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and feet; but such larks they are for fun
and laughter! with a certain air of sly de
mureness that renders them quite bewitch
ing.
In the cool of the afternoons, a number
of us, in company with half a dozen of
these attractive naiads, would amuse our
selves sliding over a gentle water-fall pour
ing into a secluded basin, stretehing calmly
away below; hand in hand —and very soft,
pretty hands they were! or, forming a long
link, one after another, in a sitting posture,
we threw ourselves upon the mercy of the
lively foam above, and like lightning dash
ed over the brink of the falls, and were
drawn with magical celerity for a great
depth beneath the surface, till our ears
tingled and senses reeled with the rushing
noise, when we would again be swept by
a counter current up to the air of heaven,
and carefully stranded on a sand bank near
by, wondering very much how we got
there, and always greeted by the gay laugh
ter of the water nymphs around us.
Nor is it the safest spot imaginable; for
in some of these sub-marine excursions, an
inexperienced person is given to beat his
head or bod}’ against rocks, or to be carried
to the wrong eddies and floated among dan
gerous straits, to the great detriment of his
breath and digestion. However, no one
need entertain the slightest fear, when at
tended by the natives. They may. when
saving you in the last gasp of drowning,
hold you up in the coming breakers, and
ask, “How much f tree monee V with a
prospective glance. But when diverting
yourself with these nut-brown naiads, they
guide you in safety through perilous laby
rinths, and shield you from all harm.
On one occasion, a laughing, good-hu
mored damsel, whom we christened the
Three-decker, in compliment to a double
row of ports tattooed around her waist,
was seated beside me on a flat ledge, and
opened the conversation by asking, “Wat
tee name you?” “Bill,” said 1. “Liee,
namee Haree,” she archly replied, and
shoved me into the torrent for laughing at
her curiosity. But on gaining my lost po
sition, she broached another theme, which
was so appalingly ludicrous, that, losing
all command of soul and body, I rolled off
the rocks, and had it not been for the stout
arms of a nimble wyheen.ee, who gallantly
came to the rescue, 1 should in all proba
bility, as the Three-decker jocosely re
marked, hare been muckee moi —defunct;
for the water had so nearly filled me up,
that there was not the faintest vestige of a
laugh left in my body. 1 rewarded her
with a plug of tobacco, which is occasion
ally used as a currency.
We experienced much rain during our
sojourn, and when prepared to leave, were
detained some days by the wind. The har
bor is protected by a sweeping sunken reef,
that forms a cvl tit sac of the port, with an
entrance like the neck of a bottle. On the
28th of August, by the assistance of our
pilot, who played corkscrew on the occa
sion, we were safely drawn out, shook the
wet canvas from the yards, and away we
coasted along the island.
It was a beautiful sight, indeed! The
smooth, green freshness of the slopes—the
distant village, with its groves and fields
of sugar—native huts and plantations fast
coming and going, as we went sailing by
—white cascades, and intensity of verdure
everywhere, spread like a glowing mantle
from the mighty shoulders of Mauna Kea
and Mauna Loa—made me doubt if, in all
our future “Polynesian Researches,” we
should behold any scenery so surpassingly
lovely as Owyhee, with sweet little Hilo,
and its foaming Wailuku.
VES £.!’ J-/J £ .
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
THE CASSIQUE OF ACCABEE*
Whatever verdict sectional or prejudiced
Criticism may pronounce upon the author
of “Atalantis” and “Guv Rivers,” the un
biassed reader of his works, no matter
which side of Mason and Dixon’s Line his
lot tnav have been cast, will be sure to as
sign to him a high place among the poets
and novelists of the present day. The
judgments of literary cliques, who can dis
cern merit in no writer who cannot pro
nounce their shibboleth, and who does not
helomr to Iheir particular Mutual Admira
tion Society, may be recorded against him ;
but, unless we greatly err, all these judg
ments will yet be reversed by a higher
tribunal.
Had we twenty pages of some dignified
Quarterly, instead of a column or two of a
newspaper, at our command, we would at
tempt to set forth the claims of Y\ m. Gil
more Simms to higher honors in the
Republic of Letters, than have yet been
generally accorded to him. As it is, we
must confine ourselves to a brief notice of
the little volume whose leading title we
have placed at the head of this article.
