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Oh, badst thou been but true to me
And to thiue early vow,
My heart had thrilled with extacy,
That breaks with anguish now:
But, ere I say farewell, and weep,
Oh ! graut my last request:
Os all my gifts —my likeness keep —
But oh, give back the rest!
Athens.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
CALL ME NOT OLD.
A Remonstrance to Miss M. T.
Call me not old, though Time has cast
His shadows o’er niv life;
Call me not old, though I have passed
Through many scenes of strife:
For in my breast a spring is flowing,
Pleasant thoughts at will bestowing,
While tender sympathies and kind
Cast their halo round my mind.
Call me not old, though Time has placed
His signet on my brow.
And wintry storms my temples graced
W ith locks of silvery snow :
For Hope, bright Hope, her mown still weaves
Os crimson buds and verdant leaves ;
And oft, in fancy, I enshrine
Thoughts of love in this heart of mine.
Call me not old, again, I pray,
Nor deem that } T outh has fled,
Though its hours are passing swift away
To linger with the dead :
Oh! why count days, when the heart is young,
Its chords to Joy’s sweet measure strung 1
Whose music all of life endears
Its pains, its pleasures, hopes and fears 1
Montgomery, Ala . H. M. J.
§ome iHorrespcu<ue.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW-YORK LETTERS-NO. 17.
Lake George, New-York, )
Aug. 30th, 1848. j
My Dear Sir , —Your account, in a late is
sue of the Gazette, of the doings of your State
Temperance Society, reminds me of a very
strange lecture which I heard last Sunday in
a neighbouring chapel. The Demosthenes
was a half, or quite mad fanatic of the re
formed drunkard genus, with insufficient rea
son to concoct one intelligent sentence, but
amor propre enough to detain his audience
nearly three hours with the disgusting rela
tion of his alcoholic adventures, rendered en
durable only by the wonderful absence of
sense in his argument, and the most remark
able want of point in his anecdotes. He pro
fessed in the outset to speak after no digest
ed'method, and further assured his hearers
that if they were assembled to witness the
• theatrical comic exhibition which he pre
sented to them the preceding year, they would
he disappointed—that’s all—owing to the day
and place of the lecture.” His “exhibition,”
however, was after all comical enough. At
one moment he proposed to establish an ar
gument “ in five minutes, nay in one , by the
watch, —if any body had a watch !” and then
followed a passage from the Psalms, which
he assured the congregation, that could they
but understand, they would perceive to be ex
tremely appropriate to the subject! Next,
came a temperance song, in solo, all about
some poor devil who had like Mr. Gough,
imbibed too freely of Soda Water, and there
by had the misfortune to “ run under.” The
whole aflair concluded with the sale, at a shil
ling each, of a great number of copies of a
miserable little pamphlet, containing an ac
ount of the lecturer’s affecting life. Are
these creatures harmless, or do they not rath
er greatly injure the good cause which they
profess to serve ?
We have had some extra society here, du
ring the past week in the shape of a couple
of Boston artists, professional and amateur,
i need not say, that with their pleasant and
intelligent companionship, the water of our
lovely lake has seemed to us purer than ever,
and that the trees have worn a greener garb
and the sky a brighter smile. I recollect once
hearing the Rev. Mr. Bellows say, in speak
ing of artists as a class, that in their society
34J jj -j 1 id £ii H iJTjs A Aili Y
alone, did he never hear the name of the Al
mighty dollar ; and this arises from the calm
contemplative tenor of their thoughts, which,
dwelling ever amid st scenes of quiet beauty
real or ideal, leave mind and heart more free
in them than in all others from the thousand
petty cares, and sordid desires which dull the
brightness and ruffle the calm of the soul. “I
would J were an artist,” says a gifted poet
friend of mine speaking on this theme in a
late letter, “ 1 would I were an artist, that I
might dwell ever with the beautiful. * * *
Inspired by the sense of beauty and its spirit
too, living in ar. Arcadian world, peopled sole
ly by the ideal, with forms of light and peace
ever springing forth at his command, how de
lightful must be the artist’s life ! I am not
sure that I do not prefer painting to poetry,
though well I love the quaint ol rhyme and
choice verse, so full of quiet thought and
beauty.”
But I am wandering from what I simply
meant to say, namely, in allusion to the care
less and happy spirit of the artist; not in his
studies, but when unchained therefrom, and
left free to bound, as a relieved school-boy,
towards his long unseen home, over the cher
ished scenes of valley and hill, where Nature,
coming forth to greet her favorite, as Words
worth so sweetly expresses it—
“ pitches her tent before him !”
