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lier feeling’? very much. But I could in no
xvay persuade her to unfold the secret to me. <
Our conversation finally turned on love, true
and fickle, firm and inconstant, short lived
and lasting, and at die very time, when both of
our feelings became deeply interested, aud
intently engaged, a tap at the door thrilled
home the unwelcome intelligence that a visiter
had arrived.
“A beaux,” said I, “it is time I had gone.
*• Sit down,” she replied, “it is no body but
the old bachelor, Mr. D ; I know him by
liis tap.”
“ Ah, the wealthy gentleman who loves you
so much. I have heard of him before.
By this time, Mr. D had managed to
get safely into the parlor, though he seemed
confused and lowed, and lowed for some time.
Miss R .equally discdmfrtted, almost for.
got inv name in passing the introduction, but
stbc very politely asked him to be seated, which
lie did without’further hesitation. But there
was a long interval of silence succeeding his
(debut, during which time he seemed to scan
me from head to foot with his keen hawk eye.
Nor was I sitting idle all the while, or una
mused in my occupation. Apart from an oc
casional glance at R , and a hasty curl of
the lip into a smile, which I caught from her,
I was noticing the general contour cf my rival,
casting problems, making deductions, and rea
soning from cause to effect. I knew as to
money he was vastly my superior, but then
old Time had furrowed his brow, and snowed
upon his head, and though rather fine looking
than otherwise, his features were not moulded
into that regular form which 1 admired. In
fact, he had too much of the unrefined rough
ness of the sca-captain about him. I was not,
however, drawing these deductions so much
with the intention of ever making suit myself,
but being interested for my friend, I naturally
felt deeply concerned in relation to her future
well being, with the man of her choice. Nor
could I brook the idea, that so favored an
individual should be altogether unworthy her
hand, and incapable of appreciating lier talents
and reciprocating her affection.
An uninteresting conversation finally suc
ceeded the awkward silence which had been
reigning for so long a time. The spell which
had bound me to the spot for some hours,
having been broken by tlie unhappy aggres
sion of a stranger, I could no longer enjoy
myself, and as soon as practicable, procured
my hat,and bade them “good evening.” Not,
however, until R had hastily scribbled on
a blank leaf of her album, with her pencil,
“Call to-morrow evening a G o’clock.” A
very early hour for visiting, thought I, as I
walked homeward, but perhaps it is all for the
purpose of securing as much of my company
as possible, before the arrival of any other
gentleman. Thus is that' busy little boy of
the arrows ever engaged in filling the heads j
of his victims with the deceitful vagaries of a
false hope, until he gets them completely in his
grasp, and then leaves them to perish in their
own folly, or writhe beneath the untold agonies
of a hope deferred. Though for fear the read
er still suspects me of being in love, I must
again declare to the reverse, however much
circumstances may seem to be against me.
Tie proof of this declaration, however, it is
expected, will be more clearly established in
the sequel of this history.
[to be continued.]
For the Southern Post.
TO ELIZA.
J love to hear the mock bird sing
Its lively, sweet, enchanting noise,
Upon some lovely morn in spring,
To sing of past and fading joys.
I love to see dew on the flowers,
And sport along some forest path ;
And then in winter’s weary hours,
To warm by my own lonely hearth.
I love the many colored dreams,
That fancy fondly weaves for youth,
When all the bright allusion seems
The pictured promises of truth.
I love to view the fitful light,
And its faint flashes round the room,
And think some pleasures feebly bright,
May lighten thus life’s wearied gloom.
I love the quiet midnight hour,
When care, and hope, and passion sleep;
When reason, with untroubled power,
Can her late vigils duly keep.
I love to see the gushing rills
Bound over rocks, both fast and free,
And brightly leaping down the hills,
Rush swiftly on to meet the sea.
I love the violet in the dell,
Where wild rose gives a chequered shade,
And listen to the city bell
So sweet by answering echoes made.
I love the language of the flowers,
And love to hear them faintly grieve,
When crimsoning to the eye of morn,
Or falling drooping to the eve.
But, oh! I love Eliza’s cheek,
Which shames the bright, the morning skies;
A diamond’s light is not more bright,
Than are her sparkling, youthful eyes.
• For, oh! Eliza, she is fair, %
And never owned an evil thought,
Her modest looks, attractive air,
By me can never be forgot.
MUZA-
Communicated.
Mr. Editor: —l am occasionally harrassed
by fits of despondency arising from, perhaps,
an unnecessary habit of gloomy anticipations.
In one of these momentary indulgences of such
feeling, I wrote the following letter to a female
cousin; I received the reply which succeeds
it—and which may be of interest and benifit to
some of your readers.
