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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.