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I may die, but to “head it” is impossible; 1
shall submit to my fate. I go home to-mor
row, and leave my Maggie to finish her ca
reer at school. I shall prepare for the de
thronement of my household gods, and make
way for the joint dynasty of Ethiopia and
Italy. Revolutions never go backward; and
the detestable usurpation must be consum
mated.
But I solemnly caution my friends, and
contemporaries, to take warning by my ex
ample, and avoid the rocks upon which my
music hath sullered disastrous shipwrdfck.
I am, sir, very truly yours,
Sandy Stubblefield.
Old Virginia Inn , )
Dec. Ist, 1848. j
P. S. I observe that my daughters write
their names “Amelie” and “Marguerite.”
But I solemnly declare, that they were not so
bestowed by their sponsors in baptism.
P. S. No. 2. I had forgotten, in the ex
tremity of my grief touching the music, to
take notice of some innovations in the man
ner of dancing, which rather contlict with my
old-fashioned opinions. 1 find that names
and things have undergone great changes;
reels and country dances, (to say nothing of
the grand oid minuets,) are among the things
that were; and the fantastic toes of the rising
generation, nourish in figures that would
startle the propriety of our good old mothers,
could they “revisit the glimpses of the moon.”
Thank heaven, my own daughters are not
much infected with this disease, and I trust,
in the seclusion of the country, they may es
cape lurther contagion.
©limpscs of Xm Books.
WALTER SCOTT.
From “Essays and Reviews” by E. P. Whipple.
The tendency of Scott’s writings, like the
tendency of all the great compositions of the
nineteenth century, is in favor of human free
dom, of human happiness. However strong
may have been the spell which the* past ex
ercised over his mind, whatever may have
been his politics, he could not succeed in ac
curate delineation of character, without al
lowing his genius to follow its own instincts,
and confer its titles of nobility only on the
meritorious. Those who have attacked him
for his supposed injustice to particular class
es, have generally been persons indisposed to
do justice to the classes opposed to themselves.
Critics who have been bigots in their hatred
of him, have generally been bigots in their
love of some other order and developement of
genius. But the most pitiful lie that ever in
sinuate! itself into any criticism above that
of Grub-street, is the charge of aristocracy
brought against his writings. lie had not
forsooth, “any sympathy with the people! ”
If such a loolish fallacy be correct, then most
assuredly he is not the author of the Waver
ly Novels. The people, however, have not
leit the task of answering the charge to critics.
But it is urged, that he displays a childish
love of rank and titles. This, in its essen
tial meaning, is as false as the other. Who
among the characters in “Ivanhoe” is drawn
with the most power—on whom has the au
thor lavished the whole wealth of his heart
and imagination ? Rebecca, the despised and
untitled Jewess. In the “ Heart of Midloth
ian,” there is an interview between Queen
Caroline and Jeannic Deans. Now this
Queen is a case in point. She ruled her hus
band, who, alter a fashion, ruled Great Brit
ain. Yet the little Scotch peasant girl, with
no other title than those conferred upon her
by the Most Iligdi, is so represented that
ery reader cannot hut consider her as superi
or to the Queen. Instances of a similar char
acter might he quoted without number, from
Scott's Poems and Novels, to prove that his
sympathy with his race, and especially with
the humbler portions of it, has never been ex
celled by any writer of equal comprehension
of heart and imagination.
Two classes of critics have attacked Scott’s
character and writings—ultra radicals and ul
tra transcendentalists. He is not democratic
enough for the first, nor spiritual enough for
the second. The former, in condemning him,
generally advance principles of criticism,
which lead, when carried out, to the conclu
sion, that Joel Barlow was a greater poet than
Homer, because he entertained more liberal
notions of government. They seem to think
that if a poet’s political opinions are monarch
ical, his representations of human nature
must be heretical. For instance, William
llazlitt would be deemed a much more liberal
writer than Scott, because his works swarm
with invectives and sneers against aristocracy
and toryigm; yet, in spirit, he was one of the
bitterest aristocrats that ever lived —impati-
ent of opposition, arrogant, self-willed, re-
§®©TfHQ SIB Isl Qa II andr 1 IS IB AIE ¥ ©A%IEIf IF IB ♦
gardless of the rights and feelings of others,
the most uncompromising hater of his time.