“The Cassique of Accabee” is a metrical
story of seven hundred lines, the scene of
which is laid on the Ashley river, near
the present city of Charleston, in days of
lang syne, when ihe red man was still lord
of the wilds which bordered the Keawah,
as the Ashley was then called. The hero
of the tale —an Accabee chieftain, and lord
of various neighbouring tribes, is a model
•The Cassique of Accabee ; a Tale of Ashley
River—With other Pieces. By Wm. Gilmore
Simms, Author of “The Yemassee,” “Richard
Hurdis,” “Guy Rivers,” “Atalantis,” tc c.—
Charleston: John Russell. IMS.
savage. He is iron-nerved, brave, and
sanguinary, but magnanimous,—one of
Nature’s noblemen.
This chieftain, with a party of his
warriors, attacks a Gaelic hamlet “by
Helena’s Bay,” by night, and slaughters
its terrified inhabitants by the light of
their own blazing homes. In the melee
a “fair haired child,” mistaking him, in
the confusion and uncertain light, for her
father, whom he had just slain, rushes
into the arms of the chief. His toma
hawk is lifted to slay her, when he catches
the entreaty in her tearful blue eyes, and,
touched by a strange emotion, spares her,
lifts her in his arms and bears her to his
home amid the shades of Accabee. She is
thus described in the fifteenth stanza:
“ A child of ancient Albyn, she was bright,
With a transparent beauty ; on her check,
The rose and lily, struggling to unite.
Did the best blooms of cither flow’r bespeak ;
Whilst floods of silken hair,
Free flowing, did declare,
The gold of sunset realms, ere Phoebus sinks from
sight.”
The Cassique cherishes her w r ith a fa
ther’s care. She grows in beauty as in
years, and wakes in the bosom of the for
est-chief a passion, which the dusky maid
ens of his own people had striven in vain
to arouse. He loves the golden-haired
and blue-eyed Saxon.
“ Her wild song cheers him at tho twilight hour.
As, on the sward, beside her sylvan cot,
He throws him down, the image of a power,
Subdued by beauty to the vassal’s lot.”
The heart of the maiden but half re
sponds to the warm love which throbs in
the breast of the Cassique, but she prom
ises to become his bride. He departs on a
long hunt, and when he returns, his beau
tiful bird has flown ! A pale-faced trader
whom she had seen once before, and whose
image had continued to haunt her, comes
during the absence of the chief, and per
suades her to fly with him to the settle
ments of the whites. The warrior pursues
and overtakes them. Guilt, shame and
terror overcome the fugitives. The heart
of the red man is almost bursting with sor
row and anger, but the latter is subdued by
all-conquering love. The hand which
clutches the dread tomahawk is restrained.
The chief bids the guilty pair follow him,
and leads them to Accabee. Here, with a
noble magnanimity, he saciifices every
thing on the altar of his love, and for the
sake of her whom he loves, gives her to
another, and with her, the broad domains
of Accabee. lie then departs, having first
warned the husband of her towards whom
his heart still yearned, to expect terrible
vengeance “if a breath but stirs her hair
too rudely.”
Years pass on. The husband of the
fair Gael forgets his vows of love and fi
delity, and with them the warning words
of the red man. The lovely forest flower
which he had plucked in the hour of its
beauty and bloom, ; s now cast aside and
trampled upon. The faithless pale face at
length bargains for the sale of Accabee—
compels his wife to sign the deeds—and
then abandons her to her fate. Or. his
way to the dwelling of the purchaser, with
the deeds in his pocket, he is overtaken by
the Cassique, who, unknown to him, has
been aware of all his movements, and his
life pays the penalty of his baseness and |
crime. The chief returns and throws
down the rescued deeds at the feet of the
miserable deserted woman. He bids her
sell her lands, and with her wealth seek
the homes of her kindred. She begs to be
taken back to his bosom, and to dwell
with his people; but in vain. She has
proved false to him once, and he cannot
trust again. The woman departs to seek
her kindred, and the Cassique returns to
his forest home, and thus the tale ends.
Asa poem, the “Cassique of Accabee” is
inferior to many of the author’s produc
tions. It lacks those striking manifesta
tions of his creative powers, which com
mand our admiration in many of his
poems, and especially in “ Atalantis.” It
will, nevertheless, be read with a great
deal of interest. The story, as even our
meagre synopsis will show, is a very
beautiful one, and it is told in a simple
and unaffected style, without Any straining
after dramatic effect, and with no show ot
meretricious ornament. In these days of
rythmical extravagance and affectation,
simplicity and naturalness are by no means
small merits. But, though it contains no
lofty flights of the imagination, the reader
will discover in it many touches of deli
cate fancy and much felicitous description,
clothed in flowing and harmonious verse.
