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thors of her own and fathers distresses!— The picture of innocence and filial affection is complete. When Ferdinand, through the agency of the “spiriting Ariel,” is allured in to the presence of Miranda, then the poor, lit tle, fluttering heart of the innocent maiden, is first made to feel that inward touch of sym pathy which is akin to love. “ Why speaks my father so ungently 1 This Is the third man that e’er I saw ; the first That e’er I sighed for: pity move my father To be inclin’d iny way !” What artlessness! What an exhibition of conscious innocence! The conventionalities of modern society would construe such an eb ullition of feeling into boldness, immodesty and such like. Not so with the island girl: she was untaught in the arts of deception— her nature was purely an unselfish one; her intentions disinterested and spontaneous; and to o-ive utterance to the warm emotions which crowded around her heart, seemed to her to be the most natural of actions. In the creation of this character, Shakspeare has imitated no model of art or education: out of his own inexhaustible fund of origi nality, he has furnished a beautiful instance of what a woman might be supposed to be who had been reared in the school-house of nature. We have no conception of her per sonal appearance, neither do we trouble our selves searching after brilliant powers of in tellect. From our first introduction to her, we love her, almost as instinctively, as she did the noble Ferdinand. What a charm, w'hat a divine excellence, I may say, has Shakspeare thrown around the passion of love! Here is a young girl growing up from infancy beside an affection ate father whose will has always been her law ; but when the soft current of love hov ers over the heart-strings of the passive child, how soon the implicit obedience is denied! When her entreaties in behalf of Ferdinand become so urgent, her father bids her be si lent, or else she will cause him to chide and to hate her, and further adds that Ferdinand is a Caliban in comparison with those of his sex whom she had never seen; alter such lan guage from one who had never addressed her a harsh word before, does she not fall at his feet and humbly ask his forgiveness'? No, no; she boldly replies in the language of true love, “ My affections Are then most humble ; I have no ambition To see a goodlier man.” Poor worm! she was infected. “Herspir its as in a dream, were all bound upa new sunlight had burst in upon her soul: she was anew creature. The first scene in Act the third of the “Tempest,” contains the most simple, affectionate, and beautiful courtship, that was ever presented to the gaze of an ad mil ing world. From the first moment Miran da cast her eyes upon Ferdinand, she seemed to think he was intended for her. She would fain assist him at his task, because her heart was for it, and his was against it. And when her lover declares his passion, so eloquently and feelingly, what a sweet answer she gives him! “ And do you love me V* One feels as it were almost a profanation to kiss the lips from whence flow such fervent words. Who can fathom the affection of that sentence ? It sealed the union of the happy pair. In the perfection of this character, bhakspeare’s object was not to create a mere physical beauty, but a simple child of nature ; “-not to dazzle the eye with extrinsic orna ment, but to impress the heart with a sense °f its own transcendent goodness —not to por tly the gradual development of a refined and fashionable sentiment, but to reveal the “ spon taneous combustion” of a natural affection ; and now, gentle reader, does not your own heart bear ample testimony to the success of the author’s effort ‘l The luxurious and ex quisitely beautiful productions ci a Phidias, an Apelles, a Michael Angelo, will all crum ble to ashes and mingle with their original ©©©lf 21 SIS S3 Da m3aA IB ¥ elements, but the likenesses of Shakspeare’s immortal productions are daguerreotyped on the mind, and destined to an eternal existence. Time can write no wrinkle on the smooth and placid brow of Miranda; and age can never quench the sacred flame that burns upon the altar of her heart. The beholder of to-mor row like the beholder of to-day will find no diminution of the “brightparticular” charms of this unstudied, extemporaneous child of na ture. And now, we will leave Miranda in the arms of her lover, adopting, as our senti ments, the language of Prospero: “ So glad of this as they, I cannot be, Who are surpris’d with all; but my rejoicing At nothing can be more. I’ll to my book ; For yet, ere supper time, must I perform Much business appertaining.” Sketd)e3 of £ife. For the Southern Literary Gazette. MY UNCLE SIMON’S PLANTATION, —OR SKETCHES OF SOUTHERN LIFE, &C. BY ABRAHAM GOOSEQUILL, ESQ. MY UNCLE SIMON. “You are old, Father William, the young man ciied, The few locks which are left you are grey ; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man.” — Southey. I will devote this number to a description of my Uncle Simon, who, as I intimated in my last, is an excellent old man. It is usual for an author to