Now, a man of this stamp, however splend
ed may be his talents, is not to be trussed in
the representation, of life and charaeter, be
cause his insight must he distorted by his an
tipathies. Whatever was not comprehended
in the narrow circle of his individual tPtstes,
would he denounced or caricatured. Yet, we
continually hear the judgements of such men
quoted as authorities, against men of in finite
ly more comprehensiveness of nature;. Haz
litt detested Scott’s politics, and believed all
lies against his character. His criticisms,
therefore, are curious specimens of mingled
admiration and depreciation. His will is bent
resolutely on making Scott appear m ean and
odious, but his instinctive sense of the excel
lence of what he is depreciating, occasional
ly breaks out in splendid bursts of eulogy.
©cnerctl Articles.
THE COTTON GIN.
From Professor Olmsted’s able Memoir of
Eli Whitney which has lately come in our
possession, we extract a remarkable passage.
The pecuniary advantage of this invention
to the United States is by no means fully pre
sented by an expedition of the value of the
exports of cotton (amounting; to more than
$1,400,000,000 in the last forty-three years,)
nor by the immense proportion of the means
which it has furnished this country to meet
the enormous debts continually incurred for
imports from Britain and the European con
tinent—cotton having for many years consti
tuted one-half, three-fifths, or seven-tenths of
the value of the exports of the Union. But
it was the introduction of the cotton-gin which
first gave a high value and permanent mar
ket to the public lands in the South-west.—
The rapid settlement and improvement of al
most the entire States of Alabama, Mississip
pi, Louisiana, Florida, and Texas, is mainly
due to the large production of cotton, conse
quent upon the invention, of Whitney. The
States of Georgia and Tennessee have also
been largely bene fitted by the same means,
in the disposal of their domain, a vast portion
of which must have remained unoccupied
and valueless but for the immense increase of
facilities for the preparation of cotton for the
market. In the three States of Alabama,
Mississippi, and Louisianna, the salts of the
public lands of the general government
amounted to 18,099,505 acres, during the
eleven years ending on the 30th of June,
1844—yielding to the National Treasury more
than $30,000,000. The sales of upland cot
ton lands by the United States land-offices,
have amounted to many tens of millions of
acres ; and none have been sold at a lower
rate than $1 25 an acre—a large proportion
at a higher rale.
It is to be remarked, finally, that the cot
ton-gins now in use throughout the whole
South, are truly the original invention of
Whitney—that no improvement or successful
variation of the essential parts has yet been
eliected. The actual characteristics cf the
machine (the cylinder and brush.) the sole
real instruments by which the seed is remov
ed and the cotton cleared, remain, in cotton
gins of even the most recent manufacture,
precisely as Whitney left them. The princi
ple has not been altered since the first cotton
gin was put in motion by the inventor, though
great improvements have been made in the
application and direction of the moving forces
in the employment of steam-power, in the ;
running-gear, and other incidentals. Every
one of the various cotton-gins in use, under
the names of different makers, contains the
essentials of Whitney's patent, without ma
terial change or addition. The brush and the
cylinder remain, like Fulton’s paddle-wheel,
unchanged in form and necessity, however |
vast the improvements in the machinery that i
causes the motion.— Be Bow's Commercial \
Review.
EDINBURGH LITERATI. ;
A correspondent of the New York Evening 1
Tost gives the following interesting account
of some of the remaining distinguished men
of Edinburgh, under date of July 30th:
“ The glory of genius seems obscured in
Edinburgh just now; ‘the gold has become
dim.’ Francis Jeffrey and John Wilson are
old men —the former still eminently acute,
and retaining all his vivacity, though he no
longer sits in the censor’s chair, but gives i
judgments in the court of sessions, instead of
uttering oracles for the whole reading world.
Wilson is rather out of date; his wit is not
perennial, and what he has written is not of
a character to make lasting fame for a man.