But “ the Cassique of Accabee,” though
the longest poem in the little volume before
us, is by no means, in our estimation, the
best. Some of the minor pieces are, we
think, among our author’s happiest efforts.
“The Brooklet” and “the Traveller’s
Rest” contain descriptive passages not ex
celled by any thing of the kind in the whole
range of American poetical literature. Take
the following forest-picture, from the latter
poem, as a specimen. Its fidelity to na
ture, and its freshness and richness of
coloring are almost unequalled.
“ Now, as we glide,
The forest deepens round us. The bald tracts,
Sterile, aud glittering with the profitless sands,
Depart; and through the glimmering woods be
hold
A darker soil, that on its bosom bears
A nobler harvest. Venerable oaks,
IVhose rings arc the successive words, scored
lly Time, of liis dim centuries~ pines that lift
And w ave their coronets of green aloft,
i Highest to Heaven of all the aspiring wood, —
i And cedars, that with slower worship rise,
Le.-s proudly, but with better grace, and stand
More surely in their meekness; —how they crowd,
, As if ’twerc at our coming, on the path !
| Not more majestic, not more beautiful,
“1 he sacred .-hafts of Lebanon, though sung
j By Princes, to the music of high harps,
j Midway from Heaven: —for these, asthey, attest
His countenance who, to glory over all,
Adds grace in the highest, and above these groves
Hung brooding, when, beneath the creative word,
j They freshen’d into green, and towering grew,
Q:[| oi£\i©’8 a was dill ©Bsaiilu
Memorials of bis presence as his power !
—Alas’ the forward vision ‘ a few years
Will see these shaftso’erthrown. The profligate
hands
Os avarice and of ignorance, will despoil
Tho woods of ilirir old glories ; and the earth,
Uncherish’d, will grow barren, even as the fields,
Vast still, and beautiful once, and rich as these,
Which, in my own loved home, half desolate,
Attest the locust rule,—the waste, the shame,
The barbarous cultivation —which still robs
Tho earth of its new garment, and denies
Fit succour which might recompense the store,
Whose inexhaustible bounty, fitly kept,
Was meant to fill the granaries of man,
Through all earth’s countless ages.
How the sward
Thickens in matted green. Each tufted cone,
(Hearns with its own blue jewel, dropt with white,
Whose delicate hues and tints significant,
Wake tenderness within the virgin’s heart,
In love’s own season. In each mystic cup
She reads sweet meaning, which commends the
flow’r
Close to her tremulous breast. Nor seems it
there.
Less lovely than upon its natural couch
Os emerald bright,—and still its tints denote
Love’s generous spring-time, which like ardorous
youth,
Clouds never the dear aspect of its green,
With sickly doubts of what the autumn brings.”
******
“ Here let us rest. A shade like that of towers,
Wrought by the Moor in matchless arabesque.
Makes the fantastic ceiling,—leaves and stems,
Half-formed yet flowing tendrils, that shootout,
l iach wearing its own jewel,—that above
O’erhangs ; sustain’d by giants of the wood,
Krect and high, like watriors gray with years,
lyho lift tlicir massive shields of holiest green,
On fearless arms, that still defy the sun,
Anti fail his arrows. At our feet they fall,
Harmless and few, and of the fresh turf make
A rich mosaic. Tremblingly, they creep,
Half-hidden only, to the blushing shoots
Os pinks, that never were abroad before,
And shrink from such warm instance. Here are
flow’rs,
Pied, blue and white, with creepers that uplift
Thcirgreen heads, and survey the world around—
As modest merit, still ambitionless—
Only to crouch again; yet each sustains
Some treasure, which, were earth less profligate,
Or rich, wero never in such keeping left .
And here are daisies—violets that peep forth
When winds of March are blowing, and escape
Their censure in their fondness. Thousands more,
Look where they spread around us—at our feet —
Nursed on the mossy trunks of massive trees,
Themselves that hear no flow’rs—and by the
stream —
Too humble and too numerous to have names!”
“Autumn Twilight” is another poein in
blank verse, but of a different tone—an ex
pression of mournful tenderness pervading
it throughout. The author thus speaks of
himself:
“ Mine was n. lot
Peculiar in its loneliness of aim,
If not distinction. Childhood found me first,
A sad, bewildered orphan—one who stood
Alone among his fellows, —and when wrong’d,
Knew not the lap in which to hide his head,
Nor friendly ear in which to pour complaint.
I had no parents’ tendance. Never mine,
A sister’s lips have hallow’d while they press’d;
No brother called me his ; —no natural ties
Embraced, and trained, and cherish’d, my wild
youth,
Which still went erring into devious ways,
Sorrowing as much a- sinning, in a mood,
That craved love only for its guide to goodness;
And this alone it found not —or in vain!”
