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Terms, $2 Per Annum, in Advance. Second Year, No. 41-Whole No,, 91. i sffnaaa mmiM to mtsmtsm, tm mts mb mmss, mb to simiil lamussics. For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. SONG. ill! wander with lue. dourest, ‘or still the seeue is fuirest, Where passion glows in young devotion’s eye; Fliere still the flowers are springing. I'bere still the birds are singing, With ever-glimpsing beauty through the sky : loads cannot dim the splendor, Phat crowns the scene so tender, Where Faith, by Feeling won, no longer seeks to fly: For still, from Eden’s treasure, i ‘nr Fate has pluck’d one pleasure — The clearest that survives our race’s overthrow ; And still, in Faith kept holy, ■ Though life and hope be lowly, Young hearts may have their Eden yet below ; Not wholly lost the glory, That made Earth’s golden story, If hearts, by Faith made strong, with love may overflow. FLORIO. UNION. Imitated from the German of Novalis. BY JACQUES JOURNOT. No more each other spurning, Soul unto soul is turning, With deep and ceaseless yearning, For lYace, and Love, and Home ; And know we, by this token, That no love link is broken ; The promise has been spoken. That all that buds shall bloom t brother, without shrinking, My hands with thine I'm linking. Light from thine eyes I'm drinking. Turn not their glance front me ; Beneath one dome star-lighted. My heart and thine love-plighted. Are by one hope united: One Heaven for me and thee. -rr — - - ■ -~a From the Southern Literary Messenger. FANNIE OF CLARE. A TALE OF OLD READING. “ From tlie period of its consecration, we find filename of Reading Abbey occurring frequent- i ly in all the histories of the times. Parliaments and councils were holdcn there ; legatees receiv ed. traitors executed, king , queen? and princes I Imri’ 1 in it? holy precincts.” —Mist Milford. Nothing could have been more imposing : limn the old Gothic abbey. Its immense Urches, supported by massive columns, Sf'cined destined to stand after the Church Pad wasted beneath the Reformation : to fiand, even though its stupendous fretted J les echoed the responses of the Liturgy, ■> r the long prayers of ihe Puritan. It was • grand structure. The most antique form ■>! architecture was represented in its low •nil heavy doorway, where was carved a •'inch of reeds converging and plaiting at ■he top. So also with its low, stained ■vindows; so low, in truth, that they al ftmst touched the old graves downward. — these old graves, too, had now become so tumerous, that some had one side of their esting-places walled with the stone which ormed the basement of the abbey! This, the righteous Henry had founded learly forty years before the period of jhich we are to tell, and had dedicated to [*• Mary and St. John. And the pious Mibot, who had the good fortune to be intrusted with the execution of the charter lamed for it by the King, took more delight 111 Performing no part thereof than that *’hich provided “that, seeing the Abbot of aadynge hath no revenues but what are in iimimon with his brethren ; therefore, who -IVcr i by devise, consent, and canonical liection, shall be made Abbot, shall not b'stow the alms of the monastery on his a . v kindred, or any others, but reserve ” em for the entertainment of the poor and 1e Grangers.” So it will be judged that bnie blessed the upright and kind monks ln ‘l sisters of the monastery, more than the )OHr and the strangers, for nowhere were bey better attended or provided for. h “'as a lovely spring evening, near the middle of the twelfth century, as the sun was sinking in the west, when the first scene of our tale may be regarded as intro duced, with the sounding of the deep mouthed bell for vespers at the abbey. It did not seem to be an ordinary occasion.— It clearly was not, as the prayer for the “peaceable arrangement and disposition of all things, between his Highness, the King, and all neighboring States, ’’ plainly indi cated. An engagement between Henry 11. and the Welch was momentarily antici pated. There was one, however, who glided across the long dark aisle unperceived, and now knelt on a cushion, far back to the left ol the choir, and then buried her face, bathed in tears, in her hands. Finally, however, the Evening Hymn to the Virgin swelled out from the choir, as holy incense breathed by angels. I. “ Mother of God! Whoso melancholy brows and drooping eye, Tell of the thorny path thy feet have trod, Oh, look upon us from thy throne on high.'’ Then the fair girl, with a face calm as it was beautiful, arose from her kneeling pos ture and joined with a sweet, clear voice in the beautiful stanzas following : 11. “ By that sweet name— The holiest one our hearts have ever known — Mother, sweet Mother! 