Susan Ferrer, the gifted autnor of Marriage,
and the Inheritance, yet lives, aged, but not
decayed, A kmd friend begged for me the
privilege of seeing her, but she denied her,
paying that no long time before she had re
fused to admit the grand-daughter of her dear
friend, Sir Walter Scott, and that in her pres
ent state of infirmity she must live in perfect
quiet.
It is a touching circumstance, that when
the great mind of Scott began to flicker—
when the chain of his thought became fre
quently broken, and while he knew and felt,
with profound self-pity, that the soundness
of his intellect was shaken irrecoverably,
this charming woman, beyond all others, was
the auditress who best aided his recollections,
doing so with such amiable ingenuity, that
she took blame to herself for misapprehend
ing what was in truth unintelligible, and
blinded him often to his afflictive despair.
I inquired of a woman in common life in
Edinburgh, if she had ever seen Sir Walter,
‘Mony a time,’ she answered; ‘he was jist
like ony ither mon, verra humble.’ Every
body loved him. One of the most eminent
men now living in the northern capital, is
Sir William Allan. I had the pleasure of
meeting him, and seeing some of his pictures.
He has quite a dramatic mind. He must be
nearly seventy years old, but his talk is sin
gularly animated. He related some incidents
of his life in the East with much descriptive
talent, and showed me a picture of the find
ing of Benjamin’s cup in the sack, which he
is painting. I thought it full of power.
He told me he had not received for pictures,
in three years, money enough to pay for his
frames. Such is the encouragement of ge
nius and art in Scotland, and just now Eng
lish taste and liberality are almost as slum
berous.
Sir William mentioned his visits to Scott
as among his most delightful recollections:
said that his resources for the entertainment
of his guest were inexhaustible, and that his
eldest daughter, the only one of his short
lived children who resembled him, entered in
to her father’s tastes and feelings so as often
to hear a most interesting part in the inno
cent and graceful amusements of that delight
ful house. He had always admired Mr. Ir
ving’s ‘ Visit to Abbottsford,’ thinking it very
felicitous.”
THE FOREST FUNERAL.
She was a fair child, with masses of long
black hair lying over her pillow. Her eye
was dark and piercing, and as it met mine she
staited slightly, but smiled and looked up
ward. I spoke a few words to her father,
anu, turning to her, asked her if she knew
her condition.
“I know that my Redeemer liveth,” said
she, in a voice whose melody was like the
sweetest strain of the iEohan. You may
imagine that the answer started me, and, with
a very few words of the like import, I turned
from her. A half hour passed, and she spoke
in that same deep, rich, melodious voice.
” bather, I am cold—lie down beside me;”
and the old man lay down byhisdving child,
and she twined her arms around his neck,
and murmured in a dreamy voice, “dear fath
er, dear father!”
“My child,” said the man, “doth the
flood seem deep to thee ?”
“Nay, father, for my soul is stron°\”
“ Seest thou the thither shore V
“ I see it, father—and its banks are green
with immortal verdure.”
“ Dearest thou the voices of its inhabi
tants 1”
“Ihear them, father—as the voices of an
gels, falling from alar in the still and solemn
night-time—and they call me. Her voice,
too, father, O, I heard it then !”
“ Doth she speak to thee ?”
“ She speaketh in tones most heavenly.”
“ Doth she smile I”
“An angel smile! But a cold, calm smile.
But lam cold—cold—cold ! Father, there is
mist in the room. You’ll be lonely. Is this
death, father'?”
“It is death, my Mary.”
“ Thank God!”
Sabbath evening came, and a slow, sad
procession, wound through the forest to the
little school house. There, with simple rites,
tire good clergyman performed his duty, and
went to the grave. The procession was
short. There were hardy men and rough, in
shooting jackets, and some with rifles on
their shoulders. But their warm hearts gave
beauty to their unshaven faces, asthey stood
in reverent silence by the grave. Tire river
murmured and the birds sang, and so we bu
ried her.