“Forest Reverie by Starlight” is another
piece in a similar vein, replete with beau
tiful imagery.
Asa specimen of the lyrical pieces of
which the volume contains several of rare
merit, we will copy
“THE MINIATURE.
There needs no painter’s skill to traco
The lineaments of that dear face,
Or keep, for memory’s future tears,
The charms that fade with fading years;
Such token, too, as this, I fain
Would have thee feel as worse than vain,
Since not alone were these the charms,
Dear heart, that won me to thy arms.
Think’st thou that smile, though rich it be,
That eye so bright—those tresses free—
This little dimple, where the loves
Sit smiling sly in sunny groves—
That cheek so smooth—that neck so fair—
That nameless grace beyond compare —
Think’st thou that these, alone, may bind
In faith so fond, so wild a mind 1
As soft a lip, perchance, as this,
Had hLst me oft with Fanny’s kiss;
And Rosa has an eye whose glow
Would make a star-light in the snow.
Not these I not these ! but in thy breast
The lurking love that mine confess'd ;
’T was not alone for charms iu thee,
Hut that thy heart was full of me !
Take back these lines, whose language weak
llut tells that painting cannot speak—
That while it makes some beauties glow,
llut mourns for those it cannot show.—
A portrait drawn with dearer art,
Lies perfect, sweet one, in my heart,
And truthful still, whene'er I gaze.
Thy love, as well as look, betrays.”
With a few brief miscellaneous extracts
—gems from a casket which contains many
others equally brilliant, we must close this
somewhat desultory notice.
Here, gorgeous and fresh and dewey, is
a bouquet of
WILD FLOWERS.
“ Now the humblest shrub,
By the maternal bounty is set forth,
As to a bridal, with a jewell’d pomp,
Ofllow’rs iu blue enamel —lustrous hues
lirightning upon their bosoms, like street tints
t aught from dissolving rainbows, as the sun
Heads with his ruddy shafts their violet robes.”
A forest brooklet is described as
“ A pale white streak—a glimmering, as it were,
Cast by some trembling muonbow through the
woods!”
THE STARS
“ There's no change
In all their virgin glory. Clouds that roll,
And congregate in the azure deeps of heaven,
In wild debate and darkness, pass away,
Leaving them bright in the same beauty still.
Defying, in the progress of the years.
All change ; and rising ever from the night,
In soft and dewy splendor as at first,
Ih’hen, golden footprints of the Ktcmai stc/>s.
They pared the walks of Heaven, and grew to
eyes
Beckoning the feet of man.”
Here is a picture of Memory, who grows
old with the mortal whom he accompanies
down the slopes of Time :
“And that sad chroniclor,
; Feeble and failing ill excess of years,
: Old Memory, tottering from his mossy cell,
j Stops with the iinpertect legend on his lips,
And drowses into sleep.”
The past is called
“That sovereign, single-eyed,
Whose bark is on the sun”
lii the “Evening at Sea” occurs the fol
lowing exquisite passage :
“ A little while,
And darkness-ways Hi ocean, whose great waves
Grow sullen, us they murmur through the gloom,
Resentful of its shadows, liut anon,
Comes forth the maiden Moon,---her sickle bent
For service in these fields ; a glorious blade,
Os silver, that subdues them at a stroke,
leaving the keen reflation of its edge
On every heaving hillock as she goes!”
“INSCRIPTION FOR THERMOPYLAE.
Stranger I thou stunds’t upon Thermoyloc I
The pass that led into the heart of Greece,
But gave no pa-sage save through greater hearts:
They keep it still. Their graves are at thy feet.”
It is a duty which our people owe to
themselves, as well as to him, to award to
Mr. Simms the meed of honor which he so
richly deserves, as the truest and greatest
poet of the South—the faithful translator
of her scenery and her life into the written
language of her people. *
’ itzirxiDDs,
REGENERATION.
BY REV. J. TWICHELL.