My dear Cousin : You ask me to write in
full about myself and prospects, and insist that
I should be free and open as if I addressed a
a sister. Such warmth and disinterestedness
ot feeling shall be duly appreciated, and so
long as the noble emotion of pure friendship
beats in this bosom, will I recollect with the
fondest gratitude the interest you have so de
votedly manifested in my behalf. In truth,
dear cousin, I have long since discerned a simi
larity of taste and a congeniality of disposi
tion about u«, that seems to me should unite
us by cords of no ordinary attachment. And
what is so cheering in its nature, so placid in
its effects upon the mind, and so elevating in
its character upon the whole man, as this dear,
familiar intercourse of friends—when, too,
that intercourse is unrestricted by the heartless
ness of interest, or the hollow professions of
sychophancy ? when it is but the spontaneous
homage of mutual minds to the spirit of friend
ship, the outbreaking of servant and benevo
lent hearts towards each other as the gentle
current of their souls fall and mingle together
as they course along over the seared and trav
elled highways of human life ****** *
But I must not digress:
You arc too well informed of the fact that I
have commenced the world without the patron
age of friends, or the influence of wealth.
And that I have undertaken a profession that
requires nearly all the efficacy combined in
both to insure success. In truth, to attain su
perior excellence in it, requires not only the aid
brought by troops of friends and the golden
key to modern hearts, but above all, it calls for
native energy of talent, and an industry which
Sysiphus himself would have deemed trouble
some.
With all this to combat, what is to lie my
fate ? “ Shadows and clouds and darkness,
even now rest upon itand at times I feel al
most overwhelmed by the obstacles that rise
up before me like dark and overshadowing
mountains which seem to frown upon all mv
efforts, and awe me ftom the attempt to suc
ceed. In truth lam almost ready to despair.
Illboding reflections occasionally flit across my
mind, parching and withering lip almost the
never-failing fountain of Hope herself.
There are times too, when I fear that I shall
be unable to support this settled Cimmerian
gloom, which hovers over the feelings, and
spreads its black vulture-like wings like a death
pall over the whole heart.
If you knew how every chord of sensibility
was wrung in me, how the deep dread ot hopes
broken, prospects destroyed, and all the unut
crable and anguished pains arising from the
dread of not being successful in the dearest
wish of my heart, a success in my profession,
you would weep with me as a brother, & pour
out from the hidden sources of sympathy, that
balm which congenial minds alone know how
to apply. Alas! how unbending must that
man be, of what high resolve, of what indom
itable perseverance, of what indubitable mor
al character, who reaches the summit of his
highest aspirations ! Can I who am unblessed
with all these platonic virtues, hope to ascend
such a rugged steep, fettered by such restric
tions, and even my native ardor of intellect
cramped by a want of early application to
study, and an enlarged, comprehensive range
into those great fundamental authors, from
whose pages are garnered the wisdom which
can alone bestow upon us the seeds of true
greatness.
Write to me, my first and earliest friend,
and at feast scatter some flowers over the
thorny path of him destined by fate to drag
out a lonely existence in the pursuit and acqui
sition of professional knowledge—
While I remain as ever, your affectionate
cousin, FRANK MORTIMER.
The Reply.
Dear Frank :—ls it then true, that all I
have heard in relation *0 the recent melancho
ly change which has come like a dream over
your character, and created anew being to
the once gay and buoyant Frank Mortimer?
I cannot believe it—you are not wont to such
chamelion changes. Effeminate as lam in
nature and in my conceptions of real charac
ter, I had hitherto supposed you a youth of
more stability in disposition, and more resolu
tion in purpose. And still, I know that one of
such deep and fine drawn sensibility, will vi
brate to the slightest touch of despondency,
and conjure up in the imagination a thousand
anticipations that tend to hang like murdering
Cossacks upon your journey in the pursuit of
intellectual improvement and professional at
tainments. Form then, the great energies of
your soul into a hollow square and march stead
fastly on, with a bold and daring front, and
these marauding thoughts will vanish at your
firmness, like the flying Parthians before the
stern courage of a Roman legion.
Despondency has often clouded the virgin
hopes of the brightest genius. These repin
ings at our present condition, these fantasies
of the imagination, often break upon the mind,
harrow up the better feelings of our nature, &
throw a shade of twilight over our whole exis
tence. But we must not permit the operation
of such causes. “By degrees the reign of
fancy will be more confirmed. She grows first
imperious, and in time despotic. Then fic
tions begin to operate as realities, false opin
ions fasten upon the mind, and life passes off
in dreams, either of rapture or of anguish”—
it more frequently happens to be the latter.
