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of blood, anil the sky seemed black as a
funeral pall; the bird music in all the for
est was like the unearthly wail of fiends.
Thought, hope, every human wish vanish
ed. Nothing remained in my bosom, save
one fixed desire, fiercer than thirst, more
craving than hunger—to die, to sleep with
out dreams and never know the light of
another morning!
“That night—as I imagined—unob
served, I leaped into the deep river. \our
generous courage saved me, and the man
ner in which your eloquence painted the
folly and cowardice of the act, prevented
its repetition.”
Heaufort paused a moment, anil then con
tinued, as a burning flush of crimson suf
fused his handsome features —“ But now,
my dear friend, I have to thank you for
something more than life. Perhaps you
were not conscious of the inestimable favor
which you conferred, in recommending me
as we travelled to the city, to this cottage,
as being occupied by a family with whom
1 could enjoy the utmost quiet and seclu
sion. Some two weeks after my arrival, a
relative of Mrs. May came to reside with
us —a young orphan of the most brilliant
intellect, tinged with poetry, and radiant
with the lustre of every feminine virtue —
.more beautiful than stars, or rainbows. I
have won this angelic creature : her heart
is all my own. Oh! now grateful lam to
you for my saved life, and to God lor this
ineffable boon of beauty and goodness!”
Again, the excited youth paused, troubled
by a sneering expression of strange mean
ing on the countenance of the other, as
he inquired hastily—“ Do you know Alice
May ?”
That is a pleasure, yet to be realized,”
answered Hume, with imperturable cool
ness.
Beaufort continued—“ l must confess,
there i one thing in the conduct of Alice,
which sometimes pains me : she is subject
to singular fits of sadness : during days
when her smile is faint, but fonder than ev
er—when involuntary tears start from the
liquid depth of her dark eyes, and the sweet
tones of her silvery tongue seem laden with
a secret she longs to tell, yet dares not trust
even to my ears!”
Once more Beaufort hesitated, for he ob
served, on the face of his friend the same
sinister look which had startled him, the
minute before, but this'time darker and
fiercer.
Col. Hume saw that he had aroused
Beaufort's suspicion, and he adroitly
changed the conversation preparing to end
the interview.
“ You will pardon us old sailors on the
treacherous sea of life, for smiling incred
ulously at your youthful rhapsodies,” said
the Colonel stilling a hoarse sigh, or rather
groan; “I had a bright dream, too, when
about your age ; may youts not break like
mine! But now, indeed, 1 must bid you
adieu ; may you and your Alice be happy,
till 1 see you again !” And without farther
ceremony, he shook Beaufort’s hand cor
dially, and left the room. His last words,
uttered in a low, hissing whisper, rang
long and painfully in Henry’s ears —“May
you and your Alice be happy, till I see you
again!” The sentence appeared to conceal
some mysterious meaning; but nothing less
than the sagacity of a devil could have di
vined the veiled enigma.
Hume glided back to the parlor, where
the slave Bill awaited him. He drew
something from his pocket, and gave it to
the Negro, saying—“ Here is a false key
to Alice May's bedroom, go, and tell liertu
attend me here immediately, and be careful
to make no noise.”
Bill flew to execute his mission, and pre
sently returned, almost dragging by the
arm, the half-naked figure of the beautiful
girl, whose frail limbs were trembling with
terror, as her dark eyes streamed with tears.
Her face, seen in the fitful light of the wax
candle, was pallid as that of acorpse in its
shroud. She tottered as she entered, and
sunk down almost fainting on the carpet,
striving to hide her bare bosom with her
quivering hands!
Hume locked the parlor door, and ad
dressed the maiden in tones harsh and mur
derous :
“Alice, I have several questions to ask :
answer tne truly as you value your life.—
And remember, I have seen Beaufort, and
know all. Alice do you love him 1”
The intense paleness of the girl’s com
plexion was succeeded by a flush of Ver
million, as she replied in a voice earnest
and solemn as a prayer : “God knows it
—1 love him well as my own soul!”
“Did I not caution you against the fol
ly of falling in love with one intended to
be your victim V’ demanded Hume fero
ciously.