10, thine aid we claim, Mother, sweet Mother, still watch o’er thine own. 111. “ In the dark hour, When deatho’ershadows withhismighty wing. Oh, be thou near us with thy gentle power, And to oursouis the balm of healing bring.” The shadows of night were now falling around the Convent: and closing her man tle about her, she glided out by the wide, dark vestibule, with the soft step of a fai ry, and as unperceived as the parting echo of the music. That girl was Cannie of Clare, the beauty of Reading; and the re collection that her gray-haired sire, Roger, Earl of Clare, was now with his king, in danger of immediate conflict with a despe rate neighboring province, was what af fected her so deeply in her devotions at the abbey. Many were there who had wooed the lovely heiress; but the two prominent ri vals for her hand, now, were Henry of Es sex, and Robert of Montford. The latter was the one esteemed most favored by the Earl, who had the most unbounded in fluence with his daughter. Henry of p,s sex, however, was regarded as having surely won the heart of Cannie. And, perhaps, when she dropped a scalding tear for her father, in the monastery, she breath ed a prayer for her lover, for Henry and Robert were both in the King’s troops, showing their loyalty to their sovereign, and endeavoting to obtain the applause of Roger, the father of her whose hand they sought. The apprehensions of the pious orders at Reading were by no means unfounded. News quickly came that Henry had just engaged with a powerful force in fierce conflict, and had well-nigh been complete ly overthrown. It was also reported that in all his ranks, none had been bolder than the sovereign himself, being ever found in the thickest of the skirmish. Little was known of Montford during the fight, save that lie was seen most of the time near Ro ger; of Essex, it was known that he fought bravely at the right hand of his King. The Welch were desperate, and superior to their antagonists in numbers— for, from the condition of the borders at that time, few had families at home to keep them from war, and they had now come to like it as well. All at once the nobles of the King’s ar my grew pale, and seemed discouraged, as it was whispered from one to another amongst them, that Henry 11. had fallen ! A large portion immediately gave way and took to flight; and even Henry of Essex, who had yielded to none in boldness and valor, seeing the scattered troops, dropped the royal banner, (for he was standard beater to the King,) and left the field, fully confident of the King’s death, and of the impossibility of maintaining, with such impaired numbers, a successful contest. Destruction now threatened them all.— Just at that crisis, Roger, Earl of Clare, leaped into the hottest midst, and unfurling the royal banner, exclaimed that a rein forcement was there, and the King at its head ! This was all that saved the small remnant of the army from an universal butchery. During the entire latter part of the en gagement, Robert de Monlfort was not seen. This, however, was not inquired into or accounted for. So soon, however, as he returned home, he sent a challenge ■ for single combat to Essex, “for having j basely and treacherously dropped the roy- al banner, and fled from the troops, prov ing himself a coward, unworthy his High ness’ command.” Henry, with great indig nation and passion, repelled the charge, and readily accepted the challenge; and a day was appointed by the King himself when the difference should be settled. To Cannie this was a sad blow, confi dent as she was of young Henry’s fidelity and courage. She had just been joining her sisters at the abbey in hymns and thanksgiving for the safe restoration of the King and his nobles;.and when she heard of the royal mandate, that the two rivals should hold single combat at but a short distance from Reading,* her heart sunt within her, for she was justly appre hensive that Henry’s extreme youth could not prevail against the superior experience and skill of Robert de Montford. When the day appointed for the rencontre arrived, she excused herself from being one of the host of spectators who would be present on the exciting occasion, on the plea of in disposition. The combat was a most violent one.— Montford, being the challenger, commenced the attack with great vigor, and Essex for some length of time was content to ward off his thrusts. At length, angered by some taunting word from Montford, Essex rose upon his horse and returned the at tack with fearful energy. It now became a moment of the greatest excitement.— Montford was pale, and his eyes glassy. Essex burned with passion, and now ob viously had the advantage of his competi tor. Just at this instant, a word of encour agement to Montford, escaped involuntari ly the father of Cannie. At this, Henry’s heart sank within him. He knew that there was nothing now that he could ex pect in life hut a disappointment of his love ; and such a life he did not desire.— The unhappy youth sprang above his sad dle, and with one blow, almost severing the left ai m of Montford, fell to the ground bleeding from many wounds, and appa rently lifeless. Montford at the same mo ment leaped from his horse to take advan tage of the youth’s fall; but the King sternly rebuked it as “unworthy,” and forbade further harm to him. He ordered that the body, which every one believed lifeless, should be buried with all military pomp and honor in Reading Abbey. And thither it was carried, attended by the chor isters of the convent, chanting a Dona Re quiem for the soul of the departed. But one was not there, who was wont to raise her sweet voice amongst them.