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About Richards' weekly gazette. (Athens, Ga.) 1849-1850 | View Entire Issue (Feb. 2, 1850)
rected enterprise and indomitable energy, what might be achieved in the South, if in practice, we manifested the economy, the tact and energy of our puritan brethren ? With a climate as mild as could be desired, the healthfulness of which is attested by comparative bills of mortaltty, with a soil suited to the production of almost every thing that vegetates; in short, with the el ements of wealth scattered broad-cast in our midst, ready to be made available by effort, the South has voluntarily yielded up her birth-right. Shall we not claim the heritage which Providence has gratuitous ly tendered ? We have already slumbered out twenty years. Shall we still sleep on? Shall inactivity, while every thing around invites to industry still be the pass word , and the imputation of ignorance and indo lence, by those we have enriched, be re peated again and again, without awaken ing us to our interest ? Or, shall w t c arise with strength unimpaired by age, or ex hausted by effort, and entering the arena, become a mighty competitor in the race for development and wealth ? Who does not feel the pride of the cavillier rising with in him at the mere annunciation of these questions, while he deplores that we have been so long indifferent to our welfare Mechanics in Congress, ft is said that nearly one-half of the members of the present Congress were once journeymen mechanics. If so, (says the Washington correspondent of the Charleston News,) this is an interesting fact, and shows what perseverance can accomplish. These men have become great, not so much from the facilities fora common knowledge, which our systems of education afford, as from a self-reliance, which a sense of independ ence confers, ft has been truly said that the moment you make a man politically equal with his fellow’, you give him a con sciousness that he is so in all respects. A VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH. • The following thrilling narative we ex tract from an article in the December num ber of Blackwood. From Manchester to Kendal, which vir tually (though not in law) is the capital of Westmoreland, were at this time seven sta ges of eleven miles each. The first five of these, dated from Manchester, terminated in Lancaster, which was therefore fifty-five miles north of Manchester, and the same distance exactly from Liverpool. The first three terminated in Preston (called, by way of distinciion from other towns of that name, proud Preston,) at which place it was that the separate roads from Liverpool and from Manchester to the north became confluent. Within these first three stages lay the foundation, the progress, and ter mination of our night’s adventure. Du ring the first stage,l found out that Cyclops, the driver, was mortal: he was liable to the shocking affection of sleep—a thing which 1 had never previously suspected.— If a man is addicted to the vicious habit of sleeping, all the skill inaurigation of Apol lo himself, with the horses of Aurora to execute the motions of his will, avail him nothing. “Oh, Cyclops!” I exclaimed more than once, “Cyclops, my friend ; thou art mortal. Thou snorcst.” Through this first eleven irtiles, however, he betrayed his infiirmtty—which 1 grieve to say he shared with the whole Pagan Pantheon— only by short stretches. On waking up, lie made an apology for himself, which, in stead of mending the matter, laid an omi nous foundation for coining disasters. The summer assizes were now proceeding at Lancaster: in consequence of which, for three nights and three days, he had not lain down in a bed. During the day, he was waiting for his uncertain summons as a witness on the trial in which he was in terested; or he was drinking with the oth er witnesses, under the vigilant surveillance of the attorneys. During the night, or that part of it when the least temptations exis ted to conviviality, he was driving.— Throughout the second stage he grew more and more drowsy. In the second mile of the third stage, he surrendered himself fi nally and without a struggle to his peril ous temptation. All his past resistance had but deepened the weight of this final oppression. Seven atmosphers of sleep seemed resting upon him ; and, to coinsum mate the case, our woithy guard, after singing “Love amongst the Roses,” for the fiftieth or sixtietli time, without any invita tion from Cyclops or myself, and without applause for his poor labors, had moodily resigned himself to slumber—not so deep doubtless as the coachman’s but deep e nough for mischief; and having, probably, no similar excuse. And thus at last, about ten miles from Preston, 1 found myself left in charge of his Majesty’s London and Glasgow mail then running about