With what a merry air of indifference the
strolling painter swings his sketch-box over
his shoulders, and how gaily he listens to the
thousand speculations of the curious people
among whom lie rambles, upon the nature of
his business, one taking him for a pedlar and
asking if he has any jewelry to sell; anoth
er for a musician, and wondering where the
monkey is hidden! An artist friend of mine
was once duly armed and equipped passing
a country school-house as the urchins were
revelling on the lawn, when a little girl ex
claimed, “Oh ! I wish he’d play on that ere !”
“Pooh!” replied a knowing lad, at her el
bow 7 , “that aint music--that's a paintbox;
lie makes pictures with that!” Another,
when repassing a group of people, whom he
had met earlier in the day, was asked “how
many people there were in ?” (the
neighbouring village which the artist had just
left.)
“ How many people ?” he repeated, not ex
actly comprehending the query; “ why do you
ask me such a question ?”
“ Oh! you aiut been taking the census then,
aint yer!”
One more reminiscence of this nature and
I leave the painters to their studies. My ac
complished friend, Mr. Shegogue, the artist,
amused me excessively with the narration of
a little professional adventure of his own.
Mr. S. was sketching in the vicinity of the
Hudson river, at the time when the gold fe
ver prevailed and every man fancied unsound
treasures to lie beneath his ripening grain and
his sweet scented meadows. Feeling slightly
disquieted by the form of a suspicious and
brigandish great unwashed, which had fol
lowed him hour after hour, from jungle to
jungle, from the valley to the hill-top, he
turned around, at length, and accosted the ap
parition, inquiring the reason of the surveil
lance which he had so long kept over his
steps!
“Oh ! God bless you sir!” replied the poor
fellow, “don’t be angry ! I did’nt mean no of
fence. I only wanted to get you to show me
one of them ere.”
“One of what ?” replied the perplexed ar
tist.
“Oh ! i/ou know sir, what l mean, one 01
them ere! now do; there’s a good fellow! It
won’t be no trouble to you, and it will make
me and my poor family rich as cream!”
“ Why my good man,” replied the artist,
“ I should be very glad to serve you, but you
are mistaken, in supposing that I know any
means of enriching you. Pray what is it you
wish me to show you 1”
“Oh ! sir, jest one of them ere! It won’t
do you any harm. You can afford it, you
know plenty of ’em, for I’ve seen you mark
ing them down all day long.”
“ Marking what down ?—I ”
“Oh 1 sir, the gold mines ! ! Now do
won’t you ? just show me one!”
The poor devil firmly convinced that Mr.
S. was one of the seven sages exploring the
country for mines; and, seeing in his sketch
es, only mystic memoranda of their localities,
could not be convinced to the contrary, and
finally took his departure very much disap
pointed that the artist in his abundance should
refuse even to show him a solitary “one of
them ere!” Could I but tell this anecdote in
the graceful and graphic manner in which it
was told to me, it would amuse you hardly
less than it did myself.
I sat me down just now to say something
of my adventures of travel subsequent to the
date of my last epistle, but as my time and
paper are both spent, I will, for the present,
say instead —au revoir !
FLIT.
©nr JJoml of Jlitncl).
SMITH O’BRIENS WAR-SONG.
Come let’s revolt!
Though lighting may prove folly, boys,
We won’t be melancholy, boys,
We only have to bolt.
Pay back your wrongs—
The Saxon’s base barbarity,
The insult of his charity,
With scythes, and pikes, and prongs.
Think on your meed ;
Revenge and plunder waiting us,
Bloodshed and pillage waiting us,
If destined to succeed.
If we should fail—
Though they may overmatch us, boys,
Still they will have to catch us, boys,
When w r e’ve turned tail.
Whute’er betide,
In case they shall have licked us, lads,
What Jury will convict us, lads,
Supposing we are tried %
One thing is clear —
The drop is out of season now,
They'll hardly hang for treason now !
Jack Ivetch we need not fear.
Though the worst come,
Thanks to their weak humanity,
They will but soothe our vanity
With bloodless martyrdom.
On, then, brave Pat !
Fear not for our security ;
Jfneed be. of a surety,
We’ll take good care of that. ©
THE OFFICER’S TEAR.
Before the glass he stood,
To take a last fond view
Os his person iu his old undress
Regimental frock of blue ;
D * p
He marked how soldier-like
The vestment did appear,
And this unhappy Officer
Could not restrain a tear.
“ Could any coat on earth,”
Said he, “ look half so well 1
Must we change this graceful uniform
For the unbecoming shell ?
In that crustaceous garb,
Our type will be the snail;
The happier shell-fish weareth not
A coat without a tail.”