— Senseless, pale and death-like, Cannie lay, at the first intelligence, amid the noise and frighted confusion of the domestics. Some feared that she would not recover: she cared not—for the one she lived to love was gone. The body of Essex bad scarcely arrived at the convent chapel, before signs of life exhibited themselves. It was, however, several days before he came to his senses. He found himself lying on a clean cot in a small room, and near him an old and trembling friar was mumbling over his beads before a small stone crucifix hewn out in the wall. For a long time, Henry spoke nothing : finally, however, he lifted his hands feebly to his forehead, and ad dressed the old man in a voice almost like a whisper. “ Father,” he said, endeavoring to call his attention. “Aye—in a moment.” And the old man continued, without turning his eyes. “ Father,” said Henry again, not having heard or heeded his reply. “In a moment—just one moment, I say,' 1 he said pettishly. At last, the old man turned his small, smirking eyes full upon him. “Tell me, father, what has happened I” Henry asked. “ Yea, verily, what hath happened !” “ You ought to know.” The old man gave here a short, dry chuckle. u ] yi “ Yes, you,” said the old man, with ano ther short, dry laugh, like the sound of a dry leaf in autumn on frozen ground. “ But 1 do not —tell me—why am l here ?” “These will tell you the whys and wherefores better than I ” And with this, the old man raised up the bloody raiment of which Essex had been divested. Henry groaned and turned over, as some feint of the truth flashed upon him. Yet he was too weak to note any thing, other * “Tradition assigns as the place of this com bat, a beautiful green island, nearly surrounded with willows, in the midst of the Thames, to the ea-t of Caversham bridge. A more beautiful spot could not have been desired for sucb a com bat. It was in sight of the Abbey, and of the re markable chapel erected in the centre of the bridge, of which the foundation still remains,sur mounted by a modern house.”— Stowe. than of his contest, and si turned again to the old man, earnestly beseeching the re cital of all that had happened. The old man, after some persuasion, told him all : how he had fought and fallen—embell sh ed, however, as he wished. “And Robert de Montford—what of him ?” exclaimed Henry, when the old man paused. “ Montford—your victor I” “ The same.” “ Ha—Robert is now making merty as the son-in-law of Roger and as his hir. The old man here gave another dry laugh. It very soon ceased, howver, when he saw the ghastly hue which over spread Henry’s countenance : and fesring that he was about to die, the friar rose very hastily, and was about to call the Ab bott, and would have done so, but for Henry. “ Stop !” he cried hoarsely and quickly. “ What?” said the old man timidly. “Sit down and tell me more—tell me all.” The old man shook his head doubtfully; but presently seemed to bethink himself,as of something he had to do, and then sat down close lo the bed, peering upon Hen ry with a lack-lustre eye. j “ And Cannie,” asked the half-detd youth eagerly—“ what of her—what does she think—and say ?” “ Why, she has been persuaded of tie truth of the charges made against you, and has even rejoiced in your—” The old man stopped quickly here, and ran forth for assistance, for Henry had swooned now, most surely. It was a long time—many days and weeks—ere the young man’s senses return ed. When he recovered them, however, he found in his room the Abbot and the sisters of the Abbey, attending and minis tering to him with great care. His illness after this was very long; his life being, at limes, almost despaired of. So soon, how ever, as he recovered health, he signified his intention of remaining in the monaste ry, and finally obtained the garb of the monastic order of the old Reading Abbey. The Earl of Clare had suspected the love of his daughter for Henry of Essex, but had never had that suspicion so con firmed as when the death of the young no bleman was announced to her. He was very much enraged, as are all other fa thers, when their children show signs of disloyalty ; and he immediately determin ed, with an oath, that she should marry Robert de Montford, and none other. And accordingly, when he heard that Henry, had revived on his atrival at the Abbey, where he was taken from the field, he gave command that she should not be un deceived with regard to his death ; and also employed the friar, who has been in troduced above, to inform him that Cannie had voluntarily and happily been wedded to his rival, Robert de Mqptford. ***** Henry of Essex had been a monk for five years, and with much trouble he was chastened and purified. He was even yet young ; and his face bore a look of melan choly sweetness. He had lived there, lov ed by all as a good and pious man, and now, at the death of