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156 convinced of the cause of the apparition, ex cited those superstitious emotions so natural to all mankind.— What I saw in California , try E. Bryant. Southern (fcUctic. IT IS NOT ALWAYS NIGHT. BY W. C. RICHARDS. It i3 not always night! Though darkness reign In gloomy silence o’er the slumbering earth, The hastening dawn will bring the light again, And call the glories of the day to birth ! The sun withdraws awhile his blessed light, To shine again—it is not always’ night ! The voices of the storm may fill the sky, And Tempest sweep the earth with angry wing ; But the fierce winds in gentle murmerings die, And freshen’d beauty to the world they bring: The after-calm is sweeter and more bright; Though storms arise, it is not always night! The night of Nature, and the night of Storm, Are emblems both of shadows on the heart; Which fall and chill its currents quick and warm, And bid the light of peace and joy depart: A thousand shapes hath Sorrow to affright The soul of man, and shroud his hopes in night. Yet when the darkest, saddest hour is come, And grim Despair would seize his shrinking heart, The dawn of Hope breaks on the heavy gloom, And oue by one the shadows will depart: As storm and darkness yield to calm and light, with the heart—it is not always night ! 1 —i THE TEMPEST. BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE. Oh! colder than the wind that freezes Founts that but now in sunshine play’d, Is that congealing pang, which seizes The trusting bosom when betray’d.—Moore. I never was a man of feeble courage. There are few scenes either of human or ele mental strife upon which I have not looked with a brow of daring. I have stood in the front of the battle when swords were gleam ing and circling around me like fiery serpents of the air—l have sat on the mountain pinna cle when the whirlwind was rendering its oaks from their rocky cliffs, and scattering them piece-meal to the clouds—l have seen these things with a swelling soul, that knew not, that recked not of danger; but there is something in the thunder’s voice that makes me tremble like a child. I have tried to over come this unmanly weakness—l have called pride to my aid—l have sought for moral courage in the lesson of philosophy—hut it avails me nothing—at the first low moaning of the distant cloud, my heart shrinks, quiv ers, grasps, and dies within me. My involuntary dread of thunder had its origin in an incidentthat occurred w r hen I was a boy of ten years. I had a little cousin —a girl of the same age with myself, who had been the constant companion of my child hood. Strange, that after the lapse of so many years, that countenance should he so familiar to me. I can see the bright young creature—her large eyes flashing like a beau tiful gem, her free locks streaming as in joy upon the rising gale, and her cheek glowing like a ruby through a wreath of transparent snpw. Her voice had the melody and joy pusnesS of a bird’s, and w r hen she bounded over the wooded hill of the fresh green val ley, shouting a glad answer to every voice of nature, and clasping her little hands in the very ecstacy of young existence, she looked as if breaking away like a freed nightingale from the earth, and going off where all things are beautiful and happy like her. It was a morning in the middle of August. The little girl had been passing some days at my lather’s house, and she was now to return home. Her path lay across the fields, and I gladly became the companion of her walk. 1 never knew a summer morning more beau tiful and still. Only one little cloud was visible, and that seemed as pure, and white, and peaceful, as if it had been the incense smoke of some burning censer of the skies. The leaves hung silent in the woods, the wa ters in the bay had forgotten their undulations, the flowers were bending their heads as ii dreaming of the rainbow and dew, and the whole atmosphere was of such a soit and luxurious sweetness, that it seemed a cloud iof roses scattered down by the hands of Peris from the far off gardens of Paradise. The green earth and the blue sea lay abroad in iheir boundlessness, and the peaceful sky bent over and blessed them. The littie crea ture at my side was in a delirium of happi ness, and her clear, sweet voice came ringing upon the air as often as she heard the tones of a favorite bird, or found some strange or lovely flower in her frolic wanderings. The unbroken and almost supernatural tranquility SUM kin?