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172 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.