful, when his purpo
ses were defeated by the man’s villainy.
He married a woman, worthily beloved by
him for her fine qualities of heart, and the
rare cultivation of her mind. lie never
dreamed that the want of wealth could be an
objection to her. They were happy in their
home, which was ever
“ A sunny realm of poetry and love,”
and none the less happy were they, that their
circumstances, but more than that, their pe
culiar and more elevated tastes, prevented
their participation in the fashionable follies
of the great world, in which, however, a po
sition was assigned them, by right of those
very tastes and accomplishments, had they
chosen to occupy it. Their sons grew up
around them, dutiful, high minded, and gifted
with distinguishing talents, which their pa
rents had appreciated, and properly directed.
Their daughters were loving gentle girls, with
hearts and souls trained by their noble mo
ther, until each became like herself, “ a per
fect woman.”
During his early life, and a few of his ma
turer years, Frank had struggled hard, with
the tide which had set in against him ; for in
addition to the great misfortune of his life, he
had met with another which had more mate
rially affected his success. His heart had told
him to go security, for a near and dear friend,
when his head would have told him differ
ently—and the payment of large sums threw
him far behind in his course towards prosper
ity ; but his affection was satisfied, and his
conscience did not condemn him—so he w T as
not unhappy.
Old age came on, and in our friend Frank
it was beautiful to see, for
“ his spirit’s fervent youth,
His wisdom sweet, his fearless truth,
Had uever known decay.”
His wife loved, more devotedly than ever,
the unchanged heart which had first won her
affections; his children profited by his mis
takes, and the world had gone prosperously
with them; but infinitely more than wealth
did they prize the lessons his true heart taught
them; and the memory of his goodness was
a richer, and alas! a rarer legacy than gold
and broad lands.
I knew him in his declining years, and re
garded him with loving reverence. I re
viewed his life as I listened to its records, and
called him a wise and happy man; but I
heard proud and ambitious, and rich men, the
worldly-wise and prudent, call him a fool ;
and such I find to be always the world’s
judgment of men like Frank Sprague. Os
how little worth, then, is the applause of
such a judge!
ijomc (lorrcsponbcnce.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW-YORK LETTERS-NO. VII.
Rathbun’s Hotel, )
New-York, June 15, 1848. )
My Dear Sir , —The great fever of curiosity
and anxiety is over —the nomination of the
Whig Convention has reached us, and we are
“ preparing to piicker,” in the cause of the
hero of Buena Vista ; that is to say, those of
us who don’t hurrah for General Cass. Cer
tain politicians of each party, dissatisfied with
the nominees of their respective conventions,
are uniting in an independent race, under a
union of leaders —Clay for the Presidency,
and John Yan Buren as his Vice. Though,
of course, the question as to the next tenant
of the White House, is virtually settled, and
we may safely begin, as soon as we please,
to speak of “ His Excellency President Tay
lor.” Even had the General been thrown out
by the Philadelphia Convention; there is very
little doubt that he would have been cast hack
upon us again by the people. They are de
termined to have no other man than he, be
his policy what it may. Principles appear to
a®is tt nan & m n, nit&a aa y ©asstt'O's.
be entirely abandoned for men. Old, vora
cious office-seeking politicians, of both par
ties, find some slight consolation, under this
inevitable destiny; the Whigs, in the hope
that their candidate may, after all, turn out a
genuine Simon Pure; and the Democrats, that
he will prove so little of a party man, as to
allow them, while they behave themselves
with propriety and keep reasonably dark, to
pocket a gratifying share of the spoils.
General Cass would stand a better chance
of success, if his name were more available
in verse, and suggestive of less questionable
rhymes. I fear that all the poetic talent in
the land would not avail him. I have, by
way of speculation, staked a beaver on each
-side of the question, so that whatever the re
sult, I shall still be safe, as I have no doubt
the “country,” also, will be. Mr. Cass made
us a visit last week, as the guest of the city,
and was duly paraded through Broadway,
like Mr. Clay and General Scott before him.