Regeneration produces a wonderful
change in the whole man, both as to body
and mind. Not that there is some magic
and mysterious charm, by which his na
tive endowments are either increased or
diminished. He is not made invulnerable
in body, as it is fabulously reported that
Achilles was, by being plunged by Thetis
in the waters of the Styx. He is not at
once endowed with a mighty intellect
which towers above its formei equals, and
is at once able to grasp all knowledge and
solve all mysteries, as tradition reports of
of Solomon. There is no necromancy in
this work. There is no irresistible magic
by which the moral nature of man is de
stroyed ; he is not so acted upon by some
potent art from without, as forcibly to
drive him on, contrary to his will. But
the will, mind and affections are so moved
by right views of the character of God, of
his law, of holiness and sin, as to kindle
an inward, earnest and lasting desire in
the soul for perfect freedom from the pow
ers, penalty and pollution of sin, and for
the attainment of such perfect and spot
less holiness, as is seen in the character of
Jesus Christ, and which is made attainable
by his death. The dimmed faculties of
the soul are brightened; its dead affections
awakened ; its reason, so long dethroned,
restored to its seat; its conscience, seared
and hardened, made again to be full of
God, a true index of duty; a faithful
watchman to ward off'temptation and dan
ger. Thus the city which was broken
down and without walls, is rebuilt, walled,
armed, provisioned, and made capable of
resisting its powerful and ever watchful
enemy. The darkened understanding is
enlightened, it has new and consistent
views of God and his laws; of Christ and
his work of redemption; of sin and its
penalty, of the soul; of time; of eter
nity; of heaven and of hell. Upon these
and all kindred subjects, in an unregene
rate state, the mind is confused, and its
reasonings are incoherent as the senseless
babblings ol the dreamer, without order,
consistency or system. But this wild
chaos of thought is dispelled by that same
voice, which of old said let there he light,
and there was light: darkness, confusion
and chaos give place to brightness, beauty
and order in the moral, intellectual and
spiritual, as they did when first light shone
upon the physical creation. As in his
glorious majesty, for the first time, the sun
shone upon the new created world—so
does the sun of righteousness arise upon
the new creation in the soul, with healing
in his beams.
The character of God is seen to be holy,
his laws just, his government wise, and in
his plan of redemption there is such disin
terestedness and love, such a wonderful
fitness and efficacy to accomplish the sal
vation of ihe soul, that there is a free and
happy consent to all its requirements; the
reason and will, which before rejected,
now approve and rest upon it; the affec
tions, which were averted from and hated
the person of Christ, now turn with undy
ing love and devotion to his cross; shame,
fear and remorse now give place to a
sense of pardon, hope, and eventually to
full assurance. There is an earnest and
ever-increasing desire to keep the law of
God perfectly, in regard to every act and
word and every thought; there is a watch
ful and constant care lest even the least
known sin should again pollute the soul
and make it unfit for the temper of the
Holy Ghost. A covenant is made with
the eyes, a guard stands watch at the ear,
a bridle is held upon the tongue, a law
binds the hands, the feet run in the ways
of holiness, all the members of the body
are brought under subjection, and all the
powers of the mind are harnessed to the
steady performance of duty; so that wheth
er he eats or drinks, or whatsoever the
regenerate man does, sleeping, waking,
thinking, acting, resting, toiling, he strives
to do all to the glory of God. His time,
his talents, his wealth, all that he has, is
consecrated to the good of mankind, and
thus to the glory of God,
He is ever on his guard against sudden
outbursts of the great enemy, his own
heart: and keeps a constant watch against
its evil inclinations, and the temptations
which constantly beset Ins path. By the
constant view of the spotless holiness of
the character of Christ, which he makes
his example, he ever arouses himself, that
he may the more earnestly press towards
the mark for the prize of the high-calling
of God in Christ Jesus. His constant en
deavor is to win souls to God, to build up
and strengthen the church of Christ. He
is honest and upright in his dealings,
i truthful and sincere in his conversation,
humble and temperate in his life; he is
a kind husband and father, and a good
citizen—he visits the abodes of the poor,
the sick and the afflicted—his charity does
not exhaust itself in empty sighs in the
play-house, or over the sickly romance:
it is of that substantial kind which gives
bread to the widow and orphan—clothes
and shelter to homeless children of want;
it blesses the desolate heart of the stran
ger, and speaks to the sympathies of the
despairing; in a word, his Christian prin
ciples have the witness of a godly life.
By exercise in every good word and work
he grows in grace and in the knowledge of
our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Thus
the path to righteousness is as a “shining
light, which shineth more and more unto
the perfect day.” The infant birth in re
generation gradually attains the maturity,
strength and changeless glory of santili
cation.
“ Virtuo grows daily stronger, sin
Decays ; his enemies repulsed, retire;
Till at the stratum of a perfect man
In Christ, arrived, and with the spirit filled
lie gains the harbor of eternal rest.”— Pollok.
