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140 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&LTue. 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.”