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iol. i-w.
POETRY.
FOR TBIi TIMES.
STANZAS.
TO MISS ARABELL
I've heard of far-famed Persian maids,
Tuat sylph-like wander through thoglados
In beauty pure and bright,
bii gazint; one > tnight think tltey were
bat light.wing’d couriers of the air,
°l)r fairies of the night.
|. u , foamed of Isles in southern seas,
tVStre music floats on every breeze
Through aromatic groves ;
\\ .. ru dark-eyed maids vvf.it raven tress ,
.p« rich in nature’s loveliness.
And burn with ardent loves.
la fancy’s realms, wliilp wandering fur
ly'jjlh skies be-geiunn and with many a star,
O’er fields with tlowrots strewn.
’vc sighed, that I should never see
The beauty, that such scenes to me
'Tuose cherished dreams have shewn.
j( it , ()! I bless the hour, when flrst
l pea my ravish’d sight there burst
'i’he graces ol the Nine.
Concenter’d all in one, more bright
Than any star that gilds the night,
Or diamond of the mine 1
When flrst the radiance of her face,
Sliod o’er the vulgar throng, a grace
Wove o’er the heart a spell;
)i church—yard silence lucre contest
trio was by fur the loveliest
The peerless Arab k. l!
’ve roamed alar and near to find,
•cch beauty and such wealth of mind
As gleamed from hor dark eye I
Slut all m vain, till brightly shone
Vou u Auauuli. Hie peerless one—
A meteor of the sky
HARP OT TIIE SOUTH.
STANZAS.
] think on thee, in the night,
11 Imn all beside is still,
Ao4:!ir moon conn soul with her pule,sad light,
To sit on the lonely hill !
When tbe stars are all like dreams,
Vail the breezes all like sighs,
A'.:t:n re cutties a voice fr.un the fur-oil's!reams
Lie thy spirit’s low replies 1
1 think on thee, by day,
.llijtlie cold and busy crowd,
IVhcu iiie laughter of the young and gay
Is tar too glad and loud 1
hear thy soft, sad tone,
And thy young sweet smile I see ;
My Heart —my heart were nil alone,
lilt for its dream* of thee 1
Oh! like those fairy things,
Those insects otthe east,
That have their beauty in their wings.
And shroud it, while at rest ;
Tint told their colours ofthe say,
When earthward they alight,
An 1 lias'll their splendors oil the eye,
Only to take their flight ;
1 mvcr km*w how dear thou wort,
Till thou wert borne away 1
I hau' it yet about my heart,
Tuv beauty of that day 1
-hit the rube thou wert to wear,
lievond the stars, were given
I'm: I might learn to know it there,
And seek ’.live out, in heaven 1
VISCELLANEOI
I Front an Old Miscellany.
■ thi: iizto.YZE st itue.
H’f.mi Lieuwen, a favorite u.inter ia
of the deceased king of i’rus-.
■tail under his special patronage and
Hoo.u young engineer of high rank,
advancement to his notice had!
■ - v'ly due to his merits, Misbat-j
■" d’.ihy tiie Austrian G •». ('lairfait,
■< .his march through th - I. •wlViut-
K ’."wartls France, was ordered to sur-
H* a small village on the frontiers ini
H 1 my's possession. In tiie middle oi i
young Ewald entered his cum-
tent, and informed him that aj
oiuu had been begun by the chief!
of this district to admit the j
■*i;u soldiers into an ambuscade, by j
■ ih.-y might surround the French I
in the village of Althcim, and!
to the sword. “Sir," he ad-j
tti.iiictpiainletl witha ]»;itli through
skirts the Church-yard. j
■ pleading fifty chosen men tiirougli
may enclose the farm and out-hou-.