“ Besides, the change will cost
Full nigh a quarter’s pay,
And the coat that scarce hath service seen,
We shall have to throw away ;
Thus, treating us exactly like
Light-fingered gentry do,
Not only they cut off our tails,
But pick our pockets too.”
11 is manly cheek was wet —
He put his hand behind J
And he felt the skirts of his surtout,
11 is handkerchief to find.
“ Ah ! where shall I stow this,
When they have shorn my rear !”
Exclaimed the mournful Officer,
As he wiped away a tear.
IRISH MILITARY TACTICS.
We are certain the battle of Boulagh will
tlways be celebrated in military annals, for
she entirely new description of tactics with
which we have been made acquainted under
lie general-ship of Smith O'Brien. The ma<*-
lificient idea of falling back upon a cabbage
jed, and covering the retreat with the cabbage
eaves, is quite worthy of a Celtic hero, and
we only regret the operations were not upon
i more extensive scale, so as to have afforded
; Smith 0 Brien a further opportunity f o r de
veloping hi.s novel system of strategy \y
believe that his plan would have embraced
the whole resources of the kitchen garde]/
had he been allowed wider scope for hi s nia’
noeuvres, and ha I he proceeded beyond the’
exploit of merely taking care of himself In
giving his companions the benefit of his’pre
cautionary measures. His own retreat inf
the cabbage-bed was understood to have been
chiefly dictated by the hope that, having ] o<ii
heart, he might succeed in finding heart among
the vegetables that afforded him such timelv
shelter. He had purposed intrenching a por
tion of his followers in the trenches of some
celery, and he contemplated planting hi
cavalry appropriately in a grove of horse-rad
ish. A select cohort of Tipperary boys were
to have lain in ambush in some gooseberry
bushes, in order that their courage might
have been pricked up, and part of the force
was to have bivouacked in a comfortable bed
of parsley. The Saxon minions on their fir?<
approach were to have been surprised from a
mignionette-box, in which a few of Smith
O’Brien’s immediate followers were to have
been concealed, and the drums would have
beat from the beet-root bed on the arrival of
the enemy. Notwithstanding the failure of
these admirable plans, the Retreat of the
Kitchen Garden will always he famous in
history, and we should suggest, as a memento
of the event, a companion picture to “Love
among the Roses,” in the shape of a grand
semi-historical and allegorical tableu, repre
senting Smith 0 Brien as “ War among the
Cabbages.”
THE INDIGNANT IRISHMAN.
Irishmen ! The base Saxon asks in what
way he has insulted us? Is it insulted ?
! Hasn’t he exempted us from income-tax, win
dow-tax, carriage-tax, and servant-tax ? Isn't
thatasmuch as to tell us that we have no in
comes,windies, carriages, and domistic manials
to bless ourselves ! Isn't it tratin us with scorn
and contempt, andcastin a slur on the respec
tability and opulence of our illigant nation ?
COMPLIMENT TO THE SEDITION
ISTS.
Punch is desired by several influential
I members of the Aristocracy to present their
i compliments to the Physical Force Chartists,
and to thank them lor so engrossing the pub
lic mind with the fear of revolution, as to dis
tract it from the pursuit of so-called moderate
reform; such as any extension of the fran
chise, revision of taxation, interference with
the Game Laws, abolition sinecures, amend
ment ol the law, reduction of expenditure, ad
justment of Church property, or any other al
teration in the established order of things.—
i Punch has anything but pleasure in express
ing his opinion that the persons in question
are thoroughly deserving of the congratulation
which he is requested to offer them.
OUR INDIAN ARRIVALS.
By the last mail from India, we had con
signed to us a small package of Puns from
the Punjaub. We beg to inform the person
sending them, that as the carriage is charged
by weight, we have refused to receive the
puns, which are now upon the hands of
Messrs. Pickford; and though we understand
trom our correspondent, that he has several
times had these puns on the tip of his tongue,
we do not ieel ourselves strong enough to at
tempt to bear the burden.
! PATCH WORK.
“ Father, what does the printer live
on ?”
1 “Why, child?”
“You said you hadn’t paid him for two or
three years, and yet you have his paper ev
ery week!”
“Take the child out of the room, what
does he know about right and wrong ?”
An Irishman, trying to put out a gas
light with his fingers, cried out, “Och, mur
der! tiie deil a wick there’s in it!”
To make raspberry jam—pick the ber
ries in the cool of the morning, and bring them
twelve miles in a milk cart.
USY'The climax of human indifference has ar
rived, when a woman don’t care how she
looks.
men making love to the daugh*
; ter of Themistocles, he prefered the virtuou
man before the rich one, saying: “He would
: rather have a man without riches than riches
j without a man.”