eleven miles an hour. What made this negligence less criminal than else it must have been thought, was the condition of the roads at night during the assizes. At that time all the law bus iness of populous Liverpool, and of popu lous Manchester, with its vast cincture of populous rural districts, was called up by ancient usage to the tribunal of Lilliputian Lancaster. To break up this old tradition al usage required a conflict with powerful established interests, a large system of new arrangements, and anew parliamentary statute. As things were at present, twice in the year so vast a body of business roll ed northwards, from the southern quarter of the country, that a fortnight at least oc cupied the severe exertions of two judges for its despatch. The consequence of this was—that every horse available for such a service, along the whole line of road, was exhausted in cairying dowp the mul titudes of people who were parties to the different suits. By sunset, therefore, it , happened that, through utter exhaustion i amongst men and horses, the roads were all silent. Except exhaustion in the vast adjacent county of York from a contested election, nothing like it was ordinarily wit nessed in England. On this occasion, the usual silence and solitude prevailed along the road. Not a hoof nor a wheel was to be heard. And to strengthen this false luxurious confidence in the noiseless roads, it happened also that the night was one of peculiar solemnity and peace. 1 myself, though slightly alive to the possibilities of peril, had so tar yielded to the influence of the mighty calm as to sink into a profound reverie. The month was August, in which lay my own birth day; a festival to every thoughtful man sug gesting solemn and often sighborn thoughts. The county was my own native county — upon which, in its southern section, more than upon any equal area known to man past or present, had descended the original curse of labor in its heaviest form, not mas tering the bodies of men only as of slaves, or criminals in mines, but working through the fiery will. Upon no equal space of earth, was, or ever had been, the same en ergy of human power put forth daily. At this particular season also of the assizes, that dreadful hurricane of flight and pur suit, as it might have seemed to a stranger, that swept to and from Lancaster all day long, hunting the county up and down, and regularly subsiding about sunset, united with the permanent distinction of Lan cashire as the very metropolis and citadel of labour, to point the thoughts pathetical ly upon that counter vison of rest, of saint ly repose from strife and sorrow, towards which, as to their secret haven, the pro founder aspirations of man's heart are con tinually travelling. Obliquely we were nearing the sea upon our left, which also must, under the present circumstances, be repeating the general state of halcyon re pose. The sea, the atmosphere, the light, bore an orchestral part in this universal lull. Moonlight, and the first timid trem blings of the dawn, were now blending: and the blendings were brought into a still more exquisite state of unity, by a slight silvery mist, motionless and dreamy, that covered the woods and fields, but with a veil of equable transparency. Except the feet of our own horses, which, running on a sandy margin of the road, made little dis turbance, there was no sound abroad. In the clouds, and on the earth, prevailed the same majestic peace; and in spite of all that the villain of a schoolmaster has done for the ruin of our sublimer thoughts,which are the thoughts of our infancy, we still be lieve in no such nonsense as a limited at mosphere. Whatever we may swear with our false feigning lips, in our faithful hearts we still believe, and must for ever believe, in fields of air traversing the total gulf be tween earth and the central heavens.— Still, in the confidence of children that tread without fear every chamber in their father’s house, and to whom no door is closed, we, in that Sabbatic vision which sometimes is revealed for an hour upon nights like this, ascend with easy steps from the sorrow stricken fields of earth, upwards to the san dals of God. Suddenly from thoughts like these, 1 was awakened to a sullen sound, as of some motion on the distant roads It stole upon the air for a moment; 1 listened in awe; but then it died away. Once rouse, and, however, I could not but observe with a larm the quickened motion of our horses. Ten years’ experience had made my eye learned in the valuing of motion ; and I saw that we were now running thirteen miles an hour. I pretend to no presence of mind. On the contrary, my fear is, that I am miserably and shamefully deficient in that quality as regards action. The palsy of doubt and distraction hangs like some guilty weight of dark unfathomed remem brances