“Oh! but it was impossible not to love
him,’’ rejoined Alice : “he is so good, so
pure, so beautiful."’ While speaking of
her lover, the timid girl assumed uncon
sciously an aspect of fervent enthusiasm
and heroic courage, in striking contrast
with her previous look of immeasurable
despair.
“ Very fine! but have you.told this be
ing of a superior order who you are V
“ 1 have net as yet, but I intend to do
so,” said Alice, again turning mortally
pale, and shuddering as with a strong con
vulsion.
“ Have you determined on this 1” asked
Hume, with an icy smile.
“Such is my fixed purpose, it would be
an unpardonable sin to deceive such a soul;
and the discovery hereafter would drive
him mad ; and then, woe to you as well as
me!”
“Then this night you will leave here for
ever, and to-morrow you shall be the wife
of black Bill ! Get ready to depart in ten
minutes!”
“Oh! my father! my father! have mer
cy on me!” cried the girl, casting herself
on her knees before the wretch, and at
tempting to grasp his hand ;. but he spurned
her away with his foot, and she fell pros-
trate on the carpet. But she still contin
ued to beg—“ Pity me, 0, my father, or let
me die by your hand, as did my mother !
Stab me to the heart, rather than render
my young life one long torture !”
“ Promise, then, that you will not tell
him.”
“ I cannot, indeed I cannot deceive him!”
“ Then you leave not this parlor till you
leave it for ever, as the wife of a negro ! “
“ Mercy!”
“ Promise'”
“Father, by the memory of my murdered
mother, pity her child!”
“Promise! promise!”
“Father, remember there is a God!”
“Promise! promise! promise!”
“Give me till morning!”
“No, now, flow,” cried the incarnate
fiend, stamping furiously with his iron
boot-heel; “now, or, by heaven, let black
Bill take his wife !”
“I promise,” she faltered, in heart-rend
ing accents.”
“ Swear it—swear it on your mother’s
crucifix!”
“ I swear it,” said the poor girl, kissing
with pale lips the. little golden cross that
suspended from its chain around her neck.
“You know your doom if you break
your oath. Think not to do it and escape
me. I would hunt you like a wolf over
the face of the earth. And now I must be
gone. May you and your Henry be happy
till I see you again !”
“ And then we shall all be unhappy for
evermore,” she answered solemnly as Col.
Hume left the parlor.
The next day saw Beaufort and Alice
strolling in the direction ol the Capitoliau
Hill. They had both arisen in the morn
ing unusually sad : but as they glided along
that beautilul avenue, the brightness of the
sunshine, reflected from a world of snow,
the serene beauty of heaven, and the bor
rowed splendor of the trees, jeweled with
dazzling ice-gems, united to develop all the
slumbering poetry within them, and to in
tensify the mightier feelings of love, that i
could neither drowse or die; and so they j
began to converse in that love-thrilling, !
whisper language, which through all time
has been, and to all eternity will be, the
typical tongue of love.
But as the two ascended those slanting
steps of the mountain granite, so recently
cut from the dense layer of the everlasting
hills, to support fairy feet hurrying to the |
halls of wise heads and eloquent lips ; and i
as they had paused an instant to survey
the marble fountain playing around the
base of the great statue, Beaufort suddenly j
felt the slight form of Alice trembling at ;
his side, as if recoiling from powerful
shocks of electricity. On turning quickly
he beheld the features of his adored un
earthly pale, and writhing with evident :
horror, while hereyesseemed starting from j
their sockets, set upon some object near |
the summit of the flight. Henry glanced ;
in the direction of her horrified gaze, and
his own bold brow darkened at the unex
pected visioti; for there, with a mingled
frown and sneer—a look of Satanic malice
—stood Col. Hume, scowling at them.—
But as soon as he saw that he was observed
by Beaufort, he wheeled about, and with
the speed of a trotting horse, flew up the
acclivity, and immediately his tall form
disappeared behind the cohims of the Cap
itol.