The affair, however, went off rather shabbily,
exciting but slight attention, and still less en
thusiasm. He was accompanied by General
Houston and Benton, Mr. Allen of Ohio,
Foote of Mississippi, and other honorable
gentlemen. Walking up Broadway after
dinner, my path was obstructed by a motly
crowd, greedy for speeches from these distin
guished visitors, who had, then, just entered
the Astor House. As one of them came for
ward to the window, his foot slipped, which
gave occasion for a general cry, from the boys
on the awning-posts and in the shade trees, of
the ten-pin watchword, “Set him up!” fol
lowed by a universal roar. You can form
but a poor idea of the droll effect of such in
terludes as these, unless you are familiar with
peculiar style and sui generis enunciation, of
the slang of our immortal “b’hoys.” You
should stroll down the Bowery in the eve
ning, observe one of these characters, with
his jauntily placed “ tile,” his hands thrust in
his pockets, and a cigar in his mouth, as he
swaggers up to a stranger, with the fraternal
and courteous salutation of “ Look-a-hear,
Mister—doh yer waant toh pick a muss, cause
if yer do, I’m one of the b’hoys!” I once
heard one of these chivalrous gentry, in the
Art-Union Saloons, trying to “pick a muss,”
with the superintendant, who was politely in
timating to him that the Art-Union would al
was’s feel exceedingly flattered by his society,
but that it was incumbent upon visitors, to
leave their sticks and cigars at the door, and,
(unless the thermometer was extravagant,) to
wear some or other species of coat. The es
timable democrat found exceeding difficulty in
realizing the force of the superintendant’s ar
guments, but finally sauntered slowly out of
the gallery, whistling a negro air by way of
compromise, between the aristocratic requisi
tions of the Gallery and his own ideas of
“ liberty, fraternity and equality.” Did I ever
mention to you the anecdote of the man with
the cloak, who visited the Art-Union last
winter ? As he was passing out of the sa
loon, he kept very near the wall, as the rea
diest way of making his way through the
crowd, and in so doing, brushed his cloak
against the pictures. When one of the guar
dians of the exhibition observing this, called
his attention to it, and suggested the propriety
of a little more care in his walk, he very
quietly thanked him for his politeness, and
proceeded to brush the pictorial dust from his
injured garment!
Speaking of these democratic gentlemen,
reminds me of the French Revolution and of
the new coins of the Republic. I have a five
franc piece in my purse, which I assure you
is exceedingly pretty. The group on one side
of two female figures, “ liberty and equality,”
supporting the stalwart frame of the “frater
nity,” is very happy and artistic. The suc
cess of the Republic is certain, if they only
issue enough of these pretty “ circulars.”
Apropos still—the foreign news by the
Acadia, which reached this port on Saturday,
is of considerable importance. The abrupt
and singular dismissal of Sir H. Bulwer, the
English Minister at the Spanish capital, may
give us some interesting London items by the
next steamer. They seem to have had stormy
times again in Naples. The aspect of mat
ters in Ireland, is not such either, as to banish
concern and speculation The new emeute in
Lyons, and the dissatisfaction in other por
tions of France, though unsatisfactory intelli
gence, is yet of far less import than the want
of union between the National Assembly and
the Executive Commission. It will be very
unfortunate for the young Republic, if La
martine should resign, as reports seem to in
timate. The lingering hopes of the Bourbons
to regain a footing in France, are scarcely less
absurd than the tone of the correspondence
attributed to the excellent de Joinville. But
the letter of your London correspondent will
probably supply you with sufficient comment
upon these events, and anticipate whatever I
might say.
Signor Felix Foresti, has taken his depar
ture from New York, to aid his brethren in
Italy in their struggle for freedom. He came
here a number of years since, as an exile for
political offences in his native land, where he
had previously suffered severe hardships, even
to the extent of thirteen years imprisonment
in chains; and after standing too, upon the
scaffold. He is an accomplished gentleman
and scholar, and a devoted patriot. While
here, he nobly earned his subsistence by his
labors, chiefly as a ffiacher of his native
tongue. He has left behind him scores of ad
miring, and sincere friends.
Last Tuesday evening our Historical Soci
ety held a regular and very interesting meet
ing. It was the very important occasion of
the introduction of strawberries and cream
for the year. The Historical Society dotes
upon strawberries even more than on “pa
pers.” Neither is this delicacy the only crea
ture comfort in which the learned body indul
ges. Coffee and chocolate, and divers sun
dries enable them to swallow, without dan
ger, the dry documents to which they me con
tinually called to listen
1 passed an hour or two very pleasantly on
Saturday evening, in the drawing-rooms of
the Poetess, Miss AnnaC. Lynch. Saturday
nights are the occasions on which she is al
ways at home to her friends; and she never
fails, if the weather be not absolutely awful*
to draw around her a gay assemblage of au
thors, artists and others. On the visit of
which I speak, I met a number who bear
names familiar and favorite with the public—*•
among them Miss Clarke, (Grace Greenwood,)
Mr, Bayard Taylor, Mr. Griswold, Darley,
etc. You will meet there, also, with Mrs.