© A 8 Sir IT IE * of the day continued until nearly noon.— Then, for the first time, the indication of an approaching tempest was manifested. Over the summit of a mountain at the distance of about a mile, the folds of a dark cloud be came suddenly visible, and at the same in stant a hollow roar came down upon the winds, as if it had been the sound of waves in the rocky cavern. The cloud rolled out like a banner fold upon the air, but still the atmosphere was as calm and the leaves as motionless as before, and there was not even a quiver upon the sleeping waters to tell of the coming hurricane. To escape the tempest was impossible. As the only resort, we fled to an oak that stood at the foot of a tall and rugged precipice. Here we remained and gazed almost breath lessly upon the clouds marshalling themselves like bloody giants in the sky. The thunder was not frequent, but every burst was so fearful that the young creature who stood by me shut her eyes convulsively, clung with desperate strength to my arm, and shrieked as if her very heart would break. A few* minutes and the storm was upon us. During the height of its fury, the little girl lifted her finger towards the precipice that towered above us. I looked up, and an amethystine flame was quivering upon its gray peaks! and the next moment the clouds opened, the rocks tottered to their foundations, a roar like the groan of a Universe filled the air, and I felt myself blinded, and thrown I knew not whither. How long I remained insensible, I cannot tell, but, when consciousness returned the violence of the tempest was abating, the roar of the winds dying in the tree tops, and the deep tones of the clouds coming in faint er murmurs from the eastern hills. I arose, and looked tremblingly and almost deliriously around. She was there—the dear idol of my infant love—stretched out on the wet green earth. After a moment of irreso lution, I went up and looked upon her. The handkerchief upon her neck was slightly rent, and a single dark spot upon her bosom, told where the pathway of her death had been. At first I clasped her to my breast with a cry of agony, and then laid her down and gazed upon her face almost with a feel ing of calmness. Her bright, dishevelled ringlets clustered sweetly around her brow, the look of terror had faded from her lips, and infant smiles were pictured beautifully there ; the red rose tinge upon her cheek was lovely as in life, and as I pressed it to my own, the fountains of tears were opened, and I wept as if my heart were waters. I have but a dim recollection of what followed—l only know thui I remained weeping and mo tionless till the coming of twilight, and that I was then taken tenderly by the hand, and led away where I saw the countenance of parents and sisters. Many years have gone by on the wings of light and shadow, but the scenes I have por trayed still come over me, at times, with a terrible distinctness. The oak yet stands at the base of the precipice, but its limbs are black and dead, and the hollow trunk looking upwards to the sky, as “if calling to the clouds for drink,” is an emblem of rapid and noiseless decay. A year ago I visited the spot, and the thoughts of by-gone years came mourn fully back to me—thoughts of the little inno cent being who fell by my side like some beau tiful tree of Spring, rent up by the whirlwind in the midst of its blossoming. But I remem bered —and oh! there was joy in the memo ry !—that she had gone where no lightnings slumber in the folds of the rainbow cloud, and where the sunlit waters are broken on ly by the storm-breath of Omnipotence. My readers will understand why I shrink in terror from the thunder. Even the con sciousness of security is no relief to me—my fears have assumed the nature of an instinct, and seem indeed a part of my existence. MIRABEAU. There have been men in particular ages, who might be considered as concentrating ■within themselves all their country’s charac ter —who represented, at the same time, both the good and evil traits. Themistocles was the very impersonation of all the virtues and vices of Athens in his day. The moral anti thesis, Alcibiades, was a still more remarkable compound of the manifold virtues, vices, foi bles, &c., of this same Athens, at a later and more degenerate period. In looking over France, during the session of the National Assembly, we shall find the celebrated Mira beau, without doubt, to bethotype-Frenchman of that epoch; and if Louis XIV could say, in his day, “I am the nation!'” Mirabeau could say, in his latter days, with more truth, “ I am the National Assembly /” This extraordinaiy man had been horn among the nobility, and been maltreated.