Beaufort was strangely perplexed by this
unaccountable phenomenon. Why should ;
Col. Hume still be in the Federal city, when ,
he declared himself, the preceding night, j
that he would depart in the morning train ‘
for Baltimore ? Andespecially why should ■
Alice display such emotion at his presence, I
if, as he had said, they were wholly unac- j
quaitiled ! And why should his friend eye
them with that fierce look of murderous
meaning! These problems threw a shadow
on his soul that clouded it during his stay ;
in the galleris of the Senate.
Alice on her part was equally gloomy ;
site saw the suspicion depicted in her lover’s
countenance, and divined its cause. She
knew that prompt action was necessary,
else she might lose him for ever. Conscience
whispered —“Tell him all and trust his love
for the result.” Fear answered—“Then
you are undone for ever —you cannot escape
that man of terror and blood !” She con
sulted love; he responded—“ Both alterna
tives are dangerous. If you tell him all,
you may lose him now ; if you do not tell
him, you may lose him hereafter.” Final
ly superstition settled her wavering pur
pose ; that said—“ You have sworn not to
tell on the holy symbol of salvation, and
your oath is registered by the recording
angel!”
As they retuned in the afternoon, Alice
remarked in tones of merriment—“ Dearest
Henry, you cannot think how foolishly 1
I got frightened. You did not notice that
hideous man with a face hairy as a sa
tyr’s, gazing as if he wished to devour us.
I was in the act of screaming when lie has
tened away.”
“Did you never see him before !” Beau
fort inquired in a careless voice, but scan
ning her countenance with his searching
eyes.
-Never,” she pronounced calmly, by a
tremendous exertion of will; and even
Henry could discover no waveringsymptoms
of guile in the depths of those dark orbs,
so ineffably full ol undying fondness for
him.
“Never!” Alice murmured to herself;
hut she fancied the wotd mocked her from
afar, as the echo of a thunder-peal of doom
in the distance! “Never!” She might
well ponder on that sound—it was her life’s
first lie! The one term of terror might
haunt her, like the cry of a ghost, till her
dying day, and hunt her into the grave !
Oh ! had she but answered differently,
truly—told all—cast herself on the tender
ness and generosity of that noble soul—
then might he have forgiven all, aud have
shielded her, and loved her to the end. But
“Never!” the great lie—she had spoken
lUOIBIO© 0 wiseaw ©ussiiSa
it, the knell of innocence am! hope. “Nev
er!” It had placed an iron seal on her
lips that truth itself dared not break—
“ Never,” never more !
They were privately wedded the next
week, and immediately set out for New
Orleans.
[To be concluded in next week's issue .]
y u 3 -j* Ji 7 ♦
- ~ ~ ; - rrrrtr.-. . - - ■
For Richards’ Weekly (iazette.
THE VOLUNTEER’S BRIDE.
BY EDWIN HERIOT.
She stood uj>on the shore,
And fast the tears were .-treaming.
While on the deck, in proud array
The soldiers’ arms were gleaming.
Among that gallant band
Was one whose heart was given,
A sacred pledge ol holy vows,
Now registered in Heaven.
She wept beside her bed,
And on that lonely pillow
Her thoughts were turned on him, whoso home
Was on the angry billow ;
The battle’s fearful strife
Comes to her nightly vision,
And the hero, with his stronger foe,
Contends in dread collision.
At length, the tidings caino.
That his name was wreathed with glory,
Hut with it came Death’s messenger,
To tell the mournful story.
Alone, she treads Life’s path,
‘Fill its weeping hours are closing,
Hut her heart is buried in the tomb,
Where the patriot is reposing.
G LORY
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MKTASTASTO.
“He who would cling to life,
Despising Glory, merits not to live.
Life is the common property —but Fame,
Belongs to great souls only.”
_ _'L” LAP. J_ILL””! 1 .. 1 ;
7 SI IS
=— “
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
EGER 1 A :
Or, Voices from the Woods and Wayside.
CXXVII.
Irresolution. To show yourself irreso
lute, is to endow your enemy with confi
dence. We take courage in beholding a
feebleness which is greater than our own.
CXXVIII.
Poetry. Poetry is the offspring of rarest
beauty, begot by imagination upon thought,
and clad by taste and fancy, in the habili
ments of grace.
CXXIX.