give an exaggerated account of his hero, and so make him appear larger on paper than any where else. Now, Ido not flatter myself that J can make my worthy uncle appear half so well in the description I shall give of hirn, as he would, could you see him with your own eyes; and, should you ever have the pleasure of his acquaintance, you will be constrained to say, as Mrs. She ba did to Mr. Solomon, “ the half has not been told me.” He is a “hale old man,” and “ the few locks which are left him are grey.” His age is al most seventy, and, although Time has bound such a heavy bundle of years upon his back, he pertinaciously refuses to bend under the load, but walks as erectly, and with as elas tic a step as he did nearly forty years ago, when he marched to the sound of the drum and fife to do battle against his country’s foes. He was then about thirty years of age, hav ing married my aunt Parmela in his twenty fifth year, by whom he had three children at the breaking out of the war. After its close, he settled down quietly upon his present plan tation ; and although he has been several times called from his rural retreat to serve his State in her legislative councils, yet most of his time has been devoted to improving his farm, so that, from small beginings, he has by prudent economy, added to his possession, until he is quite a wealthy rnan. Economical at first, from necessity, he con tinues so, from choice ; and he is always giv ing wholesome advice upon the subject to those around him. I assure you, too, he is quite an adept in the science he professes to teach, and Adam Smith himself, would have listen ed with pleasure to my uncle’s conversation upon his practical notions of economy ; and, as to Prof. Wayland, my uncle’s elbow’ chair in the chimney corner, can give out more wis dom in a single hour about making and sav ing money, than would emanate from the a foresaid professor’s seat in a week—even though that seat be illuminated with the wis dom of every political economist from Smith downwards. Numberless old horse-shoes hung upon trees and pegs and old rubty nails and buckles, with various such other things too tedious to mention, stowed away in boxes and gourds, show that Uncle Simon learned hisnotionsof economy in the school of “ Poor Richard,” a copy of whose almanac, he inherited from his father, and whose dog-eared, greasy leaves, show’ that it has been in use at least a cen tury. “I prefer,” says uncle Simon, 11 the way to wealth ,” to any treatise I have ever 1 seen upon the subject of economy.” Let it not be supposed that because the old gentleman is economical, he is parsimonious. “ Parsimony and economy,” says he, “ are two very different things. Niggardliness is on one extreme and prodigality on the other. Econ omy is the golden mean. The miser, is just as far from economy as the spendthrift is. He refuses to lay out a penny which will bring him in a pound, because there is one chance to a thousand that he may lose the penny. The parsimonious man, gets all he can and shuts it up in an iron grasp ; while the econ omical man gets all he can, but holds it in a liberal hand to let it go either to his own ad vantage, or that of others.” Speaking of a ‘liberal hand,’ reminds me of my relative’s liberality, and real benevo lence. I never have seen a man more humane; one whose heart w'as more alive to the suffer ings of others. This good will extends, not only to creatures of the human kind, but al so to brute animals, and even to reptiles and insects. His neighbors upon whom fortune has not lavished so much as upon him, can testify to his deeds of charity. But do not imagine that he bestow's his charity uponun w'orthy objects. The idle and profligate find no favor at his hands, and he only helps those w T ho help themselves. It was but the other day a hale, hearty, stout young man came to his domicil asking alms. After eyeing him for some time from head to foot, and scanning with much interest his sturdy limbs, he assur ed him that his potato patch needed work just then, and, if he would hoe it over, he would give him fifty-cents per day, besides boarding him. The beggar vanished speedily; and this gave Uncle Simon an opportunity to in dulge in a tirade against gentleman beggars in general, who, he says, very much abound in this day, and have reduced beggary to a science. His negroes are all well clothed and fed, and you cannot offer him a greater insult than by treating one of them amiss. He regards certain of their rights as inviolate as his own liberty. I think I never saw a man more vex ed than he was last summer, when a party of school-boys violated the right of property in herent in his man Sampson, by breaking into his melon patch and bearing off a number of prizes. He w r ent to the school-house, and made complaint to the teacher with all that testiness which is w T ont to influence a whole souled man, when the w’eak have suffered a wrong. The teacher would have flogged the offenders, but my benevolent uncle, seeing this, softened down, and being speedily met amorphosed from the prosecutor into the ad vocate, obtained the boy’s acquittal, upon the promise