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sometimes upon the sea, for we have seen
them —but cannot detect any living thing
within it; although the salt streams flowing
into it contain salt fish. I feel sure that the
results of this survey will fully sustain the
scriptural account of the cities of the plain.”
He thus speaks of Jordan :
“The Jordan, although rapid and impetu
ous, is graceful in its windings, and fringed
with luxuriance, while its waters are sweet,
clear, cool, and refresh mg/'*
After the survey of the sea, the party pro
ceeded to determine the height of mountains
on its shores and to run a level thence via
Jerusalem to the Mediterranean. They found
the summit of the west bank of the Dead Sea
more than 1,000 feet above its surface, and
very nearly on a level with the Mediterra
nean.
“It is a curious fact,” says Lieutenant
Maury, “ that the distance from the top to
the bottom of the Dead Sea should measure
the height of its banks, the elevation of the
Mediterranean, and the difference of level be
tween the bottom of the two seas, and that
the depth of the Dead Sea should be also an
exact multiple of the height of Jerusalem
above it.”
Another not less singular fact, in the opin
ion of Lieui. Lynch, “is, that the bottom of
the Dead Sea forms two submerged plains, an
elevated and a depressed one. The first, its
southern part, of slimy mud, covered by a
shallow bay : the last, its northern and larg
est portion, of mud and incrustations and rec
tangular crystals of salt—at a great depth,
with a narrow ravine running through it, cor
responding with the bed of the river Jordan at
one extremity, and the Wady *EI Jeib, 5 or
wady within a wady at the other.”
“The slimy ooze,” says Lieut. Maury,
“ upon that plain at the bottom of the Dead
Sea, will not fail to remind the sacred histo
rian of the ‘ slime pits’ in the vale, where
were joined in battle the * four kings with
five.’ ”
®ur Bond of flnnrl).
TO JENNY LIND.
AFTER LORD BYRON’S LINES TO THOMAS MOORS.
My shirts are pack’d and pinn’d
Within my sac de nuit;
But before I go, Miss Lind,
Here’s a double health to thee.
Here’s my cap for show’ry weather,
And my hat for sunshine gay,
And my collars altogether.
Making one lor every day.
Though the steam shall roar around me,
That to Boulogne bears me on,
Thy voice, whose spell ha h bound me,
Shall haunt me when I’xn gone.
Were’t the last pound in my puree,
And I stood on ruin’s brink,
For thee I’d all disburse,
Nor mourn its parting ohink.
Had Ia ten-pound note,
I’d give it to tho wind,
For an air from out thy throat:
Here’s a health to thee, J. Lind.
THE STATE OF FRANCE.
(From our own Correspondent.)
Our French express brings us nothing at
present from a spot more remote than Bou
logne, as “our own Correspondent” had not
yet ventured beyond that point at the date of
our last advice, and our last advice to him
was to make the best of his way home again.
Boulogne remains perfectly tianquil, nothing
having been knocked down but the price of
apartments, and there having been no rising,
except in the fruit, which is somewhat higher
than it used to be. The old blind organ play
er on the pier has had O Richard , O mon
Roi! taken off his instrument, and Mourir
pour la patrie put in its place; but this ter
giversation seems to excite little sympathy,
or rather, it is responded to by a general ter
giversation on the part of his hearers, who
usually turn their backs upon him. He has
simply converted his organ into an organ of
republicanism; but it is to be observed that
he suspends his desire to Mourir pour la pa
trie until he hears a footstep approaching,
when he “turns, and turns, and turns again,
and still goes on” with the sickening refrain
which everybody is now compelled to listen
to. The Tree of Liberty in the Tintelleries
looks as if it would shortly pack up its trunk
make its bough, and retire, though it will go
without even French leave, for there is hard
ly a leaf to be seen on any of its branches.
Large placards on the walls announce a se
nes of fetes to be given at Calais and at Dun
kerque on the opening of the Paris railroad.
Such a whirl of excitement as Calais is to be
thrown into, seems something perfectly intox
§® © ina &ie sa &mr&& && y ©asbtt ts $ ♦
icating; for the day is to begin by a general
ringing of les cloches , and after that the two
bands that will be in attendance—one a mili
tary, and the other a green-baize —are to con
tend for a medaille en vermeil , which is to be
given to the one that shall succeed in playing
the air le plus pompeux on their respective
instruments. This frantic hilarity is to be
followed up by a procession of Directors, a
race between two men in sacks, and the day’s
delightful doings are to terminate with an il
lumination, at which the inhabitants are re
quested to assist with as many chandelles as
the jeu vaui in their enlightened estimation.
We should imagine that the General Steam
Navigation Company will put on three or
four extra boats at least for Calais, to enable
the English to be present in shoals upon this
very joyous oceusion.
1 0 . ■
Hope for the Potatoes. —The Manches
ter Courier says that a potato-grower near
Warrington, on examining his crop a short
time ago, “found it in every direction se
riously affected; ten days afterwards, on ex
amining it, all trace of the disease had disap
peared, and the plants were looking healthy.”