Thus the unfortunate Chatterton whose pro
ductions came forth from the live altar of gen
ius in childlike inspiration, committed suicido
while in a state of mind bordering on this < e o
lateness of feeling. He had not reached his
twentieth year! But with the ardor of a young
eagle he longed to soar unfettered into the wild
regions of Romance, Philosophy and Learn
ing; yet his immature wing refused to support
h : m, and he sunk back and exp : red in the ef
fort. He wanted patience, and a restraint up
on that overpowering emotion of the mind
called Ambition. Ilad he waited for full
growth, until body and mind were fully matur
cscent, he would have bounded offi on his flight
with a strength that would never have failed,
and a store of information that could never
have been exhausted.
You complain that you come forward un
encouraged by patronage and unsupported by
affluence, and avow this to a frail girl like my
self ! s
Thus have the sons of genius ever come
forward. Cast your eyes back to that ioug
list of illustrious men who have adorned eve
ry age, and spangled the intellectual firmament
of every civilized country! and tell me, did
they boast of lofty lineage or smile over hoard
ed thousands ? No ! from the manger which
first cradled the young form and infant slumb
ers of the Living God, to the barren Corsica,
from whose sterility burst forth the gorgeous
star of Napoleon, you will find true greatness
ever humble in its origin, and desolate in its
hopes.
The sons of the proud and the affluent arc
ushered into life with the pageantry of wealth,
and the inviduous gratulationsof sychophants.
They glitter in society for a while, receive the
time-serving attentions of fawning mercena
ries, the adulations of the selfish and interest
ed, and then sink
“ To the vile dust from whence they sprung
Unwept, unhonored and unsung.”
Not so with the young man unsheltered by
such adventitious circumstances. He enters
society and receives no encouragement —he
toils up the arduous pathway of his profession
and not 3 smile cheers iiim 011 in his desolaes
pilgrimage —he mingles amid the heartless
“ parasites of present cheer” anti finds those
infinitely his inferiors in every great and good
qualification, elevated above him—he steps tor
ward
“ Where the God-like mind is trampled down
By the callous sneer and the freezing frown,”
and is almost ready to retire with mortification
from the arena where every prize is awarded
either by fear or favor !
But it is amid such trials as these, that true
Genius towers up in spite of neglect and con
tumely and reproach. She throws down the
gauntlet, and Competition shrinks abashed
from her approach—she breaths out her defi
ance and Envy quails beneath the majesty of
her frown. 111 truth, genius and industry nev
er h as, nor never will be trampled down.
The mantle of Elijah falls upon her sons,
and the prophet’s fire kindling in brightness as
the gloom blackens before them, will rise up as
a beacon light before whose dazzling brillian
cy Science and Religion, Empires and enthron
ed Monarchs, might fall down and worship.
Then my dear cousin, despair not; hold on,
look upwards and onwards, and you will at
length grasp a diadem worthy to glitter upon
thefheads of princes.
Time is sure to accomplish your object, and
when it does come, you may look back upon
the gloom and disappointment of the present,
with the melancholly pleasure of the war
worn veteran upon the carnage and sufferings
which preceded the triumph of his victories.
Write more frequently—cheer up. and be
lieve me your devoted cousin
’ CAROLINE FITZGERALD.
For the Southern Post.
Can you, will you, tell the way—
Come ! lovely little lady, say ?
Oh! tell us how we must begin
To gain the girl, we long to win;
Tell us, if at her feet we kneel—
Own all the tender pangs we fell—
Now tell us—would her heart be steel ?
I.
EXTRACT.
It is a bountiful creation—and bounty de
mands acknowlegement; but its very silence,
as to all demands upon our gratitude, seems to
me more atfecting than any articulate voice of
exhonoration. If ‘cloven tongues of fire ’ sat
upon every bush and forest bough ; if audible
voices were borne on every breeze, saying,
‘ Give thanks! give thanks !’ however startling
at first, it would not be so powerful, it would
not be so eloquent, as the deep and unobtru
sive silence of nature. The revolving seasons
encircle us with their blessings ; the fruits of
the earth successively and silently spring from
its bosom, and as silently moulder back again
to prepare for new supplies; day and night
return; the ‘soft and stealing hours roll on,’
mighty changes and revolutions are passing in
the abysses of the earth and the throned bights
of the firmament; mighty worlds and systems
are borne with speed almost like that of light,
through the infinitude of space ; but all is or
der, harmony, and silence. What histories
could they relate of infinite goodness, hut they
proclaim it not! What calls to grateful de
votion are there in earth and heaven, but they
speak it not! No messenger stands upon the
w atch towers of creation, on hill or mountain,
saying, like the Moslem priests from the mina
rets of their temples, ‘To prayer! to prayer !’