upon my energies, when the sig nal is flying for action. But on the other hand, this accursed gift 1 have, as regards thought, that in the first step towards the possibility of a misfortune, I see its total evolutions: in the radix, I see too certain ly and too instantly its entire expansion; in the first syllable of the dreadful sentence, I read already the last. It was not that 1 feared for ourselves. What could injure us? Our bulk and impetus charmed us against peril in any collision. And I had rode through too many hundreds of perils that were frightful to approach, that were matter of laughter as we looked back upon them, for any anxiety to rest upon our in terests. The mail was not built, 1 felt as sured, nor bespoke, that could betray me who trusted to its protection. But any car riage lhat we could meet would be frail and light in comparison of ourselves. And I remarked this ominous accident of our sit uation. We were on the wrong side of the road. But then the other party, if other there was, might also he on the wrong side; and two wrongs might make a right. That was not likely. The same motive which had drawn as to the right-hand side of the road, viz., the soft beaten sand, as con trasted with the paved centre, would prove attractive to others. Our lamps, still light ed, would give the impression of vigilance on our part. And every creature that met us, would rely upon us for quartering. All this, and if the seperate links of the antic ipation had been a thousand times more, I saw—not discursively or by effort—but as bv one flash of horrid intuition. Under this steady though rapid anticipa tion of the evil which might be gathering ahead, ah, reader ! what a sullen myste ry of fear, what a sigh of woe, seemed to steal upon the air, as again the sound of a wheel was heard ! A whisper it was —a whisper from, perhaps, four miles oil —secretly announcing a ruin that, being foreseen, was not the less inevitable.— What could be done*—who was it that could do it—to check the storm-flight of these maniacal horses ‘ What! could I not seize the reins from the grasp of the ai)oi©0 0 wai&ii ©a aim* slumbering coachman I You, reader, think that it would have been in your power to do so. And 1 quarrel not with your esti mate of yourself. But, from the way in Athich the coachman’s hand was viced be tween his upper and lower thigh, this was ; impossible. The guard subsequently found it impossible, after this danger had passed. Not the grasp only, but also the position of this Polyphemus, made the attempt impos sible. You still think otherwise. See, then,that bronze equestrian statue. The cru el rider has kept the bit in his horse’s mouth for two centuries. Unbridle him, for a minute, if you please, and wash his mouth with water. Or stay, reader, unhorse me that marble emperor : knock me those mar ble feet from those marble stirrups of Char lemagne. The sounds ahead strengthened, and were now too clearly the sounds of wheels. Who and what could it be ? Was it in dustry in a taxed cart?—was it youthful gaiety in a gig ? Whoever it was, some thing must be attempted to warn them.— Upon tiie other party rests the active res ponsibility, but upon us —and, woe is me ! that us was my single self—rests the res ponsibility of warning. Yet, how should this be accomplished ? Might I not seize the guard’s horn ? Already, on the first thought, 1 was making my way over the roof to the guard’s seat. But this, from the foreign mails being piled upon the roof, was a difficult, and even dangerous attempt, to one cramped by nearly three hundred miles of outside travelling. And, fortu nately, before I had lost much time in the attempt, our frantic horses swept round an angle of the road, which opened upon us the stage where the collision must be ac complished, the parties that seemed sum moned to the trial, and the impossibility of saving them by any communication with the guard. Before us lay an avenue, straight as an arrow, six hundred yards, perhaps, in length ; and the umbrageous trees, which rose in a regular line from either side, meet ing high overhead, gave to it the charac ter of a cathedral aisle. These trees lent a deeper solemnity to the early light; but there was still light enough to perceive, at the further end of this gothic aisle, alight, reedy gig. in which were seated a young man, and, by his side, a young lady. Ah, young sir ! what are you about ? If it is necessary that you should whisper your communications to this young lady, though really I see nobody at this hour, and on this solitary road, likely to overhear your conversation—is it, therefore, necessary that you should carry your lips forward to hers ? The little carriage is creeping on at one mile an hour; and the parties within it, being thus tenderly engaged, are natu rally bending down their heads. Between them and eternity, to ali human calcula tion, there is but a minute and a half.