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About Southern literary gazette. (Athens, Ga.) 1848-1849 | View Entire Issue (Aug. 12, 1848)
SOUTHERN LITERARY’ GAZETTE: 21 n illustrator iUcekltr Sournal of SclUs-£cttrrs, Science aitlr tlje ilrts. WM. €. RICHARDS, EDITOR. Original Jbctrt). For the Southern Literary Gazette. ANTI-TOCSIN IN REPLY TO “THE TOCSI N ’ IN NO. XII. A bas le Turgue !—who dares complain, Os woman’s undisputed reign, O’er men of ruder mind; Whose unimpassioned soul would dare The sensual Moslem to compare To freemen true and kind! Fear not, ye dames and maidens coy, Your rule is yet our highest joy ! Your silken bands retain. Heed not the tocsin —its rude shout Shall never find one recreant lout, ’ Who seeks to break his chain. We are your slaves,—on bended knee The vows were made to you,—and we, Beneath the jasmine bowers, Entwined the fragrant wreaths that last, Whose bright links bind us to the past, And all its dearest hours. And would wc break them 1 Never, while We gladden at a mother’s smile, Or feel a sister’s art. Your charms the lover’s heart assail, Your shafts —no armor can avail To guard the manly heart. Weave, weave then still the magic ties, Jn forges lit by flashing eyes ; With sighs the pure flame fan ; With tear-drops temper well the steel, With woman’s art the links anneal, To bind the fond slave—man! Then build his prison-house beneath The rose-vine’s fetter-mocking wreath, That he no more may roam ; And call to aid thee warders bright— Young spirits from the world of light— The sentinels of home! And while the Oconee rolls along 1 lis turbid flood, the hills among, To seek the distant sea; Long, overhung with “ fruitful vines,” Beneath the ever-murmuring pines, These prisons may we see. Ye mothers, sisters, daughters, wives, Ye maidens, beauties, belles ! while lives The flower of chivalrie, It blooms for you ; —our neck3 shall love To raise tho myrtle throne above All fear of rivalrie. C. H. 11. For the Southern Literary Gazette. MY MOTHER'S VOICE. It was the first sweet sound that broke In music on my trembling ear; And that young sense to rapture woke, Stirred by a melody so dear! And ever since, my mother’s voice Has charmed me with a holy spell; Its tones can make my heart rejoice, And with delight my bosom swell. A ith filial love, I oft recall The days when 1 was yet a child ; And—dearest memory of them all! — My mother’s voice so sweet and mild. It soothed each little childish grief, And never harshly chid my fears ; It gave my bursting heart relief — When Passion was too big for tears. ■'l fever flushed my tender cheek, Till I would moan in very pain— My lips would murmur—“ Mother, speak !” She spoke—and I was still again. A hen I would weary of my books, And close them ere my task was done — 1 might withstand her pleading looks, ‘lut yielded to her winning tone. My child !my child!” she gently said. Tis duty makes our pleasure sweet,” I hen bending o’er my sunny head— A kies—and victory was complete. In youth’s gay season, when the charms Os Pleasure wooed my ardent soul, I should have sought the Syren’s arms, And yielded to her mad control; But ere I drank the goblet up, She proffered with her Circean smile, My mother’s voice—“ Beware the cup ” Dissolved tho charm and broke the wile. Childhood and youth have passed away, And manhood’s cares have marked my brow; The voice that blessed mo every day — I hear, alas! but seldom now. Yet while my heart is strong to beat, And while my soul can still rejoice, Each throb shall gratitude repeat — And bless God for my mother’s voice! EPSILON. August, 1848. popular &ales. - M For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE LEPER OF AOSTE. FROM THE FRENCH OF X. DE MAISTRE. BY MRS. M. F. BABER. The southern part of the city of Aoste is almost deserted, and appears not to have been very populous. One sees there tilled fields and meadows, terminated on one side by an cient ramparts raised by the Romans, to serve for the boundaries of the and on the other, by the walls of some gardens. This solitary place may nevertheless interest the traveller. Near the doors of the city are seen the ruins of an old chateau, in which, if pop ular tradition may be believed, in the fifteenth century, the Count Rene, of Chalons, carried away by furious jealousy, left his wife, Ma rie of Bragance, to die of hunger. From this circumstance originated the name Bramaian, (which signifies “cry of hunger,”) given to the castle by the people of the country. This tradition, the authenticity of which may be contested, renders these crumbling walls in teresting to those susceptible people who be lieve it true. About a hundred steps farther on is a square town, built up against the old wall, and con structed of the marble with which it was for merly ornamented. It is called the Fearful Tower, because people believe it to be inhab ited by ghosts. The old women of Aoste re member very well to have seen come out from it, during the long dark nights, a tall woman clothed in white, and bearing a lamp in her hand. About fifteen years ago, this tower was re paired by an order of the government and sur rounded by walls, in order to lodge a l£per, and thus separate him from society ; and at the same time secure to him all the comforts of which his sad situation was susceptible. The hospital of St. Maurice had the care of providing for his subsistence, and they gave him some furniture, as well as the instru ments necessary to cultivate a garden % There he has long lived, given up to himself —never seeing any one, except the priest, who, from time to time, goes to impart to him religious consolation, and the man who every week brings him provisions from the hospital. Du ring the war of the Alps, in 1797, an officer, finding himself in the city of Aoste, passed one day, by chance, the garden of the leper, the door of which, hung half open, he had the curiosity to enter. He there found a man very simply clad, leaning against a tree, and plunged in profound meditation. At the noise made by the soldier in entering, the solitary, without turning or looking around, exclaimed in a sad voice, “ Who is there, and what wish you V’ “Excuse a stranger,” answered the soldier, * ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, AUGUST 12, 1848. “who has been tempted, by the pleasant as pect of your garden, to commit, perhaps, an indiscretion, but who does not wish to trouble