We are glad to find the potato disease mani
festing itself in a milder form. It thus ap
pears, that when potatoes are out of sorts
they may be suffering merely from a slight
cold —caught, perhaps, from lying in a damp
bed--or some other temporary indisposition.
When, therefore, these valuable tubers chance
to look poorly, we trust that they will not in
all cases be given up in despair.
Sdecteir Itoetrg.
PROCRASTINATIONS.
BY CHARLES MACKAY.
If Fortune with a smiling face
Strew roses on our way,
When shall we stoop to pick them up*!
To day, my love, to day.
But should she frown with face of care,
And talk of coming sorrow,
When shall we grieve, if grieve we must!
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.
If those who’ve wronged us own their faults,
And kindly pity, pray
When shall we listen and forgive t
To day, my love, to day.
But, if stern J ustice urge rebuke,
And warmth from Memory borrow,
When shall we chide—if chide we daret
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.
If those to whom we owe a debt,
Are harmed unless we pay,
When shall wo struggle to be just 1
To day, my love, to day.
But if our debtors sue for grace,
On pain of ruin thorough,
When shall we grant the boon they seek t
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.
If Love, estranged, should onoe again,
Her genial smile display,
When shall we kiss her proffered lips'!
To day, my love, to day.
But, if she would indulge regret,
Or dwell with by-gone sorrow,
When shall we weep—if weep we mustt
To-morrow?, love, to-morrow.
For virtuous acts and harmless joys
The minutes will not stay ;
We've always time to welcome them,
To-day, my love, to day.
But care, resentment, angry words,
And unavailing sorrow,
Come fur too soon, if they appear
To-morrow, love, to morrow.
■1 —i
I HAE NOBODY NOW,
I hae nobody now—l hae nobody now,
To meet ine upon the green,
Wi’ light locks waving o’er her brow,
An’joy in her deep blue e’en;
Wi’ the soft sweet kiss an’the happy smile,
An’ the dunce o’ the lithsome lay.
An’ the wee bit tale o’ news the while
That had happened when I was away*.
I hae nobody now—l hae nobody now,
To clasp to my bosom at even ;
O’er her calm sleep to breathe the vow,
An’ pray for a blessing from heaven;
An’ tho wild embrace and the gleesorae face,
In tho morning that met mine eye,
Where are they now ! where arc they now 1
In the cauld, cauld grave they lie.
There's naebody kens—there’s naebody kens,
An’ O may th< y never prove,
That sharpest degree of agony
For the child of their early love!
To see a flower in its vernal hour
By slow degrees decay ;
Then softly uneath in the arms o’ death
Breathe its sweet soul away.
O, dinna break, my poor auld heart,
Nor at thy loss repine ;
For the unseen hand that threw the dart
Was sent from her Father and thine.
Yes, I maun mourn, an’ 1 will mourn,
Even till my latest day;
For though my darling can never return,
I shall follow her soon away.
Sketches of £ife.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
A LEAF FROM AN OLD BOOK.
BY HON. B. F. PORTER.
It was a dark November morning, in the
year 1142. It was in the Territory of Troyes.
The mists of the night began to be dissipated.
Gradually, on the banks of the Ardipon, be
gan to be disclosed a huge stone building,
erected in all the wild, misshapen massive
ness of that age. It was a desolate spot.
Back of it, and protecting it from the North,
rose a lofty wall of mountains, extending far,
far away, until fading in the blue horizon.
Dark forests of trees, like skeletons, stretched
their bare arms all around. The Ardipon
was frozen over, and the edifice above men
tioned lay lonely on its banks, surrounded
with a rude wall of timber and stone. On
the Southern side, a gate-way, well protect
ed, was seen —and, winding along the moun
tain side, till lost in a gap, lay a road leading
from it. Close upon the bank, and protected
by a score of venerable elms and oaks, stood
an oratory of osiers and thatch. It had been
often intertwined with fresh osiers as they
had decayed, and planted with vines until it
presented an antique and romantic shelter.
The mists were gone, and the first rays of the
sun gilded the frost-covered mountain top.
Suddenly a bell, tolling from the turret in sol
emn tones, announced a religious habitation.
The prayers were over. From a door comes
forth a woman, upon whose countenance and
form age and sorrow have done their injuries,
but they have not deprived either of dignity:
she is neither emaciated nor yet healthy in
appearance; she has preserved the round ness
of form which gives woman her beauty, even
in the decline of life. With melancholy step
she advances to the oratory ; she reads from
a volume of Lucan; she peruses, with filling
eyes, over and over again, the lines,
“Oh maxime conjux,
Oh thalamis indigne meis, hoc juris habetat
In tantum fortunae caput ‘l Curiinpia nupsi,
Si miser urn fuctura fui 1 Nunc accipe poenas,
Sed quassponte tuam.”