Investments. It is, after all, the person
who stakes the least, who loses most. In
the affections, this is wholly true. He who
risks nothing loses everything.
CXXX.
Blindness of Malice. But for thru blind
-1 ness which is inseperable from malice,
what terrible powers of evil would it pos
sess. Fortunately for the world, its venom,
like that of the rattle-snake, when most
poisonous, clouds the eye of the reptile,
and defeats its aim.
CXXXL
Performance. The honest, earnest de
termination to perform, almost always sug
; gests its own modus operands.
CXXXII.
Conquest. The conditions of conquest
are always easy. We have but to toil
! a while, endure a while, believe always,
and never turn back.
CXXXIII.
Job. Is it not the strangest thing in the
world, that amidst all the Devil’s persecu
tions of Job, he never once seems to have
I
i thought to rob him of his wife !
CXXXIV.
Perfection. We do not insist upon per
fectibility, but consider it best that the hu
man heart should be thought capable of
the highest policy ; as sufficiently compre
hensive in its plan, and still sufficiently
firm in its purpose to become all that the
good desire. The powers of the heart are
more frequently underrated than overrated;
and, which is worse, the course of educa
tion obtaining in general, is calculated rath
er to keep the mind what it has been hith
erto, than what, with the daily increasing
means of improvement, furnished by its
own untiring exertions, it might readily,
and with moderate diligence, become. The
ages should build one above another, as
we walk above the heads of our fathers.
cxxxv.
Human Fradty. It is in the conviction of
our own feebleness that we acquire our
first and best impressions of the might and
majesty of God. That we still defy the
one and offend the other, is only a proof
that we are even weaker than we ourselves
believe.
CXXXVI.
Faith and Passion. It is much more
easy to inspire a passion than a faith.—
Were beauty but as solicitous of the one as
of the other object, she need never fear
that her myrtles will change to willows.
CXXXVII.
Common Sense. No doubt common sense
is an excellent and serviceable quality—a
good domestic article, which is always use
ful, and which we cannot easily dispense
with : but it is not every thing, and there
are occasions when uncommon sense be
comes even more valuable and important.
Common sense is the practical, every day
faculty, and that which is most associated
with ordinary success in life. It is because
of its success in ordinary, that people so
mistake it fora virtue. Perhaps, there are
no people so really vain as those who pos
sess this quality in a large degree; and
that it should produce this weakness, is
quite natural, when we recollect that the
usual inode of determining mental excel
lence is by referring to success in the every
day concerns of busy life. Shrewdness in
business, resulting in prosperity, makes
common sense forget herself; and the man
who has made a fortune in the cotton mar
ket, is not easily persuaded that he might
not have been equally successfulas a states
man and a philosopher.
CXXXVIII.
Life. The object of life is not life
merely. Were this the case, the butcher
and the baker might always claim to be the
most proper persons in every community.
It is not the future, for every state has its
own conditions. It is not the present, for
that would make us improvident, like the
brute, taking no care of the morrow. Nor
yet is it the past, for no man looks behind
him, walking forward. Like is a condi
tion of equal preparation and performance.
That it is a condition of preparation, proves
the immortality of the soul. That it is a
condition of performance, proves that the
business of immortality is already begun.
Our exultation in success is legitimate, be
cause our present performances are in obe
dience to present laws. Our hope is the
prescience of that yearning which looks
naturally, with equal doubt, desire and ap
prehension to those future laws which are
yet to operate upon us, Life is an ordeal,
in which our powers of endurance, and our
capacities of achievements, are to be tested,
in order that our future rank maybe deter
mined. True religion, which regards it in
this light, does not task us so exclusively
to consider our possible future, as to make
us heedless and indifferent to the positive
present. The desire of martyrdom is mere
insanity. It is the needful and just per
formance of present duties, and the hum
ble adherence to present laws, which can
alone fit us certainly and beneficially for
the condition which is to come. What
does the present life—the absolute day on
which weareentered—requireatour hands!
Ascertain that, and do it, and all the rest is
easy. The future is the unborn child of
the present, whose mother was the past.
CXXXIX.
Enemies. Could our enemies only know
how much we have forborne towards them,
how would their hatred be penetrated by
remorse!