— He had experienced every kind of tyranny from his very birth—that of his own father, of the government, and of the tribunals. He was thus trained to despise the government, and the upper class of French society. He had seen all manner of men, from drill ser geants to prime ministers, from the inmates of the jails of Pontarlier to princes and kings. He had made himself notorious by his disso lute manners and his quarrels. Thiers speaks of him as frightful with ugliness and genius ; yet no man had more amours , or was so suc cessful in them. His character was so low, at the meeting of the States General, that there was a murmur in the Assembly when he first entered to take his seat. But, no sooner did this eccentric man appear in the tribune, than his power became manifest. lie was immeasurably superior to every mind with which he came in contact in the Assembly. He had, in fact, no second—it was Eclipse first , and the rest nowhere. — From the member that was hardly tolerated, he soon became the member that was gazed upon by every eye, and courted by every or der. Proud of his high qualities, and jesting over his vices, by turns haughty and supple, he won some by his flattery, awed others by his sarcasms, and led all in his train by the extraordinary influence of his oratory. Os the Abbe Maury, the leader of the cote droit. he used to say, “ When he is on the right side, we debate ; when he is on the wrong, I crush him.” Ilis sarcasm, irony, originality, were so great, that every body was afraid of him in the tribune. The aristocracy at last, not being able to meet him in debate, made an effort to get rid of him by duel. Many sent him challenges, but he always refused, merely noting down their names in his pock et-book. “It is not fair,” said he, in regard to one of his opponents, “to expose a man of talent like me, against a blockhead like him.” What is very extraordinary in such a coun try as France, this conduct did not bring him into contempt, or even cause his courage to be doubted. There was something so martial in his mind, so bold in his manner, that no one could impute cowardice to him. He made partizans every where—among the people— ir. the very court —and, to crown the measure of his greatness, as soon as he learned the secret of his power, and saw the career that was opened to him, he suddenly became one of the hardest working men who have ever appeared on the stage of action. “If l had not lived with him,” says Dumont, “I should never have known what a man can make of one day.” A day for this man was more than a week or a month is for others. The mass of things he guided on together was prodigious; from the scheming to the execu ting, not a moment was lost. The fact is, that he at last, tough as was his physical frame, overworked himself, and died from fe ver generated by hisexcessive labors — South ern Quarterly Review. ©dectic of iUit. ODE TO THE BED. BY THE LATE THOMAS HOOD. Oh, Bed! oh, Bed! delicious Bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head; But a place that to name would be ill-bred, To the head with a wakeful trouble — ‘Tis held by sucli a different lease! To one a place of comfort and peace, All stuff’d with the down of stubble geese, To another with only the stubble! To one, a perfect Halcyon nest, All calm, and balm, and quiet, and rest, And soft as the fur of the cony— To another so restless for body and head, That the bed seems borrow’d from Nettlebetl, And the pillow from Stratford the Stony! To the happy, a first-class carriage of ease, To the Land of Nod, or where you plca.se; But, alas! for the watchers and weepers, Who turn, and turn, and turn again, But turn, and turn, and turn in vain, With an anxious brain, And thoughts in a train That does not run upon sleepers! Wide awake as the mousing owi, Night-hawk, or other nocturnal fowl, — But more profitless vigils keeping,— Wide awake in the dark they staie, Filling with phantoms the vacant air, As if that crook-bnck’d tyrant, Care, Had plotted to kill them sleeping. And oh ! when the blessed diurnal light Is quench’d by the providential night, To render our slumber more certain, Pity, pitv the wretches that weep, For t hey must be wretched who cannot sleep, When God himself draws the curtain! The careful Betty the pillow beats. And airs the blankets, and smoothes the sheets, And gives the mattress a shaking— But