The Bible. — In his last illness, a few
days before his death, Sir W. Scott asked
Mr. Lockhart to read to him. Mr. Lock
hart inquired what book he would like.
‘Can you ask?’ said Sir Walter; ‘ there is
but one ; and requested him to read a chap
ter of the Gospel of John. When will an
equal genius, to whom all the realms ot
fiction are as familiar as to him, say the
like of some professed revelation, originat
ing among a race and associated with a
history and a clime as foreign as those
connected with the birth-place of the Bible,
from those of the ancestry of Sir Walter
Scott ?
THE PHANTASCOPE.
Anew philosophical instrument in the
department of optics, has been invented
by Prof. Locke, of Cincinnati, called by
him the Phantascope . It depends on prin
ciples of optics, announced by him in Pro
fessor Silliman’s Journal of last winter,
under the head of Binocular Vision. It is
very simple, and has neither lenses, prisms,
nor reflectors. It consists of a flat board
base, about nine by eleven inches, with
two upright rods, one at each end, a hori
zontal strip connecting the upper ends of
the upiighls, and a screen or diaphragm,
nearly as large as the base, interposed
between the top strip and the tabular base,
this screen being adjustible to any interme
diate height. The top strip has a slit one
fourth of an inch wide, and about three
inches long from left to right. The ob
server places his eyes over this slit, look
ing downward. The moveable screen lias
also a slit of the same length, but about
an inch wide. The phenomena produced
are the effect of crossing the axes of the
eyes. The National Intelligencer from
which this account is derived, says the
phantascope will illustrate many impor
tant points in optics, and especially the
physiological point of “ single vision by
two eyes.” It shows also that we do not
see an object in itself, but the mind con
templates an image on the retina, and
always associates an object of such a
figure, attitude, distance and color, as will
produce that image by rectilinear pencils
of light. If this image on the retina can
be produced with the object, as in the
phantascope, then there is a perfect optical
illusion, and an object is seen where it is
not. Nay, more, the mind does not con
template a mere luminous image, but that
image produces an unknown physiological
impression on the brain. It follows, that
if the nerves can, by disease, or by the
force of imagination, take on this action,
a palpable impression is made without
either object or picture. As this would
be most likely to occur when actual ob
jects are excluded, as in the night, we
have an explanation of the scenery of
dreams, and the occasional “apparitions”
to waking persons. The murderer, too,
has a picture stamped on the sensorium by
the sight of his victim, which ever wakes
into vibration when actual pictures are
excluded by darkness.— Boston Rambler.
Source of Electricity. —The earth is
the greatest reservoir of electricity, from
which the atmosphere and clouds receive
their portion of this fluid. It is during
the process of evaporation that it is prin
cipally excited, and silently conveyed to
the regions above; and also during the
condensation of the same vapor the grand
and territic phenomena, of thunder and
lightning, are made manifest to our senses.
In order to form a correct estimate of the
immense power of this agent, in the pro
duction of electricity, we must bring to
our view the quantity of water evapo
rated from the surface of the earth, and
also the amount of electricity that may
be developed from a single grain of this
liquid. According to the calculation of
Cavello, about five thousand two hundred
and eighty millions tons of water are pro
bably evaporated from the Mediterranean
sea, in a single summer’s day. To obtain
some idea of the vast volume of water
thus daily taken up by the thirsty heavens,
let us compare it with something rendered
more apparent than this invisible process.
President Dwight and Professor Darby,
have both estimated the quantity of water
precipitated over the Niagara Falls at more
than 11,000,000 of tons per hour. Vet all
the water passing over the cataract in
twenty days would amount only to that
ascending from the Mediterranean in one
day. More recent estimates make the
mean of evaporation from the whole earth
as equal to a column of thirty-five inches
from every inch of its surface in a year,
which gives nearly four thousand four
hundred and fifty cubic miles, as the quan
tity continually circulating through the
atmosphere.
NATURE'S ICE CAVES.
From an article on the above subject,
copied into Littell's Living Age, from
Chambers’ Edinburg Journal, we extract
the following:
We have met with an account, by Prof.
Silliman, of America, which we have no
hesitation in clasifying under our present
head. The ice-cave, of which he speaks,
is in the State of Connecticut, between
Hartford and New Haven. It is only two
hundred feet above the level of the sea,
and is situated in a delile filled with frag
ments of rocks of various sizes, through
which a small brook runs. It was visited
in the middle of July, and the thermometer
was at 85 deg., in the shade; and, on ap
proaching it, an evident chilliness was
felt in the air. Patties of pleasure often
resort thither in the sultry summer days, to
drink of the cold flowing waters, and to
amuse themselves with the rich store of
ice there treasured up. In some places, the
ice is quite near the surface, and is only
covered with leaves: A boy, armed with
a hatchet, descended into a cavity, and,
after a little hard work, hewed out a solid
lump of ice, several pounds in weight.