Osgood, Seba Smith, Miss Sedgwick, Headly,
Willis, and indeed, every body in time and
turn. But as I purpose in another letter, to
speak further of Miss Lynch and her agreea
ble re-unions, I will not anticipate my tale.
To-morrow, I purpose starting on a few
days exploring expedition in the “Jerseys,”
which I mention by way of exordium to the
fact, that as I shall be frequently, and for
longer or shorter periods, absent from town
during the summer months, you may occa
sionally fail to hear from me, but, I will write
as regularly as possible.
You will observe that I have, this week,
raised the banner of my hotel—the “ Rath
bun,” at the head of my letter. This Ido in
honor of some “great and glorious” improve
ments in the house, which my indefatigable
landlord has just completed, in the shape of
multifarious additions of new rooms, an ele
gant ladies’ ordinary, second to none in the
country—a unique bar-room and so on. Then,
too, we Rathbunites are becoming quite proud
of our house and host, as our limits extend
and our glory increases. We now cover one
hundred and forty feet of the fairest portion
I of Broadway, and extend rearwards ad libitum.
If I could but enclose you a bill of fare of our
table d’hote, not a single word more would
be relevant on that touching theme.. Mr.
Rathbun’s cusine is second to none in this
great land of liberty, and indeed, in this city
of modern hotels, is notorious. Our host has
a remarkable genius in his profession; and
though the “Rathbun” is young in years, it is
already grey in renown.
We have had very singular weather here,
for a long time past; nothing but clouds and
rains, making the atmosphere damp, and the
temperature chilly. Just exactly that sort of
weather, which the oldest inhabitant fails to
remember, and of which the poet speaks,
when he says,
“ It seems as though the scullions of the sky,
Had had a general washing-day on high,
And hung their dirty clothes to drain —not dry.”
But since I am reduced to prattle of the
weather, you will probably think it time for
me to bid you good-night, or rather, morning,
for the small hours are now passing.
FLIT.
©rtginal JJJoctrw.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
TO WILLIE.
BY LEILA CAMERON.
I have not known you long, Willie,
And yet it seems to me,
That many years could not increaso
The love I bear for thee.
For when the heart is true, Willie,
True hearts will quick respond,
Nor wait the lapso of years to bind
Their souls in friendship’s bond.
We’ve passed some pleasant hours, Willie,
Together, since we met,
The memory of which shall live
Within our spirits yet;
And o’er our future hours, Willie,
Like some sweet dream ’t will creep,
To fill our hearts with happy thoughts,
And bless us when we sleep!
Health glows upon your cheek, Willie,
An<l on your youthful luvm
The cares of life have left no trace.
To shade its beauty now ;
But you will boa man, Willie,
And in that bright, dark eye,
Now dancing merrily, a world
Os deeper thought will lie !
For like each child of earth, Willie,
Must be your destiny
To struggle ’gainst the tide of ill,
That checks life’s current free.
And when your barque is tost, Willie,
Upon that troubled stream,
You will awake to sterner thoughts,
From pleasure’s youthful dream !
A few more budding springs, Willie,
A few more summer suns,
Will cast their blossoms at your feet,
Ere man’s stern duty comes :
Then nerve your heart to meet it, Willie,
And faint not in the race ;
Press onward still undauntedly,
To win a noble place!
And while you tireless strive, Willie,
A honored name to earn,
Fail net, above all other things,
This lesson true to learn
That he who would be great, Willie,
Must first himself subdue,
And thus the noblest conquest gain
E’er held to mortal view.
I hope to hear your name, Willie,
Among the good and wise,
Ere Time has silvered o’er your hair,
Or dimmed your beaming eyes ;
And then I shall recall, Willie,
My merry youthful friend,
Whose form with pleasant memories
Os happy hours shall blend.
We may not meet again, Willie,
Till life with us is o’er ;
Till with the hopes and fears of earth,
We part forever more.
Yet you will often think, Willie,
Os one who loved you well,
And ever in your loving heart
Hor memory, shall dwall.
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