— What is it that 1 shall do ? Strange it is, and to a mere auditor of the tale, might seem laughable, that I should need a sug gestion from the Iliad to prompt the sole recourse that remained. But so it was.— Suddenly I remembered the shout of Achil les, and its #fiect. But could I pretend to shout like the son of Peleus, aided by Pal las? No, certainly : but then I needed not the shout that should alarm all Asia mili tant; a shout would suffice, such as should carry terror into the hearts of two thought less young people, and one gig horse. I shouted—ami the young man heard me not. A second time I shouted—and now he heard me, for now he raised his head. Here, then, all had been done that, by me, could be done: more on mij part was not possible. t Mine had been the first step : the second was for the young man : the third was for God. If, said I, the stran ger is a brave man, and if, indeed, he loves the young girl at his side—or, loving her not, if he feels the obligation pressing upon every man worthy to be called a man, of doing his utmost for a woman ednfided to his protection—he will at least make some effort to save her. If that fails, he will not perish the more, or by a death more cruel, for having made it; and he will die as a brave man should, with his face to the dan ger, and with his arm about the woman that he sought in vain to save. But if he makes no effort, shrinking, without a struggle, from his duty, he himself will not the less certainly perish for his baseness of pol troonery. He will die no less: and why not ? Wherefore should we grieve that there is one craven less in the world ? No: let him perish, without a pitying thought of ours wasted upon him ; and, in that case, all our grief will be reserved for the fate of the helpless girl, who now, upon the least shadow of failure in him , must, by the fiercest of translations—must, without time for a prayer—must, within seventy sec onds, stand before the judgement seat of God. But craven he was not: sudden had been the call upon him, and sudden was his an swer to the call. He saw, he heard, he comprehended, the ruin that was coming down : already its gloomy shadow darken ed above him; and already he was measu ring his strength to deal with it. Ah! what a vulgar thing does courage seem, when we see nations buying it and selling it for a shilling a-day : ah ! what a sub lime thing does courage seem, when some fearful crisis on the great deeps of life car ries a man, as if running before a hurricane, up to the giddy crest of some mountainous wave, from which accordingly as he chooses his course, he describes two courses, and a voice says to him audibly—" This way lies hope: take the other way and mourn for ever!’’ Yet, even then, amidst the ra ving of the seas and the frenzy of the dan ger, the man is able to confront his situa tion—is able to retire for a moment into solitude with God, and to seek all his coun sel from him ! For seven seconds, it might be, of his seventy, the stranger settled his countenance steadfastly upon us, as if to search and value every element in thecon llict Wore him. For five seconds more he i sate immovably, like one that mused on some great purpose. For five he sate with i eyes upraised, like one that prayed in sor j row, under some extremity of doubt, for wisdom to guide him towards the better j choice. Then suddenly he rose ; stood up i right; and, by a sudden strain upon the reins, raising his horse's forefeet from the | ground, he slewed him round on the pivot I of his hind legs, so as to plant the little e quipage in a position nearly at right-an gles to ours. Thus far his condition was ’ not improved ( except as a first step had been taken towards the possibility of a sec ond. If no more were done, nothing was done; for the little carriage still occupied the very centre of our path, though in an altered direction. Yet even now’ it may not be too late : fifteen of the twenty sec onds may still be unexhausted ; and one al mighty bound forward may avail to clear the ground. Hurry then, hurry ! for the flying moments — they hurry! Oh hurry, hurry, my brave young man ! for the cru el hoofs of our horses— they also hurry ! Fast are the flying moments, faster are the hoofs of our horses. Fear not for liim , if human energy can suffice : faithful was he that drove, to his terrific duty ; faithful was the horse tQ his command. One blow, one impulse given with voice and hand by the stranger, one rush from the horse,one bound as if in the act of rising to a fence, landed the docile creature’s fore-feet upon the crown or arching centre of the road. The larger half of the litttle equipage had then cleared our over-towering shadow : that was evident even to my own ag'tated sight. But it mattered little