H wine!; these Frenchmen lodge, and
■"o'.e to surrender, without the base- 1
'.Titering their host’s gates in
■'i 1 '" disguised as travellers, and mas-,
■" A them in their sleejt. This vile |
■- lias made the offer in hopes of re-
; .hir wiii.-h he conditions privately.
of the bloodshed and ravage'
soldiery would spread among
Hf : 1 villagers in lit : blindness of ilieir
H ‘Ami are right," replied the
H ll —“and it would lie well to gain'
■ Ivantagcous post, without disgrace •
characters as I’russian s.ddiers,or
Mj 1 - 1 ' to the unoffending natives.!
wlu>.«- means did this honorable
H :: ’ is willing to share the reward?”!
■' . v,| mig engineer east down itis eyes, |
.after ;t short anil graceful
■Ration, “lie is my enemy, my lord—
H lVc me if 1 do not name him.”
■-'mnt Lieuwcu's brow grew smooth.
Lichtenstein.'’ he said, with a
lamiliarity he seldom used. except
m : " Ins heart was tonelied. “well—
"'ill be no surer way. I see, to se
both our military credit, and litis
■' r v 'Hage ir mii plunder, than to give
H '!■’ ''"mmaii'i ol' th*- affair. Choose
wmmsm,
I'ttISTKD A.\l> PUBLISHED KV HIAKXADCKG 3. SLADE, AT THREE DOLLARS PER A A ALTS.
j your comrades and conduct them. Hut
. how is it that you know the avenue of this
i obscure place so well?”
Ewald was silent for a few moments
only, because he was conscious of feelings
| likely to make his voice less firm. vVhen
: he had stilled them, he replied, “to you
| who know my humble birth, and have re
l medied it so kindly by your patronage, I
need not be afraid to confess this tallage
v. as my birth place, and that farm which
the provost intends to deliver up to-night
for tiie purpose of massacre and riot is—or
was—” lie could not add his meaning,
but count Liewen felt it. Brushing a tear
from his eyes, the old soldier bade him
take his detachment, and obtain posses
sion of the place in the manner he deemed
fittest. Ewald departed instantly, and
returned in the morning to announce his
complete success, without the escape of u
single Frenchman. He brought besides,
a valuable despatch, which his advanced
guard had intercepted; and the count
delighted with tbe important result of the
affair, and with the generous spirit it had
exhibited, offered his young lieutenant a
thousand crowns, the sum tor which the
treacherous provost’had negociated, gal
lantly saying his sovereign would more
willingly pay it as the recompense of a
hazardous and well performed duty, than
as the premium of a traitor. “If,” said
said the lieutenant, modestly, “your lord
ship thinks this village worth a thousand
crowns to his majesty, I ] tray you to con
sider them due to my senior officer, Dorf
fen: \ our personal kindness induced you
to waive his right, and to give me the
command of last night’s affair ; yet it is
just that he should have the price of what
he deserved to win.” “He shall have it,”
answered Lieuwcn, compressing his lips
sternly—“but now 1 know wiio would
have bought what you have won honest
ly.”
The first care of this brave veteran on
his return to Berlin, was to lay the cir
cumstances of this fact before the king ;
the consequence was Ewald’s promotion;
and before 4 the war ceased, lie rose to
rank even higher than count Liewen ;
and tbe last favor his old commander
asked at court was,that his adopted son
might be appointed bis successor in the
fortress oi'l’lacen, which his age rendered
him averse to govern longer. This high
distinction was granted ; and the king, to
suit the new governor’s title to his impor
tant office, added the rank of Baron to the
Cross ofthe Black Eagle, already worn by
Ewald dc Lichtenstein. These unexpect
ed honors did not alter the temper of the
young hero—still preserving the bland ur
banity of Marshal Turennc, whose eleva
tion he had imitated so successfully; he
was proud to hear his comrades hint that
he too was a miller's son, and always
strove to remind them how much he re
sembled bis noble predecessor in benevo
lence and grace. But when he had of
fered his grateful obeisance, he solicited
permission to absent himself one month
before he assumed bis new duties. Count
Licuwen’s friendship, and tbe peaceable
state of the country, made the royal as
sent easy, and Ewald de Lichstcntein left
Berlin to dedicate this short interval to
his private happiness.