I saw ihe sun go down from the same spot,
and the stars were bright before 1 left for I
always had an idea that a grave-yard was the
nearest place to heaven on earth, and, with
old Sir Ihomas Brown, I love to see a church
in a grave-yard; for, even as we pass through
high P3aCC ° f graVeS t 0 the temple ° f God on
I ANECDOTE OF CHARLES lamb,
Coleridge told me of a ludicrous embarrass-
! rnent which Lamb’s stammering caused him
;at Hastings. Lamb had been medically advi*
; sed to a course of sea-bathing : and accord’
! ingly* at the door of his bathing machine’
whilst he stood shivering with cold, two stnnt
fellows laid hold of him, one at each shoul
der, like heraldic supporters; they waited for
the word of command from their principal
j who began the following oration to them •
‘ Hear me, men ! Take notice of this t
am to he dipped.’
What more he would have said is unknown
to land or sea-bathing machines; for, having
reached the word dipped, he commenced such
: a rolling fire of Di—di—di—di y that when at
length he descended aplomb upon the fj]{
word dipped , the two men, rather tired of the
long suspense, became satisfied that they had
leached what lawyers call the ‘operative’
clause of the sentence; and, both exclaiming
at once, ‘Oh \es, sir, we re quite aware of
that;— down they plunged him into the sen
On emerging, Lamb sobbed so much from the
cold, that he found no voice suitable to his
S indignation : from necessity he seemed tran
quil, and, again addressing the men, who
: stood respectfully listening, he began thus:
‘ Men ! is it possible to obtain vour atten
i tion V
‘Oh, surely, sir, by all means.’
‘Then listen: once more I tell you, lam
to he di—di—di;’ and then, with a burst of
indignation, ‘dipped, I tell you.’
‘Oh, decidedly, sir;’ and down the stam
merer went for the second time.
Petrified with cold and wrath, once more
Lamb made a feeble attempt at explanation:
‘Grant me pa—pa--patience; is it mum
um—murder you me—me —mean? Again
and a-ga-ga-gain, I tell you, I’m to be di-di
di-dipped,’ now speaking furiously, with the
voice of an injured man.
‘Oh yes, sir,’ the men replied, ‘we know
that—we fully understood it;’ and for the
third time down went Lamb into the sea.
‘Oh, limbs of Satan!’ he said, on coming
up for the third time, ‘ it’s now too late; I
tell you that 1 am—no, that I was —to be di
di-di-dipped only once'—Be Quincy , inXorth
British Review.
—— —imrnTirw i m wn ■ i a ■luw
Original illisallaiig.
j -- -- -
Far the Southern Literary Gazette.
WACHULLA SPRING,
OR
SILVER WATERS, FLORIDA.
BY MIS S MARY BATES.
Here the river Wachulla rises. The spring
is about twelve miles from Tallahassee, to
wards the sea. Amid the wild haunts of the
W achulla, the Indians, until very recently,
have found lurking places, and, therefore,
the spring has seldom been visited. In Feb
ruary, 1845, we rode out to Wachulla.
Alter leaving Tallahassee, wc soon enter
ed the piny-woods. Their monotony was
broken only by the pathway of sand which
lay before us, white as snow. As we ap
proached the spring, the woods were diversi
fied by the Palmetto with its fan-like leaves,
the Maple covered with crimson flowers, and
the sweet Jasmine, which was twining about
the trees, and suspending its golden bolls
Irani their branches. Leaving the carriages,
we made our way, through brier and brake,
over stones and trunks of trees, covered with
moss, to the Wachulla Spring. Thus, this
remarkable extent of water is termed. But
the name spring gives an incorrect impres
sion ; the title is too limited. The liver
IV achulla rises from its deep fountains with
a wide expanse of water. It is several hun
dred feet in diameter. And this unique, crys
tal-like, well-like spring, hides itself in a
wild wood swamp, in the midst of tangled
brush, and fallen trees, and lofty pines, and
matted foliage. Here, far from the haunts of
man, the eaglet finds a home. In the midst
of Chaos, Nature has carved out a marble ba
sin; and from a fountain, deep and invisible,
its silver waters well up. At times, they
rise with so much rapidity, and the eddying
ripples cause so much commotion, that, to