the old Abbot, he had been promoted to that position. Shortly after this, he was sitting, one evening, thinking of by-gone days and ear ly sorrow; and anon dropping a tear when he saw the form of the loved one, in fancy —of her, whom he now believed the happy wife of Montford. He was aroused from a reverie into which he had fallen, by be ing informed that one of the sisterhood was very much indisposed—indeed, very near death : and it was the duty of the Abbot to visit such. He immediate arose, and having prayed, went out to visit the sick | one. The sick person did not open her eyes, i or take the coverlet from her face, when ’ Henry first entered ; and approaching gen ! tly, he knelt beside her bed : and for thq fiist time for live years, Cannie of Clare and Henry of Essex met! “ Listen, father,” murmuied she feebly, “I must confess while i have breath.” The venerable Abbot inclined his ear, and heard her confession; and in it he heard the sad story of her life after he had fallen. How she had been kept in igno rance of his life; and after a long season of annoyance, imprisonment, and harsh ; treatment, she had escaped only by secret ly seeking an asylum there, where she had been almost as long as he. With the greatest emotion, he too told his story, and in anguish prayed that the drooping flower might not be so soon blasted, and that they might yet be happy in each other’s love. And it was so. Nothing under heaven hut love could have warmed that flower into life and beauty again. The cheek I again recovered its color, the mouth again its smile, and the deep blue eyes again beamed with tenderness for Henry. So soon as she was recovered entirely, Henry left with her, for a remote portion of the kingdom, where they lived in great happiness. When Roger was grown old, lie heard of their marriage, and wrote, freely’ offering his forgiveness, and asking them to return to bless his old age with affection. It need not be added, that they complied. And Henry long perpetuated the honorable house of Clare, blessed with the devotion of the beautiful Cannie. PAUL DENTON: OR,— THE TEXAS CAMP-MEETING. BY CHARLES SUMMEKFIELD. During the last week of September, 1836, the first successful Camp-Meeting was held in Eastern Texas. I employ the epithet “successful,” because several previous fail ures had apparently rendered nil efforts of alike kind perfectly hopeless. Indeed,the meridian, at that period, was most uncon genial to religious and moral enterprise.— The country bordering on the Sabine, had been occupied, rather than settled, by a class of adventurers almost as wild as the savages whom they had scarcely expelled, and the beasts of prey which still disputed their domain of primeval forests. Profes sional gamblers, refugees from the jail, ab sconded debtors, outlaws from every land, forgers of false coin, thieves, robbers, mur derers, interspersed among a race of uned ucated hunters and herdsmen, made up the strange social miscellany; without courts, or prisons, or churches, or schools, or even the shadow ot civil authority or subordina tion—a sort of unprincipled pandemonium , where fierce passion sat enhtroned, wav ing its bloody sceptre, the naked bowie kr.ife ! Let no one accuse me of exagger- I ation, for the sake of dramaticeffect; I am ! sp akingnowof Shelby county —that home ; of the Lynchers—the terrible locale , where ten years later, forty persons were poison ed to death a: a marriage supper ! It will be i jvious that, in such a com munity, very few would be disposed to pa tronize camp neetings ; and accordingly a dozen differei ’ trials, at various times, had never collect I a hundred hearers, on any single occasi i. But even these were not allowed to \t rship in peace; uniformly, the first day or night, a band of armed des peradoes, headed by the notorious Watt Foeman, chief judge arid executioner of the Shelby Lynchers, broke into the altar and j scattered the mourners, or ascended the pulpit and treated the preachers to a gra tuitous robe of tar and feathers ! Hence, all prudentevangelists soon learned to shun the left hank of the Sabine, as if it had been infested by a cohort of demons; and two whole years elapsed without any new at tempt to erect the cross in so perilous a field. At length, however, an advertisement ap peared, promising another effort in behalf of the Gospel. The notice was unique, a perfect backwood’s curiosity, both as to its tenor and mode of publication. Let me give it verbatim et literatim : “ Barbecue Camp-Meeting. “There will be a Camp-meeting, to com mence the last Monday of this month, at i the Double Spring Grove, near Peter Brin son’s in the county of Shelby. “The exercises will open with a splen did barbecue. Preparations are being made to suit all tastes; there will be good bar becue, better liquor, and the best of Gos pel ! “ Paul Denton, “Sept. 1, 1836. Missionary M. E. C.” This singular document was nailed lo the door of every public house and gro cery ; it was attached to the largest trees at the intersections of all cross-roads and prin cipal trails; and even the wandering hun ters