CXL.
Contemplation. The contemplative mood
somewhat depends, for its exercise, upon
the exhaustion of the passionate; and con
| stitutes a sort of moral interregnum—a
I twilight condition of the mind—which fills
! up the interval between the performances
of one day and another. It is in this twi
j light period that the thought prepares itself
j lor the wrestle of the arena—that the plan
j of the campaign is conceived, and all the
scheme digested of the next day’s action.
CXLI.
Solitude. Solitude makes a contempla
tive mind—society an active one. The
two conditions, properly alternated, freshen
| one another. Solitude affords the proper
time lor preparation—society lor perform
ance. In the one, we gaze upon the play
! ers; in the other, we enter the ring our
selves. The former teaches us by the mis
takes of others, and the latter by our own.
CXLII.
Struggle. But man is no more made for
solitude than sleep. The repose of the
passions must not imply their stagnation.
They must rouse themselves at last and go
forth, though it be only to bear a burthen
and be baffled by defeat. Successful or
baffled, still the same—their duty is in the
struggle. The struggle is life.
CXLII I.
Society. No doubt solitude is whole
j seme, but so. is abstinence after a surfeit.
! The true life of man is in society. Give
j lnm his desire—place him in the remotest
i empires of the sea and forest, and his
thoughts will still wander away to the
crowd. He will hear in his dreams, as he
crouches by the sea shore, or in the thick
wilderness of woods, at night, the sweet
bells of the distant city. Yes, solitude is
wholesome, when we need a respite.
CXLIV.
Society for the Mind. Society is even
more essential to our intellect than to our
humanity. Our affections do not rust so
quickly as our minds. It is easier to per
vert than to subdue them, while the latter
is always pleased to be beguiled into for
getfulness and sleep.
CXLV.
Attrition. The attrition of rival minds
is the great secret of successful intellect.
The genius may be born in the woods, but
it never takes root there. The tree that
has sprung up in the shade, will blossom
; and bring forth fruit in the sunshine only.
CXL VI.
Voluntaries. The mind has its own mo
tions, apart from any will that we bring to
exercise upon it. These mental volunta
ries might be virtues, were they not quite
as far beyond our prediction as premedita
tion. Ihe worst dreams says the Indian
sage, are those which occur when the eyes
are open; the noblest actions when the
eyes ere shut. Did we always carry out
into action our waking thoughts—nay,
could we see them sometimes enacted in
our dreams—what dread and horror would
they inspire. How many of our best deeds
spring from our eager impulse—the mind
not being suffered to shape the will, but
that working only in obedience to the
blood. It is only a human charity that we
should ascribe the frequent faults and
grievous errors of our neighbour to the
influence of some such blind and undirected
agency.
CXLVII.
Distinction. Distinction is an eminence
which is attained but too frequently at the
expense of a fireside.
CXLVIII.
Penalty. Someone must always pay
the piper. The jest, however shallow, is
never without its forfeit. Wit and humour
are servants which it costs much more to
work than to feed; and the more prompt
and spirited their service, the more danger
ous to him whose livery they wear.
CXLIX.
Day Life. We should live well by day,
if for no other reason than that we should
not have bad dreams at night.
ITIIHS £Ji 0 ij 1 ]& *
For Richards’ Weekly (Jazette.
UNITY OF THE RACE*
Without any design, the most remote of
intruding on a field of controversy, which
we regard as the peculiar province of the
experienced student of Natural Science,
we would simply invite, through the me
dium of your columns, the attention of
those who feel interested in the discussion
to the admirable work of Dr. Bachman,
recently published in this city, under the
above title. For the investigation of such
a subject, on purely scientific principles, it
will not be denied that there are few, if any,
in our whole country, upon whom the re
sponsible task could have more appropri
ately devolved. The high position so long
sustained by our author, in the Religious
and Scientific world, as a learned Divine
and learned Naturalist, had long rendered
his views a matter of interest in the agita
tion of this question, on which much ex
citement, as well as idle and unprofitable
speculation, have been for some time past
awakened among us. In the pursuit of
his profession as a clergyman, Professor
Bachman, as he himself informs us in his
Preface, had felt himself constrained, by a
sense ot duty, to investigate those branch
es of Science which appeared to militate
against the truths of Christianity, and the
result of his researches served to confirm
his belief in the theory of the Unity of the
Human Race.