that the offence should not be repeat ed. Thus it is, that his benevolence some times prevails over justice, and the vicious of ten intrude upon his good nature. This goodness of heart makes him very fond of seeing others enjoy themselves. It is a favorite custom of his, to have all his little negroes brought before his door under the shade cf a venerable oak tree, with a large tray of food from his kitchen placed before them, so that he may see them enjoy them selves eating. I have already said, that his benevolence extends to brute animals, reptiles and insects; therefore all the horses, cattle &c. on his plantation, must be kept fat and sleek. Their feeding is carried on under his own immediate supervision, and he must see every thing eat or he will be quite incrdulous as to whether it has been fed. Three times a day, morning, evening and at noon, he inakr 8 his man Sampson take a basket and go with him to the crib, and fill it with nice large ears of corn to put in the horses’ troughs. Then, when the cows, sheep, hogs, &c. are to be fed, he must be present to devise ways and means to prevent the stronger from im posing upon the weaker. He says that he is J a Democrat in the true acceptation of the term, and does not believe in an aristocracy of strength, any more than an aristocracy of wealth. He can’t bear to see any object on his plan tation lean. Everything must be fat. To such an extent does he carry this notion, that even his rats must be kept in proper plight. These animals once became so troublesome, that he adopted the plan of building his cribs with the sills placed upon blocks formed in the shape of inverted cones, so that when the rats crawled up these blocks, they could not get off into the cribs. This plan operated fine ly, and he rejoiced to have gotten rid of these soricine vermin, until one day, happening in one of his empty cribs built upon the old plan, he saw a score of ghost-like rats, so lean that they more resembled shadows than substances, chasing each other up and down the rafters. They were so weak from a want of food, that they were often compelled to stop and prop each other up, in order to keep themselves from falling. When they saw my uncle, they all stopped and gazed at him so steadfastly, that the kind-hearted old man imagined that he read in their eyes a prayer to save them selves and helpless young fiom the horrors of famine. The appeal was not to be resisted, for he remembered the golden rule, “ do unto others as you would have others do unto you,” and, accordingly, he had the corn removed from one of his rat-proof cribs, into the one where he had seen the famished vermin run ning up and down the rafters. Old David, an ancient family slave, ventured to expostulate with him at the suggestion of cousin Aris tides, who disliked very much to see so much corn devoured by the pestiferous gentry; but the old gentleman placed David in the situa tion of the rats, and asked him how he would like to be famished to death. This appeal to the old negro’s heart, silenced, if it did not convince him. Since that time, all of my un cle’s cribs have been built after the old order of architecture, so as to afford as much aid and comfort as possible to the rats. The on ly means he now uses to destroy these ani mals, is to keep a larger number of cats than he did formerly—which he keeps so fat, how ever, as to counteract much of their native hostility to their prey. Uncle Simon will not suffer the swallows in the chimney to be disturbed, and they build there without any molestation, and keep up a continual chatter, much to the inconvenience and annoyance of my aunt Parmela, who, with all the help the screen and broom can afford her, can hardly keep the parlor floor clear of soot. The spiders build about in the corners of the room, and the house-maid has to pick an opportunity when my uncle is ab sent, to destroy these poisonous insects and their webs. There was one large old fellow, who had spread his net in a conspicuous cor ner of the parlor, whom my relative regarded with a great deal of interest, and w'ould not allow to be disturbed. He remained there for nearly a week, my uncle’s affection increas ing for him nearly all the time, until, one morning, he saw a poor fly entangled in hie web, and devoured by the monster. From this time, there was a very perceptible change in his feelings towards his former friend the spider, and one day at dinner, he discussed with aunt Parmela the propriety of a writ cf ejectment against his spider-ship. After the meal was over, cousin Dorothy got up from table and w'ent into the parlor to see after Harlequin. A shriek was heard, and uncle Simon sprang from the table to see what could be the matter, and, on reaching the spot, he found his favor.te golden-wirged butterfly, in the fangs of the spider. With utter indig nation, he seized the broom which the house maid had snatched up as she followed him, and, brushing the spider down, crushed him with his foot, much to the discomfiture cf aunt Parmela’B floor, which was somewhat soiled by the reptile's entrails. For the baU lance of the day, all was gloom—aunt Par- 147