themselves, found it in remote dells of the mountain, miles away from the smoke of a human habitation. At first many regarded the matter as a hoax played oil by some w icked wag, in ridicule of popular credulity. But this hy pothesis was negatived by the statements of Peter Brinson, proprietor of the “Double Spring Grove,” who informed all inquirers, “ that he had been employed and paid, by a stranger calling himself a Methodist mis sionary, to provide an ample barbecue, at the period and place advertised.” “ But the liquor—the better liquor—are you to furnish the liquor too ? ” was the in variable question of each visitor. “ The missionary said he would attend to that himself,” replied Brinson. “He must be a precious original,” was the general rejoinder. A proposition which most of them afterwards had an opportuni ty to verify experimentally. I need hardly add that an intense excite ment resulted. The rumor took wings; flew on the wind ; turned to storm —a storm of exaggeration—every echo increased its sound, till nothing else could be heard but “the Barbecue Camp-Meeting it became the focus of thought, the staple of dreams. And thus the unknown preacher had in sured one thing in advance, a congregation embracing the entire population of the coun try, which was, it is likely, the sole purpose of his stratagem. I was travelling in that part of Texas at the time, and my imagination being in flamed by the common curiosity, I took some trouble and attended. But although my eyes witnessed the extraordinary scene, l may well despair of the undertaking to paint it—the pen of Homer, or the pencil of Hogarth, were alone adequate to the sub limity and burlesque of the complicated task. I may only sketch the angujar out lines. A space had been cleared away immedi ately around the magnificent “ Double Spring,” which boiled up with force suffi cient to turn a mill-wheel, in the very cen tre of the ever-green grove. Here a pulpit had been raised, and before it was the in separable altar for mourners. Beyond these at the distance of fifty paces, a suc cession of plank tables extended in the form of a great circle, or the perimeter of a pol ygon, completely enclosing the area about the spring. An odoriferous steam, of most delicious savor, diffused itself through the air ; this was from the pits in the adjacent prairie, where the fifty slaves of Peter Brin son, were engaged in cooking the promised barbecue. The grove itself was literally alive, teem ing, swarming, running over, with strange figures in the human shape, men, women, and children, in every variety of outlandish costumes All Shelby county was there The hunters had come, rifles in hand, and dogs barking at their heels; the rogues, re fugees, and gamblers, with pistols in their belts, and big knives peeping from their shirt-bosoms ; while here and there might he seen a sprinkling of well dressed plan ters, with their wives and daughters. The tumult was deafening, a tornado of babbling tongues, talking, shouting, quar reling, betting, and cursing for amusement. Suddenly a cry arose “Col. Watt Foeman !” Hurrah for Col. Watt Foeman!” and the crowd parted to the right and left, to let the lion Lyncher pass. I turned to the advancing load-star of all eyes, and shuddered involuntarily at the devilish countenance which met my glance; and yet the features were not only youth ful, hut eminently handsome : the hideous ness lay in the look, full of savage fire— ferocious, murderous. It was in the red dish yellow eye-balls with arrowy pupils, that seemed to flash jets of lurid flame: in the thin sneeiing lips with their everlasting icy smile. As to the rest, he was a tall, athletic, very powerful man. His train, a dozen armed desperadoes, followed him. Foeman spoke in a voice, sharp, pierc ing, as the point of a dagger: “Eh ! Brin son, where is the new missionary ? We want to give him a plumed coat!” “ He has not yet arrived,” replied the planter. •“ Well, I suppose we must wait for him; but put the barbecue on the boards ; 1 am hungry as a starved wolf.” “ I cannot till the missionary comes ; the barbecue is his property.” A fearful light blazed in Foeman’s eyes, as he took three steps towards Brinson, and fairly shouted, “Fetch the meat instantly, or I’ll fill your own stomach with a dinner of lead and steel!” This was the ultimatum of one whose authority was the only law, and the plan ter obeyed without a murmur. The smo king viands were arranged on the tables, by a score of slaves, and the throng pre pared to commence the sumptuous meab when a voice pealed from the pulpit, loud as the blast of a trumpet in battle, “Stay, gentlemen and ladies, till the giver of the barbecue asks God’s blessing !” Every heart started, every eye was di rected to the speaker; and a whisperless silence ensued, for all alike were struck by his remarkable appearance. He was al most a giant in stature, though scarcely twenty years of age : his hair, dark as the raven’s wing, flowed down his immense shoulders in masses of natural ringlets, more beautiful than any ever wreathed a round the jeweled brow of