The question had been discussed at se
veral meetings of the Literary Club in this
city, and at the request of the members,
who participated in it, both those who
agreed with him in opinion, and others who,
though honestly differing, desired that the
public should become acquainted with the
arguments on both sides, the observations
and notes which had been prepared and
read before the Club by Dr. Bachman, were
submitted to the world in their present
form.
He commences by stating that the sub
ject is one of deep philosophical inquiry,
surrounded by difficulties, many of which
are beyond the reach of the human intel
lect to fathom. The privilege is readily
conceded to all men of Science, to pursue
their inquiries without reference to any
decisions which the Scriptures may be sup
posed to have already pronounced. He
admits the inferiority of the African race,
and their incapacity for self-government,
as distinctly taught by indelible stamps,
and by their whole past history. Differ
ences in certain physiological characteris
tics, as the formation of the skull, colour
of hair and complexion, indicate the exist
ence of many varieties of men. But the
general simplicity in structure and organi
zation, —the uniformity in their habits and
the improvement of the mental and moral
powers of which all are capable,—unite in
bearing evidence of the fact that they are
all one and the same species. The same
minor differences are found in all other an
imals. In classifying domestic, and even
some wiid animals, colour affords no dis
tinctive test of species. The creation of
the first human pair, was evidently the
miraculous work of God. For all separate
creations, a similar miracle was required.
The difference, therefore, in this respect,
between the views of the opponents and
advocates of the Unity', is that the former
require a separate miracle at the creation
of every distinct race of men, while the
latter urge that the power to produce new
varieties, was originally stamped in the
race already created. Man is not the only
creature thus constituted. It is a general
and universal law, applicable to all birds
and quadrupeds. It must be evident, from
the knowledge and experience of the world,
even without the teaehings of Scripture,
which give a detail of the manner in which
the races were preserved at the time of the
flood, that the Creator intended these races
to perpetuate themselves, without any re
sort to miraculous creations afterwards.
No single species of animal or plant has
been brought into existence by anew cre
ation, since the earth has been peopled by
its present inhababitarits. No new native
bird, animal or plant, that now exists in
* The Doctrine of the Unity of the Human
Knee, examined on the principles of Science; by
John Bachman, M. D., Urof. Natural History,
College of Charleston; Corresponding Member
of the Zoological Society, Honorary Member of
the Eutomol. Society, London: Corresponding
Member Royal Botanical Society, Saxony; Roy
al Society, St. Petersburgh; R. S. A., Copenha
gen; Academy Natural Sciences, Philadelphia;
New York Lyceum; N. H. Society, Boston, New
Haven and Toronto, National institute, Ameri
can Association, &c., &c.
our land, can be proved not to have existed
when our forefathers first took possession
of the country. If the varieties of men
exhibit essential differences in colour and
formation ot skulls, we find in the numer
ous instances cited in the work before us,
the same peculiarities exhibited in the
lower animals. And yet it is not pretended,
on this account, by any, that there are five,
ten, or a hundred species of common cows,
horses, or swine, the origins of which are
admitted by naturalists, to be from one
common stock.
The second ground on which the author
bases his theory, is the infertility of Hy
brid productions and their ultimate extinc
tion. No race of animals has ever sprung
from a commingling of two or more spe
cies. Yet all races of men, in every age
and country, produce prolific offspring, in
association with each other. The whole
range of the animal creation furnishes no
instance of anew race established and
perpetuated by hybrids, or of varieties,
the result of any intermixture of species.
On these two important points, the author
is especially’ clear and full in his examina
tions and comparisons, deducing evidence
upon evidence, drawn from his own exten
sive fund of daily experience, in a multi
tude of satisfactory experiments, and the
researches of the most distinguished na
turalists.
He then proceeds to show, that since,
from the rules which govern science, it is
evident that the creation of species is an
act of Divine power alone, that no race of
animals has ever sprung from a commin
gling of two or more species—while all the
races of mankind produce new varieties—
consequently the opponents of the theory
of the Unity have no othei rallying point
than that the same species have been cre
ated in different localities.