But Ewald, with all the splendor of his
professional success, had not altered the j
iiumility of that private happiness, lie
had no hope so dear as to return to the
village of Altheim, which ten years be
fore, be bad preserved from destruction :
and to reclaim the farmer’s daughter with
whom the first affections of his boyhood
had been exchanged. During the vari
ous and busy vicissitudes of a soldier’s life,
no correspondence had been possible, and
he had time to snatch only a short in- !
terview when he entered the village with
a hostile detachment. He took with him
one attendant, a soldier of his own regi
ment, but unacquainted with his birth
place, though sufficiently attached to his
person to insure the secresy he required
—not from mean fear of exposing his
humble origin, but from a generous wish
to avoid displaying his new and self ac
quired greatness. The journey was te-
I dious to his fancy, though he travelled
rapidly, for the pleasantest dreams of his
youth Were ready to be realized. Ilis
servant had orders to make r.o mention of
| bis name or rank when he arrived at his
place of destination, and the little village
of Althcim came in sight in till the beauty
! ofa summer evening, and a happy man's
i imagination. As he entered it, however,
he perceived that several cottages were
in ruins, and the housq where Josephine
! had lived was half unroofed, and its gar
den full of grass. Ewald’s heart misgave
| him, and his servant went on to enquire
who occupied it. Schwartz brought his
! master intelligence that the niece of the
j former occupier had married a farmer,
I whose speculations bad ended ininn-keep
; ing with but little success. There was no
other inn; and if there had been one. lav
“ W “ • N,:Vi:!t DSB,AIR °f •'!“• tiiinu #j.m 111 i: ecioc, WK iinix ,»u k.
MILLEDGEVILLE, GEOKGIA, JULY 24. JS33.
| aid, notwithstanding his heart-burnings,
would have chosen this. He renewed his
cautions to his servant, and entered the
miserable house, where the master sat
surlily smoking his pipe in a kitchen with
broken windows, and hearth almost cold.
To his courteous request for accommoda
tion, this man, whose suitable name was
Wolfcnbach, hardly returned an answer,
except throwing him the remnant of a
chair, and calling loudly at the door for
1 his wife. A woman in wretched appa
rel, bending under a load of sticks, crept
j from a ruined out-house, and came fear
fully towards him. “Bring a faggot,
drone, and cook some fish,” said her ruf
fian husband: “where is the bread I
brought litis morning, and the pitcher of
milk?” “There was but little milk,” she
answered, trembling, “and I gave it to
our child.” “Brute, idiot!” he muttered
with a hideous oath, and pushed her for
ward by a blow which Ewald’s heartfelt.
That moment would have discovered him,
if the inn-keeper had not left the house to
attend his servant; and Ewald, as lie
looked again on Josephine’s face, had cou
rage enough to restrain a confession which
would have aggravated her misery. Per
haps she had been left desolate—perhaps
her husband had been made brutal by
misfortune ; at all events, he had no right
to blame a marriage which circumstances
had not permitted him to prevent. She
might have had no alternative between it
and disgrace, or Wolfenbach might have
possessed, and seemed to deserve her
choice better than himself. This last
thought held him silent, as he sat with his
face shaded near the fire. Josephine took
but one glance at him, and another at the
cradle, where a half-starved infant lay,
before she begun her humble labours to
prepare a supper. Ewald attempted to
say something, but his voice, hoarse with
emotion, appeared unknown to her, and
she turned away with a look of repressed
pride and shame. Yet as she could not
but observe the earnest gaze of the stran
ger, her cheek Hushed with conscious re
aecollection, recovered some pavtofits for
mer beauty,and Ewald had taken the infant
on his knee,when Wolfenbach returned. His
guest overcame the horror which almost
imp died him to throw from him the off
spring of a ruffian so debased, intending
to con vey into its cradle some aid for tiie
unhappy mother, which might suffice ‘to
condbrt her wants without betraying the
giver. He hid a purse of gold within its
wrapper, and gave it back to Josephine ; |
while tbe father,! murmuring at such
pests, rebuked her slow cookery. But
Ewald could not eat; and tasting a flask
to propitiate the brutal landlord, with
drew to the bed meant for him, and was
seen no more.