that one wreck should float off in safety, if upon the wreck that perished were embarked the human freight age. The rear part of the carriage—was that certainly beyond the line of absolute ruin ? What power could answer the ques-. tion ? Glance of eye, thought of man, wing of angel, which of these had speed enough to sweep between the question and the answer, and divide theone from the oth er ? Light does not tread upon the steps of light more indivisibly, than did our all conquering arrival u|ion the escaping ef forts of the gig. T/iatmust the young man have felt too plainly. His back was now turned to us; not by sight could he any longer communicate with the peril; but by the dreadful rattle of our harness, too tru ly had his ear been instructed—that all was finished as regarded any further effort of his. Already in resignation he had rested from his struggle ; and perhaps, in his heart he was whispering—“ Father, which art above, do thou finish in heaven what I on earth have attempted.” We ran past them faster than ever mill-race, in our inex orable flight. Oh, raring of hurricanes that must have sounded in their young ears at the moment of our transit! Either with the swinglebar, or with the haunch of our near leader, we had struck the off-wheel of the little gig, which stood rather obliquely and not quite so far advanced as to be accurate ly parallel with the near wheel. The blow from the fury of our passage, resounded ter rifically. I rose in horror, to look upon the ruins we might have caused. From my elevated station I looked down, and looked back upon the scene, which in a moment told its tale, and wrote all its rec ords on my heart for ever. The horse was planted immovably, with his fore-feet upon the paved crest of the central road. He of the whole party was alone untouched by the passion of death. The little cany carriage—partly perhaps from the dreadful torsion of the wheels in its recent movement, partly from the thun dering blow we had given to it—as if it sympathised with human horror, was all alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young man sat like a rock. He stirred not at all. But his was the steadines of agita tion frozen in rest by horror. As yet he dared not to look round ; for he knew that, if anything remained to do, by him it could no longer be done. And as yet he knew not for certain if their safety were accom plished. But the lady Butthelady ! Oh heavens! willthat spectacle ever depart from my dreams, as she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and rose, threw up her arms wildly to heaven, clutched at some visionary object in theair, fainting, praying, raving, despairing! Fig ure to yourself, reader, the elements of the case; suffer me to recall before your mind the circumstance of the unparalleled situa tion. From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer night,—from the pa thetic blending of this sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight,—from the manly tenderness of this flattering, whispering, murmuring love, —suddenly as from the woods and fields, —suddenly as from the chambers of the air opening in revelation, —suddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet, leaped upon her, with the flash ing of cataracts. Death the crowned phan tom, with all the equipage of his terrors, and the tiger roar of his voice. The moments weie numbered. In the twinkling of an eye our flying horses had carried us to the termination of the umbra geousaisle; at rightangles we wheeled into ourformerdirection; the turn of the road car ried the scene out of my eyes in an instant and swept it into my dreams for ever. Individuality. —There is babbling more than enough . but among it all, one finds little true speech or true silence. The dullest mind has some beauty peculiarly its own ; but it echoes, and does not speak itself. It strives to write as schools have taught, as custom dictates, or as sects pre scribe : and so it stammers, and makes no utterance. Nature made us individuals, as she did the flowers and the pebbies, but we are afraid to be peculiar, and so our | society resembles a bag of marbles or a string of mould candles. Why should we all dress after the same fashion I The frost never paints my windows twice alike. — E. H. Chapin. GENERAL JACKSON. The little circumstance narrated below, which is said to have occurred after the battle of the Bth of January, 1815, striking ly characterizes Gen. Jackson. It reflects credit, not only on himself, but on the country. . “ In the year 1824, our informant met, at the table of Sir George Airy, many dis tinguished Englishmen then in Paris. The conversation turned upon the then pending presidential election : and fears were ex pressed that should Gen. Jackson be elect ed, the amicable relations between the two countries might be