This conclusion the Professor shows to
be opposed to our experience in the opera
tion of those laws which the Great Archi
tect of the universe has observed in every
department of his creation. If God cre
ated a species in one place, endowed with
this power of perpetuation and furnished
with the means of extensive emigration,
“ where,” he asks, “ was the necessity of
creating the same species in those different
localities which their posterity might so
easily reach, without these additional cre
ations?” The planting of a species in one
locality, and of another of the same spe
cies as a distinct variety, of a different
colour, in another locality, is shown by the
same course of practical reasoning which
the author adopts throughout his inquiries,
to be opposed to all other operations in na
ture —far-fetched, visionary and unscien
tige. Arguing, from analogy, we are gra
dually brought through the same natural
train of thought, as before, to the irresisti
ble conclusion, that since no species of
bird, quadruped or reptile, insect or plant,
has been proved to have been created in
two or more localities, we have no warrant
whatever for the assumption that God
would create the same species of man in
fifty different localities, in violation of the
order of creation, and in opposition to our
knowledge of the nature of man's organi
zation, his capability of enduring the ex
tremes of heat and cold, and general'simi
larity of habits and form.
Would that we had time and space to
follow the learned author farther in a more
minute synopsis of his sound and well-di
gested treatise on this vitally interesting
topic. The already unwarrantable length
of this article admonishes us to hasten to
the concluding chapter, in which he sums
up the results of his inquiries.
Pursuing steadily, and uninterruptedly,
the object with which he first set out, and
bringing to his aid, under every branch of
the general subject, as promised, the lights
afforded by Science only, without regard
to historical traditions, the Professor cau
tiously abstains from any special reference
to Scriptural Chronology, until the last
point in the argument is at length fairly
reached, and a moral application may be
justly deducible. And here, in one of the
most chaste and beautiful perorations which
we have lately met with, in the summing
up of an argument, the testimony of that
highest of all earthly oracles is invoked,
and the remarkable coincidences between
its teachings and those of Nature unfolded
to our view. The creation of earth from
Chaos—the dawning of light at the divine
command—the history of successive cre
ations, from the lowest grade of animated
nature to the most perfect of all creatures,
Man himself—the progressive preparations
made in each stage of existence for the
supply of his physical wants—and, above
all, the provision for the elevation of his
moral, intellectual and spiritual condition
in that great promise of deliverance from
his fallen condition—which was afterwards
so strikingly fulfilled; the convulsion of
the deluge, and dispersion of mankind into
different tribes and languages, all originat
ing from one common source and progeni
tor. All these great events are shown to
be pourtrayed by the hand of Inspiration,
in strict accordance with the revelations of
Science, and the testimony of observation
and reason.
The views of Dr. Bachman are support
ed by quotations, in the Appendix, from
Humboldt, Prichard, Darwin, Pickering,
and a host of authorities of the same lofty
stamp.
The greatest naturalists, in all ages,
whatever views they may have entertained
in reference to the doctrines of Christianity,
regarded all races of men as composed of
one species. The names of Linnaeus,
Liebnitz, Buffon. Schreber, Erxleben, Hum
boldt, Blumenbach, Cuvier and Owen,
whose studies embraced every department
of nature, furnish a formidable collection
high authorities, on a subject requiring
such minute knowledge of the structure
and history of the animal and vegetable
kingdom, in all their bearings and mutual
relations. To such as these, we have op
posed; the absurd theory of La Mark, that
the human race is derived from the mon
key, the French school of skeptics, with
Voltaire at the head, whose avowed object
was not so much to establish the truths of
science as to invalidate the Scriptures, and
according to whose unscientific and loose
notions, not only the African, but the Al
bino also, were distinct species of men.
And their philosophy, to a certain extent,
pervades the speculations of modern writ
ers, the tendency of whose doctrines is in
evitably towards the dangerous conclusion,
that men must have existed before the days
of Adam, and consequently that the long
received Christian Chronology is not to be
relied upon. There are a few points of in
tricacy in the discussion, upon which opin
ions are ventured in the Essay before us,
which undoubtedly clash with the deliber
ately expressed convictions of many of our
own men of science, who have, perhaps,
been as conscientiously led to the adoption
of contrary views, through the same me
dium of reckonimr, and on which few are
sufficiently deep in Science to intermeddle.