vainly Betty performs her part, If a ruffled head and a mmpled heart As well as the couch want making. There s Morbid, all bile, and verjuice, and nerves, Where other people would make preserves, lie turns his fruits into pickles: Jealous, envious, and fretful by day, At night, to his own sharp fancies a’ prey lie lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wroW w.v Tormenting himself with his prickles. b y ’ Lut a child—that bids the world good night In downright earnest and cuts it quite A cherub no Art can copy,— ’Tis a perfect picture to see him lie As it ho had supp’d on dormouse pie, (An ancient classical dish by the by.) With a sauce of syrup of poppy. Oh, bed! bed! bed! delicious bed! That Heav’n upon earth to the weary head Whether lofty or low its condition ! * ’ But instead of putting our plagues on shelves In our blankets how oft we toss ourselves ’ Or are toss’d by such allegorical elves As Pride, Hate, Greed and Ambition ! A WITNESS TO CHARACTER, The conversation turned upon legal prac tice in general, and the ingenious dexterities of roguish attorneys in particular. “ The cleverest rogue that ever I heard of in the profession,” said o‘Connel], “was one Checkley, iamiliarly known by the name nf 1 Checkley-be-d d.’ Checkley was agent once, at the Cork assizes, for a fellow accu sed of burglary and aggravated assault, com mitted at Bantry. The noted Jerry Keller was counsel for the prisoner, against whom the charge was made out by the clearest cir cum tantial evidence, so clearly, that it seem ed quite impossible to doubt his guilt. When the case for the prosecution closed, the Judge asked if there were any witnesses for the de fence” “ Yes, my lord,” said Jerry Keller, “I have three briefed to me.” “ Call them,” said the Judge. Checkley immediately bustled out of court, and returned at once, leading in a very re spectable-looking, farmer-like man, with a blue coat and gilt buttons, scratch wig, cor duroy tights and gaiters. “This is a witness to character, my lord,” said Checkley. Jerry Kelly (the counsel) forthwith began to examine the witness. After asking him his name and residence, “ You know the prisoner in the dock V 1 said Keller. “Yes, your honor, ever since he was a gorsoon!” ” And what is his general character?” said Keller. “ Och, the devil a worse!” “ Why, what sort of a witness is this you’ve brought ?” cried Keller, passionately, flinging down his brief, and looking furiously at Checkley. “He has ruined us !” “He may prove an alibi, however,” re turned Checkley; “examine him as to an alibi, as instructed in your brief.” . Kdler accordingly resumed his examina tion : “Where \vas the prisoner on the 10th in stant ?” said he. “He was near Castlemartyr,” answered the witness. “Are you sure of that?” “Quite sure, counsellor!” “How do you know w 7 ith such certain ty ?” “Because, upon that very night I was re turning Irom the lair, and, when I got near my own house, I saw the prisoner a little way on “oelore me—l’d swear to him any where. He was dodging about, and I knew it could be for no good end. So I slipped in to the field, and turned off my horse to grass ; and while I was watching the lad from be hind the ditch, [ saw him pop across the wall into my garden, and steal a lot of parsnips and carrots; and, what I thought a great dale worse ot, he stole a bran new English spade I got from my landlord, Lord Shannon. So, iaix, I cut away after him, but as I was tired from the days labor, and he being fresh and nimble, I wasn’t able to catch him. But next day my spade was seen surely in his house, and that s the same rogue in the dock ! I wish I had a hoult of him.” “It is quite evident,” said the Judge, “that we must acquit the prisoner ; the witness has clearly established an alibi for him; Castle martyr is nearly sixty miles from Bantry ; and he certainly is anything but apartizan of his. Pray, friend, addressing the witness, “will you swear informations against the prisoner lor his robbery of your property ?” “ froth I will, my lord ! with all the plea sure in life, if your lordship thinks I can get any satisfaction out of him. I’m tould I can for the spade, but not for the carrots and pars nips.” “Go to the crown office, and swear infor mations,” sard the Judge. 1 he prisoner was of course discharged, the alibi having clearly been established. la an hour’s time, some inquiry was made as to whether Checkley’s rural witness had sworn informations in the crown office. That gen tleman was not to be heard of: the prisoner