endangered, in conse quence of his highhanded exercise of pow er, as evinced during his command at New Orleans. The necessity on the part of our informant of replying to these observations, was superseded by the prompt and generous outbreak of one of the guests, Col. Thorn ton of the 7th, an officer, well known for his gallant character, and whose regiment suffered severely in the attack of the Bth of January. He testified in the handsomest terms to the conduct of Gen. Jackson, as an amicable and faithful commander on that occasion, and declared that had he not used the power confided to him in the high handed way alluded to, New Orleans would infallibly have been captured. As to the charge of implacable hostility Col. T. de clared that in all the intercourse by flagand otherwise between the hostile commanders, Gen. Jackson had been peculiarly courte ous and humane, and proceeded to state that on the day after the battle, the British were permitted to bury their dead lying be yond a certain line, a hundred yards in ad vance of General Jackson’s entrenchments —all within that line being buried by the Americans themselves. As soon as the melancholy duty was performed, The Brit ish General was surprised at receiving a flag with the swords, epauletesand watches of the officers who had fallen, and a note from Gen. Jackson couched in the most courteous language, saying that one pairof epauletes was missing but diligent search was making, and when found they should be sent in. These articles—always con sidered fair objects of plunder—were res cued by Gen. Jackson and thus handed over with a request that they might be transmitted to the relatives ot the gallant officers to whom they had belonged. “ This anecdote and the frank and sol dier-like style in which it was given turned the whole current of feeling in favor of the General, and drew 7 forth an expression of applause from all parts of the table. For myself, said our informant I felt a flush on my cheek, and a thrill of pride through my bosom, and in my heart, I thanked the old General for proving by this chivalrous act, that the defenders of our country were a bove the sordid feelings of mercenary war fare.” IMPERSONALITY OF JOUR NALS. There is no newspaper in the world which wields so great an influence as the London Times. It has placed itself at the head of the press in Europe, and speaks with a degree of authority which kings might envy. The individuals concerned in its management are nothing -the paper itself is everything. In its columns, pub lic questions are continually discussed with masterly ability. It may easily be conjec tured that no one mind could originate, prepare, and utter from day to day the erudite, far-reaching disquisitions which tell so powerfully upon the opinion of the world; but that is a matter of no conse quence. The Times speaks, and its word ispotential. It is a gigantic impersonality, a disembodied oracle, whose voice pene trates every corner of the civilized world, and moulds the thoughts of a large por tion of the human family. Those who are familiar with the way in which its ma chinery is made to operate, know that many pens are regularly employed upon that sheet. Yet nothing is more evident than the fact, that all its articles, from whatever source they come, bear a single impress. The Times utters one language. It scorns to tell the public that it disap proves of what itself has said. It never strangles its own offspring. The absence of a “ responsible,” or the indiscretion of an “ assistant,” is never proclaimed as the excuse for an acknowledged blunder.— Such a practice would soon bring even that journal into contempt. Yet the Times has a “ responsible editor,” one who while he scarcely ever writes any thing himself, carefully supervises, alters and corrects every editorial, and gives a consistant character to all the utterances of the paper. He never informs the pub lic that nobody writes for his journal ex cept himself, well knowing that nothing else he could say would injure it so much. Several men of learning, talent and expe rience, are engaged upon a liberal stipend to write regularly for its columns. They furnish articles upon such subjects as may be suggested by their principal, or by their own judgment. They are all carefully read, examined, and usually altered and corrected by the editor. No writer can have any assurance that his production will appear in the shape given it by him self ; and none is ever at liberty to claim in any way the authorship of his own ar ticles. It is thus by making the paper great, and those who conduct it nothing, that the Time * has come to be the most considerable journal in existence. It well knows that the public care less than noth ing about the individuals who sit at its desks. All its readers want is an able, in telligent, and comprehensive daily paper, and that it is careful to furnish. The ma chinery behind the curtain it has the sense and taste to conceal.