An idea of the solidity of this piece may
be formed, by adding, that, on the third
day, some of it was yet unmelted.
A similar repository of cold exists about
7 miles from New Haven, at the bottom of
a steep ridge of trap rock. In the hottest
summers, ice is conveyed from this place
to New Haven, much soiled, indeed, with
leaves and dirt, but useful for cooling bev
erages. A more celebrated one, also in
America, has often been noticed by tourists
of that country; some accounts, in fact,
have been greatly exaggerated about it.
It is situated in Hampshire county, Va.,
and is widely celebrated under the title of
the ice mountain. The place where the
store of cold exists is a sort of natural
glacier, which lies against a steep mural
ridge of lofty rocks, and is composed of a
number of fragments of sand stone, of all
sizes, loosely heaped together. In the
midst of these the ice is contained.
It was visited in the summer of 1838, a
season of drought and heat quite unparal
leled in the history of that country. But
the external heat did not appear to exert
the smallest influence on the ice mountain.
At the depth of a few inches, abundance of
excellent ice was found, and a thermometer,
lowered into a cavity, dropped from 95 to
40 degrees. The surrounding rocks were
covered with dew, owing to the condensa
tion of atmosphheric vapor, by the exces
sive coldness of their surface. One cavity
had been filled with snow, and only covered
with a few planks, and yet the snow was
as crisp as if it had just fallen. At the
bottom is a little artificialjstructure, called
the “dairy,” and used for that purpose in
the summer. In ordinary summers, its
roof is covered with icicles, and its sides
are often incrusted with ice. Strange to
say, a spring, near the rock, has only one
degree less of temperature than the waters
of the surrouding district. The atmos
phere over this singular spot, had, in this
scorching season, a balmy, spring-like
coolness, most refreshing to the weary
traveller.
Literary Curiosity. —Tbe following
letter was addressed by William Shaks
peare to Ann Hathaway, afterwards his
wife:
Dearest Anna—As thou hast always
found me to mye worde most trewe, so
thou shalt see I have strictly kepte mye
promise. I praye you perfume thys mye
locke of haire with thye balmye kisses, for
then indeed shall kynges themselves bowe
and praye to itte. I doe assure thee noe
rude hand hath knottede itte; thy Willye’s
hath done the worke; neythere the gyld
edile bauble that envyrones the heede of
Majesty, noe, norre honourre, most weigh
tie would give me half the joye as dydde
thysee mye littell worke forre thee. The
feeling thatte dydde nearestte approache
unte itte, was thatte which commeth nygh
este unto Gode-meeke and gentille charyte;
forre thatte virtue, O Anna! doe I luve,
thee I cheerish thee inne inye hearte, forre
thou arte asa tall cedare, strechchyne forthe
ittes branches and succoringe the smallere
plantes from nippinge wineterre, orr the
boysterrous wytides. Farewelle! to mor
rowe by times I will see thee ; title thenne
A Diew, sweete luve. Tliynne evere,
Wm. Shakspeare.
September the nynthe, 1589.
THE AUTHOR OF “ LOS GRINGOS.”
The Home Journal denies that Lieutenant
Wise goes to Sweden as Secretary to the
Charge, and states that he is now with a
surveying party on the coast of North
Carolina.
A letter in the Journal, from the dashing
Lieutenant, addressed to a lady friend, pos
sesses the same frolicking, devil-may-care
style, which has made his book so popular,
We give an extract: He is describing his
passage from what he calls the “city of
the dead”—Norfolk, to Elizabeth City, N.
Carolina.
“The route passes through the Dismal
Swamp, which is grand in its way—chil
lingly and gloomingly so, to a degree.—
Imagine a long, dull, monotonous, sandy
road, fenced in by a canal of ink—floating
upon its darkling bosom, rickety scows,
piled high up with staves or shingles, the
produce of the great swamps around
drawn by lean, cadaverous mules, 0 r
what is more common, pushed along by a
negro peasantry; then beyond are sombre
forests of juniper and cypress, with mil es
of charred skeleton trunks, and meagre
bare limbs, with never a leaf to quiver or
seem bright and green in the blazing sun
on the other side the causeway will p e ,/
chance be enlivened at intervals by misera
bly ruiny habitations—having hroken roofs
and dilapidated walls, standing as they ap.
pear on stilts, to guard, possibly, from f r e.
quent inundations, and only kept upright
on their legs by stout outside crutches of
chimnies at the gables—while sallow, un
healthy occupants, together with mote of
the colored peasantry, lounge listlessly
about what is dignified by the name of
plantation. Indeed, we should not have
been more than surprised, if, as a wag
hinted, the overhanging branches of the
trees had been swarming with coils of
snakes to pounce upon the coach, or wide
mouthed alligators protruding from the
black canal—with beais prowling along
the banks, snapping their jaws like casti
nets, ready at a moment’s hungry notice to
waylay and devour unwary travellers!
