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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