Late on the following morning, two
men, as they passed near a spoiled hay
rack, perceived motion in it, and heard a
leeble noise. They took courage .to re
move some part, and, led on by traces of
blood, examined till they found a body,
yet warm with life, but wounded in a
ghastly manner. They conveyed it to
the village surgeon, and collected help to
| surround the house of Wolfenbach, whom
they remembered to have seen on the
! road, mounted on a horse which had been
observed the day before entering Altheim
with the wounded man and another stran
! ger, Skill and care restored this unfor
; lunate stranger sufficiently to make las
deposition. He named his master, aid
stated that the gloomy looks and eager
questions of the inn-keeper had alarmed
him on the night of Ewald’s arrival, espe
cially when he was desired to sleep in a
ruined out-house. He had left it, and ap- j
plying his ear to a crevice in the bouse
door, heard Woltcnbach menacing his
wife with death if she betrayed bis search
in the travellers portmanteau, which had
been left below ; for probably in the
heedlessncss ofanguish, Ewald had not
thought of’attending to it. He also hea;d
Josephine’s timid expostulations, and the
shriek of her child in its father's savage
grasp, held perhaps as a hostage for her
silence. He went to warn his master,and
by calling through the casement of the
loft where be lay awake, drew him iron)
his bed. The stroke of an axe felled him
to the ground, and he remembered noth
ing more. Tiie fate of Ewald might be
easily surmised. Detachments of pea
sants traversed the country round to gain
intelligence of him, but without success,
and, without knowing his elaims'on them
as their countryman, they were all eager
in their zeal to trace a man of rank and
honour. Couriers met them from Berlin,
despatched to hasten his return ; but al
ter six months spent in the most earnest
search, even his parental friend, Count
Lieuwen, despaired of seeing him more,
an 1 believed him the victim of a ferocious
robber. Wolfenbach had been seized
with the horses oi’Ewald and his servant,
which he Itad taken to sell at the nearest
fair, and could not attempt even a plan
-1 sible account ol them. His miserable
wile was in a state of delirium, which un- j
litted her to give coherent evidence ; but
the subject ol her ravings, the purse of
gold found in her infant’s cradle, and a
ring dropped near the traveller’s bed, j
were powerful presumptive proofs against;
her hush-.id. The rifled portmanteau!
was also discovered in a well, and the axe,;
covered with blood. Wolfenbach main
tained an obstinate silence, duriug a long
trial, which ended in a sentence of death,
received with acclamations by the popu
jlace. He was carried to the scaffold, at
tended by no friend, and died without!
j confession.
Count I .ieuwen resumed the govern
jmentot tbe lortress he had resigned, but
j |! °t till he had made repeated inquiries and 1
! offered large rewards for any trace of his
j lost favorite, without effect. And when,
! after some years bad passed, a public du
ty compelled him to visit the country in
which Ewald bad perished, be travelled
hastily, and loathed tbe necessity which
forced his equipage to rest at Altheim for
a few hoars. During the few hours, the
master ot tbe new inn found means to in
troduce himself, and beg bis guest’s atten
tion to a rare curiosity which he possess- 1
ed. Finding, from his valet’s account,
that this exhibition was a tax, imposed on
every traveller, the Count assented, and
listened patiently to his host’s history of a
bronze statue, found in a peat bog, at a
short distance, and from thence brought
to his house, lie went into the room where
it was deposited, prepared to see some an
tique relic or cunning counterfoil; but he
saw, with feelings that need not be told, tbe
body ot bis beloved Ewald, in the travel
ing habit he had seen him wear, petrified
by the power ofthe morass, to the resem
blance ofa bronze statue. He stood a few
moments aghast with astonishment aful
horror,not uncomrningled with gladness at
this testimony of the truth preserved bv a
special operation of nature ; for on the
forehead, and in the neck of the seeming
statue, two deep seams rendered the fact
of Ewald’s violent death unquestionable.