“Changing horses is yet in its infancy
here, and at every stage—angel’s visits they
were too—we had plenty of time to view
the desolation; once we tarried to recruit
our diaphragm, from a well-ordered basket
of provender. It was the dwelling of a
publican, who became, as he should have
been from our ignorance, grievously af
fronted, because his banquet of ham with
the hide on, and hoecake, which stood
very invitingly spread out to provoke our
fastidious palates, was left untouched.
“It vv s soon after leaving this abode
that we crossed the dividing line betwixt
Virginia and Carolina, and in a few hours
the lank driver pointed, with a graceful
flick over the leader’s heads with his whip,
and assured me we were approaching Eli
zabet, meaning, I am confident, Elizabeth
City.
“Then we got down in presence of the
towns-pcople—the coach's arrival being a
bi-weekly era to date from—and a con
course of adults and children were waiting
to behold us. Many of the lesser juve
niles were clamorous in directing the at
tention of their companions to my musta
chios, crying out—Here’s a Monsheer!
whereupon I gravely addressed a number
by imaginary Christian names, and shook
hands cordially with others, when the re
mainder retreated with much precipitation
and with astonishment depicted in theirsal
low little faces at my seeming familiarity.”
European Liberals. —The following is
the condition of some of the’ leaders in the
recent liberal movements. Mazinni is liv
ing on the contributions of his friends.—
Garabaldi arrived at Piedmont with one shirt
and half a crown. Mania, of Venice, is
now a common laborer. Avezzana has
returned to New Fork, poorer than he left
it. The ex-Chancellor of Sicily supports
himself as a paragraph-writer for one of
the I’aris Journals. Marrast is not worth
a single sous. Cavaignac has nothing but
his pay. Louis Blanc lives by his pen.—
Lamartine drudges with his pen for sub
sistence, and Caussidiere sells wine in Lon
don, to the same end.
Sagacity of the Horse. —lt is stated,
that if a horse be shut up in a pasture
where there is no water, he will at certain
times of the day, make it a practice to
stand in the place where water is nearest
the suriace, and thus indicate the best place
for digging for it. Those who allege this
to be a fact, say that horses have the fa
culty of smelling water, like camels in the
African desert or the cattle of South Ameri
can “ pampas.”
bisn I'ascinated by Music. —ln Germa
ny, the shad is taken my means of nets to
which bows of wood are affixed, hung
with a number of small bells, which are
attached in such a manner as to chime in
harmony when the nets are moved. The
shad, when once attracted by the sound,
will not attempt to escape while the bells
continue to ring. zElian mentions that, in
ancient times, the shad was allured by the
sounds of castinets.
Grape-shot. —Grape-shot are generally
made of wrought iron. The we : ght of a
canister of the largest calibre, used in
twelve pounders, is about twenty pounds
contains over forty balls, each being over
an inch in diameter. They are enclosed in
the canisters, with wrought iron cups, upon
which the balls rest.
“I Grew the Rest.” —A boy three
years of age was asked who made him. —
W ith his little hand levelled a foot above
the floor, heartlessly replied, “God made
me a little baby so high, and I grew the
rest.”
-
C-esar. —A correspondent of the‘Na
tional Era.’ writing from Berlin, gives the
following description of a full length sta
tute of Caesar, found in the ruins of a villa
in Italy.
The celebrated Roman was not a broad,
full faced, and rather plethoric gentleman,
as some modern painters have imagined,
but a lean, tall, sinewy man, with a wrin
kled face and projecting brow. Before
you see the name, you feel that you gaze
on a man who has left his mark upon his
age. The face is not without a resem
blance to that of our South-C'arolina states
man, John C. Calhoun.
Barnum has secured the man, who, al
though hailihg from Virginia, does not
belong to ‘ one of the first families’ of that
immense State.
Why is a young lady in love, like a
rail-road engine ? Because she has a ten
der attachment.