— Rochester American. I O Beg- What word is there of four letters from which if one be taken there will be ten left ? ‘TPiais saairii®. \ a //’ ‘ 4 * ** * //ls7f \ _•• ~J / . tVM y/ /l’ PHILOSOPHIC THEOLOGY* Not one of our many readers is, we presume, a sufficiently matter-of-fact per son, as to suppose that we can read care fully all the works upon which we are called to pronounce our critical judgment. But while we candidly confess that we sometimes speak ex cathedra, with but a cursory examination of the book under re view, yet we frankly admit that the one whose title forms the caption of our pre sent article defies any of our short-hand methods, and demands from us the exercise of our highest faculties, and most labori ous thought. It is truly the production of an eminently endowed man, a devoted scholar, and an earnest, truth-seeking phi losopher. Well may he therefore, when he discourses on the great theme of Man’s Religious Belief, command our serious at tention, and awaken within us a humble hut hopeful conviction that we have in deed “a reason for the faith which is in us.” Mr. Miles, the author of this treatise, is a clergyman of the Episcopal Church, and is destined, if his life is spared, to occupy a universally recognised position amongst the scholars and thinkers of our age. — With the expression of our high estima tion of the ability, scholarship, and above all, the piety of Mr. Miles, we confess that we cannot follow him in all his pro cesses of reasoning, and dissent from some of his conclusions, yet doing so, we take to ourselves, (and commend to others who may differ from him) the admonition to “ remember that it is not always the dark place which hinders, but sometimes the dim eye.” We close these remarks with a synopsis of the The fundamen tal principles upon which the reasoning throughout the book is constructed, is, that man possesses the faculty of direct and intuitive perception, both of the ma terial world and supersensuous truth ; and thus that Christianity appeals directly to that Intuitive Reason, and actuates itself as a vital power in the Christian conscious ness. This removes the whole argument touching the truth and evidence of Chris tianity from the sphere in which popular infidelity moves, to the deepest region of psychological fact; and thus aims to show that no disputes about inspiration, verbal or even mere historical evidence, can touch the vital question. In the first part of the volume the great difficulties of what may be called natural scedticism, are stated, together with an ex position of the general principles, based in an analysis of man’s mental powers, upon which those difficulties can be met. The second part is devoted to a fuller ap plication of those principles in warding off objections to Christianity, and finding a ground for its reception in the highest rea son and innermost consciousness of man. It is worthy of notice, whatever may be thought of the success of the argument, that the author has made an earnest at tempt to apply the principles of the criti’ cal philosophy to prove the reasonableness and necessity of Incarnation; and has em ployed the ontology of certain philoso phies, to prove the same thing with regard to Plurality in the Divine Personality.— But having said this, we greatly mistake the tone of the author, if he would not re gard it as sheer justice to add, thet he ap pears to be committed to no party or school, but is willing to hail truth, come from what quarter it may. ♦Philosophic Theology ; Or the Ultimate Grounds of all Religious Belief based on Reason. By James W. Miles. Charleston : John Russell. 1849. IZI IS !L A S3 gj IS o VILLAGE ARISTOCRACY. In every little village where Smoke curls around the steeple, Is found a class wh seldom care To walk with common people. fey What sort of fruit is preferred by Editors ? The latest elates. What sort of punishment is preferred by financiers l The stocks. • fey “Tom, stand out of the way of that gentleman.” “How do you know he’s a gentleman'!” “Why, he wears a stand-up collar, and swears.” fey” Lord Braxfield, (a Scotch judge,) once said to an eloquent culprit at the bar, “You’re a vara clever chiel, mon, but I'm thinking ye wad be nane the waur o’ a haugin’.” fey” Talleyrand said that happiness de pended on a hard heart and a good stomach. The dress-makers are the best sup porters of newspapers: they pattern- ize every one which falls into their hands. feT- “ Sam, what mechanical work did you first do ‘?” “Cut teeth,” replied the wag, “ of course.” fey” When we hear a man complain of the want of female beauty—the inability to find one who can satisfy his ideas of loveliness —we immediately set him down as an incorrigible