But these do not materially affect the gen
eral soundness of the argument.
We feel confident that the circulation of
this much needed work, will effect the most
salutary results for the interests of Science
and Christianity, and that the gifted and
esteemed author has now capped the climax
of a series of invaluable services for the
advancement of both, in thus reconciling
their apparently conflicting claims, and by
the influence of his opinions, contributing
to place some check upon that spirit of
cavil and false philosophy, and even infi
delity, which so strikingly marks the logic
of a majority of the opponents of his the
ory. Had the present Essay been hisonly
contribution to the literature of the day, it
would in itself constitute a sufficient re
ward of the most honorable ambition, and
the highest glory of a long life of useful
labours in the cause of Learning and Reli
gion. H.
Charleston, S. C.
BLAKE’S ARTIFICIAL SLATE.
We invite attention to the advertisement
ot Messrs. Ellis bi Gray, who are the
agents for this valuable paint in the city.
We have tested its water-proof virtues, and
can therefore speak knowingly upon the
subject. The roof of our office has been
covered with it, and it has been found a
complete protection against the numerous
heavy rains which have fallen since its
application. We extract the following
from the Farmer and Mechanic of New
York :
A paragraph in the last number of the
Farmer and Mechanic, asking for informa
tion in regard to this valuable article, in
duces me to state the result of my own ex
periments with it I have used it on tin,
wood, iron, canvass and brick, and find it
exceedingly well adapted to either. For
tin roofing it works exceedingly well, be
coming in 24 hours sufficiently set to resist
storms, and continues to indurate for seve
ral months, until it becomes a perfect stone
coating, apparently sufficient, when three
good coats are applied, to endure for half
a century. Applied to wood covering,
whether on the roof or sides of buildings,
it is equally valuable. It sets as soon as
ordinary lead paint, and as when used on
tin, continues to harden gradually until it
becomes gradually indurated or like slate.
In this state a quantity of glowing anthra
cite coal, or a small charcoal fire kindled
on the surface of the wood thus painted,
has no effect other than to char the wood
underneath, without decomposing or remov
ing the paint. Anything like cinders or
burningmaterialsdriven through'the airand
falling on wood thus covered xvilh the
paint, would fail to ignite the wood at
all. For canvass or burlap roofs or oth
er covering it requires three coats, and
forms a perfect protection from the ele
ments, and is apparently as durable as
metal. To iron it seems to adhere with
great tenacity, and forms a perfect incorro
sive surface, protecting it from all the ef
fects of exposure to the atmosphere. For
brick or stucco work this paint seems to be
invaluable, as two or three coals of it, on
the surface completely precludes moisture
and obviates the great evil attendant on
brick dwellings, arising from the absorp
tion and retention of moisture from the out
side. In short I have tested its qualities
in a most thorough manner and have full
confidence in the extraordinary properties
claimed for it by the proprietor.
CAST IRON HOUSES.
Anew style of building has been intro
duced during the past year, and although
attention has been drawn to it before in our
columns, yet its growing importance seems
to warrant our chronicling its progress. —
The United States Government, through its
agent. Mr. Perit ordered some time since,a
new Custom House and public buildings
for San Francisco of cast iron, and by the
last accounts we learn that one of them is
already there and up. The War Depart
ment, we are informed, has concluded to
adopt this kind of building for arsenalsand
other uses. In this city, besides those al
ready’ noticed by us, there is a building
now going up in the rear of ihe Astor
House.
They consist of a cast iron frame, the
sills of which are cast in sections of about
five feet in length, and fastened together by
screws and bolts. On each of these joints
stand cast iron pillars, which are firmly
fastened to each end of the joined sills, thus
rendering the whole perfectly compact. —
These pillars again support another row of
cast iron sills, and, on these again stand
another row of pillars. The strength of
the whole building depends upon this skel
eton, which is so tenacious that if all the
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