But list—what is that ? Slowly and sol
emnly. down the mountain side, and along
the road to the building, comes a grave com
pany of ecclesiastics following a coach.—
They enter, bearing in procession a dead
body. It is the Abbot Pierre come to lay at
the feet of Heloise the remains of Abelard !
Abelard was the son of the Seigneur Be
ranger, and was born at the end of the year
1079, at Palatium, in Brittany. He was tho
roughly educated in the prevailing learning
and accomplishments of his time. Eloquence,
or rather the science of disputation, and war,
then furnished the fields of triumph. Abe
lard was proficient in each. To great ele
gance of person he united most graceful ad
dress and accomplished manners. He refu
ted successfully all the reasoners of his day,
and the public approbation incited him to
other conquests. The age of veneration for
warlike accomplishments, and of eloquence,
is the age of enthusiasm—and that of enthu
siasm is always the age of imagination.
Passion is wild and reckless in such times,
and women, won in the guise of love, are
more often the victims of desire than of affec
tion. Abelard became the first of all the
idols of devotion in Paris. The men placed
him beyond competition, and the women
found that he, whom all praised for eloquence
and learning, was far more noble in person
and manners than all other men. Fulbert
was among his admirers, and Heloise, an or
phan, his niece, was, if not the most beauti
ful, certainly the most educated and agreeable
young woman of the circle in which he
moved. Full of the vanity of success, Abe
lard resolved to add to his conquests over
men’s hearts the seduction of this innocent
girl. He treacherously insinuated himself
into her confidence as a teacher. She be
came his slave ; she felt that he was the most
learned and distinguished man of the world*
she looked upon him as the property of the
world, and felt that disgrace with him was
immortality. She had for him love— for her
he had only concupiscence. He seduced her
and the indignation of Fulbert soon deprived
him of the source of desire. With the ab
sence of that, his inclinations and respect f or
her vanished. But with Heloise love re
mained, because she had loved but once, and
he was the altar, in fact, the God of her
worship. He was induced by selfishness to
command her to abjure the world, at the very
moment he became a monk; and at twenty
this noble and interesting woman entered a
cloister. Driven about the world, sometimes
by enemies his conduct to Heloise had produ
ced, sometimes by those whose false doctrines
he refuted, he passed from convent to con
vent, until he found a momentary respite from
persecution, on the banks of the Ardipon.
Here, with a few scholars, he erected the mo
monastery of the Paraclete. This, on his be
coming Abbot of St. Gildas, he presented to
Heloise and her nuns. Long he refused
write to hei. Her letters, breathing the utmost *
agony of soul, and immortal sentences, at ldlP
awoke his responses. But these were cold
and unfeeling. To her delicate upbraiding?,
her warm and pathetic appeals—to her pray
ers for a correspondence—to her oaths that
she had taken the veil for love of him, not of
God —he answered by reproving her worldli
ness, and asking to be relieved from her im
portunate letters.
One can readily see that it was not piety,
but heartlessness, which induced these re
sponses. At last, condemned by his supe
riors, abandoned by the world, and loved by
none but Heloise, Abelard received an asylum
from Pierre, Abbot of Cluni. In his last mo
ments, he was removed to St. Marcel, and
there died on 21st April, 1142.
The brethren of St. Marcel claimed his bo
dy and buried it. In November of that year,
the Abbot Pierre, feeling that the body of
Abelard belonged to but one , living in the
darkness of night, raised it from the grave
within the Priory, and, aided by a few trusty
friends, delivered it to Heloise. This amia
ble woman lived twenty-one years after Abe
lard, venerating only his memory, and glory
ing in her love —herself the careless object of
the admiration of all the world. In Paris
stands a monument to them both, and upon it
the expressive epitaph, “ Eternally United.”
On so much of the stone as is dedicated to
Heloise should be written, “Eternally Faith
ful.” On his part of it—“ To the Memory of
a Brutal Man.” Abelard has come down to
fame through the devotion and nobility of
Heloise. Nothing in his character deserves
immortality. His eloquence and learning
were not enough, because he was a bad man;
and he had no love whatever for this devoted
woman. She was the very impersonation of
the truth and obedience—the dependence and
the virtue of a noble, confiding woman. Any
dandy of the present day can love any wo
man a great deal more truly than ever Abel
ard loved Heloise.
In a future number shall be traced some
lurther history of her wrongs. Posterity
should deal justly by this false hero, in the
romance of whose history, and the character
of whose wife, truth has been lost, and sym
pathy improperly substituted.
LIGHT AND SHADE.
The gloomiest day hath gleams of light,
The darkest wave h ith bright foam near it;
And twinkles through the cloudiest night
Some solitary star to cheer it.
The gloomiest soul is not all gloom,
The saddest hea"t is not all sadness;
And sweetly o’er the darkest doom
There shines some lingering beam of gladness
Desrair is never quite despair;
Nor life nor dea‘h the future closes;
And round the shadowy brow of care
Will hope and fancy twine their roses.