I am sometimes tempted to wish there were,
or to wonder there are not. But so it is;
there is no audible voice nor speech. And for
this cause, and for other causes, how many of
heaven’s blessings escape our notice. In how
many ways is the hand of heaven stretched out
to us, and yet unseen: in how many places
does it secretly deposite its benefactions ! It
is as if a friend had come with soft and gentle
step to the dwelling of our want, or to the
abode of our sickness, and laid down his gift,
and silently turned away. And during half
of our lives the night draws her veil of dark
ness over the mysterious path of Heaven’s
care; and yet those paths are filled with min-
istering angels that wait about our defenceless
pillow, and keep their watch by the couch of
their repose. Yes, in night and darkness, and
untrodden solitudes, what histories of God’s
mercy are ! But they are not written in hu
man language; they are not proclaimed by
mortal tongue. The dews of heavenly benefi
cence silently descend ; its ocean rolls in its
dark caverns; the recesses of the wilderness
are thronged with insects, and beasts, and
birds, that utter no sound in the ear of man.
Dewey’s Theology of Nature.
BROTHERS AND SISTERS.
Brothers and sisters should never envy each
other. It might he supposed that envy would
have no place in hearts so closely united ; but
even among children of one family it often
springs up and produces the most bitter effect.
The idea that one receives more of a parent’s
favor than the rest, or is more noticed by the
world, has sometimes kindled an envy that has
destroyed all the attachments and sweets of do
mestic life. llow dreadful were the effects of
of this evil passion in the family of Jncob !
llow did it root out every kind of feeling from
the breasts of Joseph’s brethren, and prepare
them for the blackest deeds ! —O guard against
this sin, which like the serpent in Eden, will,
if you yield to its temptations, destroy your in
nocence and peace.
Brothers and sisters should tenderly sym
pathize with each other in affliction. If we are
bound to show pity to a stranger’s sorrow, how
much more to those of our nearest kindred.
How soothing to a sufferer are the ministerings
of a sister, or the tender accents of a brother’s
voice. Extend this consolation whenever you
are called in the providence of God to do it ;
especially if you have a brother visited with
sickness, let not kind attention be withheld
that it is in your power to afford.
MISTAKEN VIEWS OF RELIGION.
Religion, which is the greatest subject that
can engage the attention of man, should be
clothed with no garb of sadness. It is like
the sun ; and to cloud it, dims its lustre. On
this subject, the Christian Register very prop
erly says :
One cause which impedes the reception of
religion, even among the well disposed, is the
garment of sadness, in which the people de
light to suppose her dressed, and that life of
hard austerity, and pinning abstinence, which
they pretend she enjoins upon her disciples.
' And it were well, if this were only the misrep
; resentation of her declared enemies;—but,
j unhappily, it is the too frequent misconcep
\ tion ol her injudicious friends. But, such an
i overchanged picture is not more unaimable
1 than it is unlike ; —for I will venture to affirm,
that religion, with all her beautiful and becom
ing sanctity, imposes fewer sacrifices, not on
ly of rational, but of pleasurable enjoyments,
than the uncontrolled dominion of any one
vice. Her service is not only perfect safety,
but perfect freedom. She is not so tyranizing
as passion, so exacting as the world, nor so
despotic as fashion. Does religion forbid the
cheerful enjoyments of life as rigorously as
avarice forbids them ? Does she require such
sacrifices of our ease as ambition ? Does de
votion murder sleep like dissipation ? Does
she destroy health like intemperance? Does
she annihilate fortune like gambling ? embitter
life like discord ? or shorten it like duelling ?
Does religion impose more vigilance than sus
picion ; or half as many mortifications as van
ity ? Vico has her martyrs, and the most aus
tere and self denying Ascetic (who mistakes
the genius of Christianity, almost as much as
her enemies,) never tormented himself with
such cruel and causeless severity, as that with
which envy lacerates her unhappy votaries.
Worldly honor obliges us to be to the trouble
of resenting injuries, but religion spares us that
inconvenience by commanding us to forgive
them; and by this injunction consults our
happiness no less than our virtue, for the tor
ment of constantly hating any one, must lie,
at least equal to the sin of it. If this estimate
be fairly made, then is the balance clearly on
the side of religion, even in the article of plea
sure.
NEW PRINTING MACHINE.
