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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