you.” “Advance not,” replied the inhabitant of the tower, making signs with his hands, “ ad vance not; you are near a miserable creature attacked by leprosy.” “Whatever may be ) T our misfortune,” re plied the traveller, I will not depart: I have never lied the unfortunate; notwithstanding, if my presence annoys you, I am ready to re tire.” “Welcome,” then said the leper, suddenly turning, “and remain, if you dare do it, after having looked at me.” The soldier was for some moments immo veable with astonishment and fright, at the appearance of this unfortunate being, totally disfigured by leprosy. “I will remain willingly,” said he to him, if you will receive the visit of a man brought here by chance, but retained by a lively in terest ” “Interest! I have never excited aught but pity,” exclaimed the leper. “ I would believe myself happy, if I could offer you some consolation,” said the soldier. “It is a great consolation for me to see men, to hear the sound of the human voice, which seems to fly from me,” sadly replied the leper. “Permit me then to converse with you a while, and to go over your dwelling.” “Very willingly, if that can give you any pleasure.” Saying these words, the leper cov ered his head with a large felt hat, whose slouched brim hid his face. “ Pass,” added he, “here to the South, I cultivate a little flower garden, and if it will please you, you will find some of these plants rare enough. I procured the seeds of all those which grow naturally upon the Alps, and have endea vored to improve and double them by cultiva tion.” “ In truth, here are some flowers whose ap pearance is quite new to me.” “Remark this little cluster of roses—it is the thornless rose, which only grows upon the high Alps; but already it begins to change its character, and the thorns put forth as fast as it is cultivated and increased.” “ It ought to be the emblem of ingratitude.” “If any of these flowers appear beautiful to you, you can take them without fear; and you run no risk in carrying them about you. I have sown the seeds , I have the pleasure of watering and enjoying them , but I never touch them.” “Why V “ I should fear to pollute them, and would not dare to give them away.” “For whom do you design them 1” “ The people who bring me my provisions from the hospital, are not afraid to make bou quets of them; sometimes, also, the children of the city come to my garden gate. Igo in stantly into my tower, for fear of frightening or endangering them. From my window l see them frolic and carry off some flowers. — When they go away, they raise their eyes to me and say laughingly—‘Good by leper,’ and that rejoices me a little.” “You have succeeded in uniting here, many different plants; here are vines and fruit trees of many kinds.” “The trees are still young; I have planted them myself, as well as the vine, that I have trained above the wall, the breadth of which forms a little promenade for me; it is my fa vorite resort. Go up by these stones; it is a stair of which lam the architect. Keep close to the wall.” “What a charming nook ! and how well it VOLUME I.—NUMBER 14. suits for the meditations of a recluse,” ex claimed the soldier.” “ And for that I love it much ; I behold from here the country and the laborers in the fields; I see all that passes in the meadows, and am seen of no one.” “ l admire the tranquility and solitude of this retreat. One is in a city, and might be lieve himself to be in a desert.” “Solitude is not always in the midst of rocks and forests. The unfortunate is alone everywhere!” “What succession of events brought you to this retreat ? Is this country your native placeenquired the soldier. “I was born up on the sea coast, in the principality of Oneille ; and have only lived here fifteen years. As to my history, it is but a long and uniform calamity.” “Have you always lived alone I” “I lest my parents in my infancy, arid nev er knew them: one sister who was left me, too, has been dead two years. I never had another friend /” “ Unfortunate being!” “ Such is the will of God.” “Permit me to ask your name.,’ “Ah! my name is terrible! I call myself The Leper. In the world they know not my family name, or that given me in baptism. I am ‘The Leper;’ that is the only title I have from the benevolence of men. May they be eternally ignorant of who I am!” “This sister that you lost,—-did she live with you 1” asked the soldier. “ She remained five years with me in this habitation. Unfortunate like myself, she shared my sufferings, and I tried to soften hers.” “ What can now be your occupation, in a solitude so profound'?” “The detail of the occupations of a recluse like tnyself, cannot but be monotonous for a man of the world, who finds his happiness in the activity of social life.” “Ah! you know little of this world which has never given me happiness. lam often solitary by choice, and there is perhaps more analogy between our ideas than you think ; yet I confess an eternal solitude frightens me; I can scarcely conceive of it.” “ He who loves his cell will find grace there.” I began by feeling the truth of these conso ling words. The sense of solitude is also re lived by labor. The man who labors is nev er completely miserable, and I am a proof of it. During the fine weather, the cultivation of my garden and flowers occupies me suffi ciently ; in winter I make baskets and mats ; I make my clothes; every day I prepare my nourishment with the provisions brought me from the hospital, and prayer fills up the hours which labor leaves me. At last the year glides away, and when it is passed, it appears to me to have been very short.” “It ought to appear a century to you.” “Misery and grief make the hours appear long; but the years fly away with the same rapidity. There is, besides, on the depths of misfortune, an enjoyment that the mass of men know not, and which will appear very singular to you. It is, to exist and breathe. I pass entire days, in fine weather, upon r this rampart, immoveable, enjoying the air and the beauty of nature; all my, ideas are vague and indefinite; sadness reposes in my heart without overwhelming it. My looks wander over the country and the rock3 which surround us; these different views are so imprinted on my memory that they make, if I may speak thus,, a part of myself, and each site is a friend that I see .with pleasure every day.” “I have often felt something similar. — When grief weighs upon my spirit, and I find