Mr. Thomas Trench, of Ithaca, New York,
is constructing his patent Printing Press at
the Speedwell Works near Morristown. The
Jerseyman mentions that it is to lie attached
to one of the Paper Mills in the place, and
describes it as follows:
“The press takes the paper immediately
from the paper machine, prints it on both si t
and passes it through drying cylinders, *£’
presses it smooth; thus in oj>eration j
within the space of three minutes, the p„i •
taken from the mill, and a book of 350 Vu**
is ready for the binder. The paper is pr£
in one continuous sheet, thus a whole edit!?
can readily be printed, rolled up and sent
distance. Mr. Trench had on his n
“Cobb’s Juvenile Reader,” of 216 paguw
which he presented us a sheet of about 7u
neatly printed. _ >
“ this new printing machine will cause
complete revolution in the art of printing.
greatly diminish the price of standard \vork s
Hereafter, we suspect, orders will be given f'
bibles, spelling books, &c. &c. by the tn jL
instead of the volume, as in former time
be that as it may, a sheet of five miles 1
length can be made with nearly the same ea l
as one of fifty ora hundred feet.”
ARTIFICIAL RUBIES AND EMERALDS.
We learn from a recent letter of Dr. Cooper
published in the Columbia Telescape , that at his
suggestion, Dr. Ellett, Professor of
in the South-Carolina College, has
with great promise of success, the experiment
of a French chemist,for the production of artiti
cial rubies and emeralds, by means of pur l
alumine acted on by the compound blow pipe
with chrome as the coloring matter. Perfect
rubies were produced, by Professor Ellett
which easily scratched an agate seal. The
basis was pure alumine, and the coloring mat
ter lichromat of potash. If the specimen be
taken as soon as fused, it is a ruby ; if the heat
be continued, the chromic acid is converted into
oxyde of chrome, and an emerald is the result
The specimens were of fine color,
and the experiment unobjectionable and sat.
isfactory.
After this, we scarcely despair of the pro.
duction of artificial gold—and an abundant
of shiners to fill the vaults and safes of the Sub.
Ureas ui ;es. C fmriewt» m Corner.
N. H. BANNISTER, ESQ.
This gentleman is remarkable for his pro
lific fieri. We heard a wag say that lie once
wrote a five act play while making a trip from
this city to Mobile in a steamboat, and that
the rapidity with which scene after scene flew
from his pen, was only equalled by the fly*
wheel in its revolutions. The Philadelphia
Ledger, on this subject, has the following:
‘Ofr. Bannister, in the number and variety
of his productions, bids fair to rival the cele
brated Lope de Vega, the Spanish play writer.”
Lope de Viga lived eotemporancously with
Cervantes, the author of Don Quixotte. That
our readers may see the task which lies be.
fore friend Bannister* we will state what was
accomplished by the man whom, it seems, be
is destined to rival Montalvan, who was an in
timate fri«nd of Mr. B’s prototype, states that
“ Lope de Vega furnished the theatre with
eight hundred regular plays, and four hundred
autos or religious dramas— all acted." Be
sides these, he left a great mass of MSS., to
getlier with twenty-one million three hundred
thousand verses in print. These things may
appear incredible; but the productions still
exist in proof of the assertion. See N. A. Re
view, No. XCVI. Art. I.
We have only to say—Go ahead, Bannister!
You have a long race to run before you over,
take the Spanish nag. It will require all your
speed and bottom. Nothing like perseverance,
however. Picayune.
For the Southern Po£
EVENING CLOUDS.
I love to gaze on those bright clouds,
Which float so: fairy-like in heaven,
As gathering round the sun in crowds,
They shine along the west at even.
My fancy tells me they may be,
More than the dewy mists of night,
Which rising upward from the sea,
Descends again at dawn of light.
Or more than simple clouds of rain,
Whore all their dewy drops are made.
From ocean drawn to fall again,
On mountain top and everglade.
Methinks they are like little boats,
Which range that bright and airy sea,
And on the tempest’s bosom floats
Around the world so merrily.
Or when the storms are hushed to sleep.
And all is calm along the heaven—
The zephyrs row them through the deep,
That hangs above the west at even.
I love to see their colours change,
By some wild magic spell unknown,
As through the boundless world they range,
In little groups, or all alone.
For then, they look like earthly scenes,
Which fade at almost every breath,
Till life’s wild vagaries and dreams,
Are lost in the long sleep of death.
E. M. P.
For the Southern Boat
No ! gaze not on that maiden’s eye,
Or heed the lustre of its ray—
Turn from the rosy blush and fly—
Love not the ruby lip—away :
Escape—her bosom’s gentle swell,
Hath gift to weave a magic spell—
Stay not to hear the syren sing,
Else sainted tones around thee cling—
Haste! her beauty hath the power,
To haunt thee to thy dving hour. „ ,
■ * ■ U-C.J