a queen by the labored achievements of human art; his eyes, black as midnight, beamed like stars over a face pale as Parian marble, calm, passionless, spiritual, and wearing a singu lar, indefinable expression, such as might have been shed by the light of a dream from Paradise, or the luminous shadow of an angel’s wing. The heterogenious crowd, hunters, gamblers, homicides, gazed in mute astonishment. The missionary prayed ; but it sounded like no other prayer ever addressed to the throne of the Almighty. It contained no encomiums on the splendor of the divine attributes; no petitions in the tone of com mands; no orisons for distant places, times, or objects; and no implied instructions as to the administration of the government of the universe It related exclusively to the present people and the present hour; it was the cry of a naked soul, and that soul a beggar for the bread and the water ot heavenly life. He ceased, and not till then did I become conscious of weeping. I looked around through my tears, and saw a hundred faces wet as with ram ! “Now, my friends,” said the missionary, “partake of God’s gifts at the table, and then come sit down and listen to his Gos pel.” It would be impossible to describe the sweet tone of kindness in which these sim ple words were uttered, that made him on the instant five hundred friends. One heart, however, in the assembly, was mad dened by the evidences of the preacher's wonderful power. Col. Watt Foeman, ex claimed in a sneering voice : “ Mr. Paul Denton, your reverence has lied. You prr. mised us not only good barbecue, but better liquor. Where is the liquor ?” “There!” answered the missionary, in tones of thunder, and pointing his motion less finger at the matchless Double Spring, gushing up in two strong colums, with a sound like a shout of joy from the bosom of the earth. “There!” lie repeated with a look terrible as lightning, while his ene my actually trembled on his feet; “there is the liquor, which God, the Eternal,brews for all his children ! “ Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires, choked with poisonous ami surrounded with the stench of sickening odors and rank corruption, doth your Fa ther in heaven prepare the precious essence l of life—the pure, cold water. But in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play, there God himself brewsit; and down, low i down in the deepest valleys, where the foun -1 tains murmur and the rills sing ; and high up on the tall mountain tops where the na ked granite glitters like gold in the sun, where the storm-cloud broods, and thethun der-tones crash ; and away far out on the wide, wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and big waves roar the chorus, ‘sweeping the march of God’—there He brews it, that beverage of life, health-giv ing water. And every where it is a thing of beauty, gleaming in the dew-drop; sing ing in the summer rain ; shining inthe ice gem, till the trees all seem turned to liv ing jewels—spreading a golden veil over the setting sun, ora whitegauzearound the midnight moon; sporting in the cataract: sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail shower; folding its bright cnow-curtains softly about the wintry world ; and weav ing the many-colored iris,that seraph's zone of the sky, whose harp is the rain-drop of earth, whose roof is the sunbeam of heav en, all checkered o’er with celestial flow ! ers, by the mystic hand of refraction. Still always it is beautiful —that blessed life water ! No poison bubbles oil its brink ; its foam brings not madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale wid ows and starving orphans weep not burn ing tears in itsclear depth’s ; no drunkard’s shrieking ghost from the grave, curses it in words of eternal despair! Speak out, my friends, would you exchange it for the de mon’s drink, alcohol ?” A shout like the roar of a tempest an swered—“No!” Critics need never tell me again that I backwoodsmen are deaf to the divine voice j of eloquence ; for I saw, at that moment, the missionary held the hearts of the mul titude, as it were, in the hollow of I.is hand; and the popular feeling ran in a current so irresistible, that even the duelist, Watt Foe man, dared not venture another interruption during the meeting. 1 have just reviewed my report of that singular speech in the foregoing sketch; but alas! I discover that l have utterly failed to convey the full impression as my reason and imagination received it. The language, to be sure, is there—that I never could forget —but it lacks the spirit; the tones of unutterable pathos, the cadences of mournful music, alternating with crash es of terrible power; it lacks the gesticu lation, now graceful as the play of a gold en willow in the wind, and anon, violentas i the motion of a mountain pine in the hur- lacks that pale face, wrapped in its dream of the spirit-land, and those un fathomable eyes, flashing a light such as never beamed from sun or stars; and more than all, it lacks the magnetism of the mighty soul that seemed to diffuse itself among the hearers, as a viewless stream of