But he had presence of mind enough to
suppress his agitation, and affecting to be
lieve flic inn-keeper exhibited, as ho sup
posed himself, a strange piece of ancient
sculpture, gave him a much larger sum
than had been expected, even from a no
bleman of his known-munificence,and car
ried ofi'the prize. But lie caused it to be
conveyed to Berlin without noise, and made
it no subject of conversation among his
attendants.
Count Lieuwcu’s return to tbe metropo
j lis was always followed by banquets given
I to his friends, and on this occasion be cel
ebrated his arrival among them by invi
ting the chief nobility, and all the military
officers who had shared anil survived bis
campaigns. After before any had
departed, he spoke of a rare specimen of
sculpture, which he had roeerved for their
last regale. “ You all know,” said he, “ my
tender affection for Ewald tie Liehston
stein, my regret’for bis untimely loss, and
wishing to preserve bis memory, 1 think
you will agree with me to erect a monu
ment, if we could decorate it with a repre
sentation of him, suitable'to bis merits and
I bis fate, But though we all know his tne
j rits, where shall we find an artist able to
I give a symbol of bis death, since we know
! neither the time nor the circumstance?”
| The Count cast his eyes round the ta
, hie as lie spoke, and met approving and
! earnest looks from all his companions, ex
! ceptone, wh * ' head was averted. “ But,”
lie added, rising after a short pause, “ 1
think I have found a statue sufficient itself
for his monument ’’
A curtain drawn aside discovered the
bronze statue of Ewald, lying «n a bier
j composed of black turf. A silence of sur
[ prise and awe was followed by acclama
-1 lions of wonder at the exquisite sjftnmetry
! ofthe figure, and at the expression of the
! countenance, so nearly resembling its u
sual character, except in the half closed
eyes and lids, parted as in the pangs ot
death. Some gathered round to observe
the accurate folds of the drapery, and re
cognize every part of iiis traveling appa
rel.
‘■There is even tbe shape of the seal
ring he wore upon his finger,” said one of
the spectators, “and here is the ribbon he
received the day before he departed,
from tbe kin"—but where is the Cross of
the Black Eagle?”
“In his grave,” replied Count Lieuwen,
' fixing his eyes on a guest who had never
spoken. That guest was Dorften, tbe se
nior officer superceded by Ewald. He
I suddenly lifted up bis head and answered
—“lt is noir The terrible sound of bis
1 voice, the decision of his words, made the
\ assembly fall back from him, leaving him
I alone standing opjiosite the corpse. His
i features wrought a few instant in convu
lsions, ami his lips moved in unconscious
| mutterings. “Then (said a voice from a
• mong the croupe) lb* 1 murd-pt robbed
»*-■ ■■> yst arxxv • '-igi-—■- „ _
1 him ofthe Cross?”
: VYo.no—l robbed him of nothing—he
robbed me of me of my place and honor,
and ol that cross which 1 might have earn
ed at Altheim. We met alone—we were
I map to man ; it was night, but 1 won
] the cross fairiv, and now let him take it
! back.”
The self accused murderer made a des
perate effort to throw it from bis breast,
and fell with Lis whole weight, and a
laugh of madness, at the foot of the bier.
The crowd raised him, but be spoke no
more. ILs last words wcie truth, as
subsequent enquiry, proved. Accident or
i a hope of vengeance had led him to the
neighborhood of Ewald’s village; thev
had mel on the road, and fatal opportuni
ty completed Dorflen’s guilt. He was
buried under the scaffold, and the Bronze
hitatue remained a monument of Ewald’s
fate and of retributive justice.
A THRILLING TALE.
The fbPowing thrilling title is said to
have been related by Sir Waller Scott,
and furnished by a correspondent of Camp
bell’s Magazine;
It happened several years ago, when 1
was traversing the Highlands, along with
a much beloved, but now departed friend;
one of the true men of the old school; one
who was rich in classical and legendary
lore, but still more in sterling and mo; al
virtues, for it has been my lot to possess
friends and companions from whom 1 have
been ever gaining, till my store has be
comc somewhat bulky. Alas! there are
so many deserters from the corps bv this
time, who shall no more return, that 1
wish to cherish tbe persuasion, that to bej
1 gone and be with them, will be far better.