egotist. fey- An Irishman who lived in an at tic, being asked what part of the house he occupied, answered, “If the house was turned topsey turvy, I’d be livin’ on the first floor.” BfesY” Two Worcester editors were can didates for the Legislature at the election The Palladium thus chronicles the result • “ The people of Worcester have elected the editor of the Spy to go to the Legisla ture, and elected us to stay at home. That shows very plainly which they can spare best'. fey “You’ve robbed me of my dew,” as the passion-flower said to the sun. fey A fellow who was knocked down three pair of stairs in Albany for using improper language at lan evening party, sent up a note requesting the man who did it to inform him where he purchased his boots. The reason why the name of blubber is given to two-thirds of a whale, is because Jonah cried for three days and nights in the belly of one. fey” The Hungarian exiles who recent ly landed at New York, are stopping, we perceive, at the Aslor House, as free guests. Mrs. Partington says that the Astor is a nice place for the Hungry'uns to stop at, even if they have to pay for what they eat. The Albany Dutchman perpetrates the following hard hit at tobacco chewers: “A chemist in New York has just invent ed a substitute for tobacco. It is made of guano, and will doubtless soon supercede the weed, as it is just as nasty, and a good deal cheaper.” EDITOR’S DEPARTMENT. WM. C. RICHARDS, Editor. D. H. JACQUES, Assistant Editor. CHARLESTON, S. C.: Saturday Morning,....Feb. 2, ISSO. Hours with the Old Poets. NUMBER I. We are not of those who look into the past for all that is truly great, and good, and beautiful. We see much in the pres ent to respect, to admire, to love; and the Golden Age in which we believe, lies in the far off Future. But we love to turn back occasionally, to find repose from the in tense activity of our times, in communion with the quieter spirits of a former age. In this mood we throw aside Byron, and Shelly, and Wordsworth, and Coleridge, and Tennyson, for a volume of the Old English Poets, and shutting our ears against the ceaseless din of Progress, ami the wild, earnest cry of Reform, revel amid the quaint but beautiful fancies of the bards of lang syne, and dream of days when rail roads, and ocean steamers, and lightning telegraphs were unknown. It may not he amiss if, in our reseaiches among the treasures of the past, we select some of our especial favorites, in the way of antique gems, and reset them for the benefit of ourreaders. We may thus turn to some profit what was intended simply as relaxation and amusement. Aside from the pleasure we receive from the perusal of the songs and ballads of the ancient masters of the shell, it is a source of no small satisfaction to trace the pro gress of our noble English tongue, through all its changes and modifications, to its present form; to see how it has gradual)’ enriched itself from the treasuries of all languages, living and dead—how it has simplified and made regular and logical its construction, till in force, richness, compre hensiveness and adaptation to all the high est purposes of the orator, the poet and the philosopher, it is unequalled. By the way, speaking of the progress of the English language, look at the spelling which prevailed in Shakespear’s time, to go no further back. In the original edition of Othello, printed in 1703, we have: “ O my prophetike suule, my vncle! myvnete I And again : “ To be or not to be, I there’s the point— To die to slepe, is that nil f I all.” But this is a digression. We will return to our proper theme. The grand old masters of English poetry, with the exception of Shakespear, who be longs to England less than to the world, are scarcely known in this country. Even Geofirey Chaucer, “Milton’s master, as he has been called, has few American readers, and Spencer, Sidney, Marlowe, Jonson, Raleigh, Surry, Beaumont and Fletcher, Carew and Herrick, are equally strangers to our people, except in name But they need only be known to be ad mired, and eagerly sought and read. The antiquated English in which they wrote is little more than an imaginary obstacle to the perusal of their delightful writings- A little study will enable any one to un derstand them perfectly, and appreciate all their beauties. We will conclude this article with 3 few words about Chaucer, and a bne specimen of his verse. Geoffrey Chaucer wrote in the fourteen! century, and was acknowledged by all to be the greatest poet of his time. fluence upon the English language was a most incalculable. He found it a perfe ct chaos, and reduced it to something like o r der and regularity. Before his lime no one had dared, if in fact, any one wa able 7 to make it the medium of P oetr - Spencer hails him as the “ well of F n ? lish undefiled,” and Wordsworth gives hit ll