My friend and 1 were among tbe thickly
J strewn mountains and ragged rocks ofthe
wildest branch of Highlands, where there
I is a remarkable ravine, which we visited
and explored. It is, rather than a ravine,
a feartui pit or dungeon, descending deep
among the yawning rocks. It is as if a
volcano had boiled there, but in course of
time had spouted out his lava, forming
strange adjacent peaks all around, thus
leaving the furnace or crater dry and emp
ty. ft is a terrible throat wide open, on
the very edge of which one may stand ar.d
look down to the bottom.
There is a mode of descent into its
depths which visitors may command. This
is by means of rope and windlass, as it
were into a coal pit, which arc fixed and
! worked from a prominent brow of the
j highest frowning peak. To the main rope
1 a machine is attached, called a cradle, by
four shorter cords, that tie to distinct cor
ners. He that descends takes bis stand or
seat in the cradle, within the stretch ofthe
lour diverging cords that meet his head.
| A rough old Highlander presided at the
windlass, who appointed my friend first to
! go down. Ere the cradle came up tor me
again, a presentment of some horrid acci
dent about to happen to 011 c of r.s began
to take hold of my nature, and I could not
resist inquiring if all was right with my
friend below. “ 1100, surely,” was the
answer. “And the cradle will be ready
for you in a minute ; ye are as heavy as
twa o’ him.” “!s the rope frail ?” “No
very awa : the last one was roticnor ; it
broke, and let a man fa’,” was the alarm
ing reply. “ Was he killed, say you?”—
“lliileff l though he had a hundred lives,
he wad liae been killed : he was smashed
to pieces down on yonder jagged rock,"
quoth the hard-hearted Celt. 1 examined
the rope, and it appeared much worn, and
to be old. “ How old is it ?” inquired I.
“ Just five years old ; the last was a month
auldcr before it brake,” was the next piece
of tantalizing information. With some ir
ritation of manner, I put it to him, why he
had not been provided before any risk
could attend a descent; and to make things
worse, he provokingly announced, “ we
are to get anew ane in the morn ; ye’ll J
likely be the last one to try the auld.”
But already the cradle* waited for me
to step into it; I could not disappoint my
companion by not doing as he did ;.and
ashamed to seem *to hesitate before, the
Highlander, at once took my seat. It was
perhaps to encourage me, that he said, as
he let me oil’, “A far heavier man than you
gaed down yesterday.” “ Then iie strain
ed the rope,” cried I: but it was too late
to return, and, after all. I got safe down.
The sun shone brightly, and made every 1
intricacy, even in the deep crater, clear
and open to the eye. The floor might al
low a hundred and fifty people to stand on
it at once, and consists of a fine sand that
sparkles with pebbles,wliich have dropped
from the surrounding and impending rocks.
The face of these l ooks is also gemmed by
thousands of the same sort that glittered
beautifully in the sun-beams, all of which
has naturally suggested the idea of a work
of enchantment, lor it is called the Fairy’s
Palace. But I confess, though a palace,
it had but few attractions for me ; for be
sides tlr' dishcartenings the Highlander
! fined me with, ere my descent, my friend,
now that J was down, though without any
mischievous intent, crowded my tears, by
giving with startling effect, the following
narrative; “ A young man once ascended
from tins, but when lie came to the top,
lie incautiously stood bolt, upright in the
cradle, and the moment ere it was landed,
being impatient to get out of it, he made
an adventurous leap for the breast of the
rock. Bui the cradle being still pendant
111 the air, without a stay, tied back on the
impulse of his spring, and fearful to think,
let him fall between it and the landing
place.” •• Horrible ! most horrible 1” was
my most natural exclamation. “ But,
continued my friend, “ keep ye your seat
in the cradle till it be firmly landed ( on the
rock, and all will be safe.’ He ascended,
and 1 prepared to follow.
1 thought of the young man’s leap and
fall; 1 figured to myself the spot where
lie alighted, and the rebound he made
when he met the ground, never more to
rise. And as I took my seat, my limbs
smote one another, and my teeth chattered
with terror. When 1 had descended I
kept my eyes bent downwards, and was
encouraged the nearer 1 got to the bottom.
But op my ascent, though I looked all the
while upwards, i was trembling alive to
the fact, that 1 was ever getting into higher
danger. I held the spread cords as with
the grip of death, never moving my eyes
ivoin the blackened creaking main rope.
“ There ! there it goes!” 1 grasped the
words ; for did I not see one ply of the tri
ple-twisted line snap asunder as jt happen
ed to touch a pointed piece of granite?—
And when once cut and liberated, did the
plv not untwist and curl away from its
•coils? Did 1 not see another ply immedi
ately follow in the same manner; leaving
my file to the last brittle thread, which al
so began to grow attenuated, and to draw
so fine, that it could not long have borne
its own weight? 1 was speechless: the
world whirled round ; I became sightless,
and when within one short foot of being
landed, 1 fell into the grasp of my friend,
who seeing 111 c about to tumble out of the
cradle from the stupor,opportunely snatch
ed and swung, cradle and all, upon the
rock. When strength returned, I ran from
the edge of the precipice, still in the utmost
trepidation—shaking fearfully and giving
unintelligible utterance to the agony of my
awe struck soul. And if my hair did not
undergo an immediate change of color, I
was not without such an apprehension; for
certainly it stood on end during my ascent
from the floor of the Fairy’s Palace.
BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT.
ItV WASHINGTON IRVING.
Man is the creature of interest and ambi
: I ion. His nature leads him forth into tbe
struggle and hustle of the world. Love is
but the embellishment of Jiis early life,or song
piped in the intervals of tbe acts. He seeks
fov lortunu, low u|ui«o in tl»o u orltl’a
thought, and dominion over his fellow men.
But a woman's whole life is a history ofthe
affections. The heart is her world ;it is these
her ambition strives for empire ; it is there
her avarice seeks for hidden treasure. She
sends forth her sympathies on adventure, she
embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affeo
bon ; and if ship wrecked, her cause is hope
less, for it is a bankruptcy ofthe heart. When
disappointed she is like some tender tree, the
pride and beauty of the grove; graceful in its
form bright in its foliage, but with the worm
preying at ils heart. Wo find it suddenly
withering when it should be most fresh and
luxuriant. Wo see it drooping its branches
to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf until
wasted and perished away. It falls even in
the stiliniss of the forest; and as we muse
over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to
recollect the blast or thunder belt that could
have smitten it with decay.
FLORENCE.
Mr. Willis seems to he enraptured with
Florence (in Italy.)—ln his fortv-sixth No.
of “First impressions in Europe,” he giv<«
a loose to his feelings, us follows;
“ We looked down on tlieEdeu like valley
of the Arno at sunrise, and again inv heart
leaped to see the tall domes of Florence, and
the hills all about the queenly city, sparkling
\\ ith palaces, and bright in a sun that shines
no where so kindly. If there is a spot in the
world that could wean one from his native
home, it is Florence! “Florence the fair,”
thev call her! I have passed four of the seven
months 1 have been in Italy, here; and 1 think
|I shall pass here as great a proportion of the
rest of my life. There is nothing that can
contribute to comfort arid pleasure, that is not
within the reach ofthe smallest means in
Florence. 1 never saw a place where wealth
made less distinctu-n. ’The choicest galler
ies of art in the wot Id, are open to all coiners.
The palace of the monarch may he entered
and visited, and enjoyed by all,’?
An elegant writer observes; “the coin
flint is most current among mankind is
flattery ; the only benefit of which is, that
by hearing what arc vve not, we maybe
instructed in what we ought to be.” v
