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features decidedly handsome; ot a manly cast
of beauty ; and their general expression de
noting a haughty firmness of mind, softened
only by a bewitching smile, that seemed to
play perpetually round his mouth. In his
gait he was erect, carrying his head far back,
and stepping along with a bounding, elastic
tread, as if tiie earth yielded to its pressure,
but returned again, w’ith force, to give it a
more vigorous spring.
Such a rover, unbonneted. unattended,
wandering tlte highways, like a denizen of their
vagrant liberties, could not be expected to pass
along and rouse no wonder ; and fortunately
for him, he roused something more than won
der, in oie who saw him. He came to a
small village, after a walk of nearly fifteen
miles, so faint with hunger, that further he
felt he could not go, and set down u|>on a
large stone, which seemed the tragment ol
some ancient cross, just at the entrance of it.
He had wholly forgt’itton tlte singularity of ins
appearance, till it was recalled to his recollec
tion by observing a group of children gazing
at him from behind a barn-door, and by noticing
the blacksmith, who had left his forge, and now
stood midway between it and the footpath,
with a horse shot;, half red hot, in his pincers ;
the said horse-shoe therein not at all resembling
the blacken.ith’s curiosity, which was at a
white heat, to make out Charles, and his
business. Charles beckoned him to approach.
He advanced with a lazy, loitering step, as if
he wanted a little more time for observation at
a distance. • .
‘ls it possible to get employment in this
place?’ was his first question.
4 Yes, possible enough, I take it, for we have
plenty of idle poor here, who will rather starve
than work.’ f
4 1 would work that I may not starve, re-
plied Charles.
• Aye,’ responded the blacksmith, looking at
him with a dubious eye, as though ha thought
he tffcs likely enough to starve, notwithstand
ing, if he had nothing but his work to trust to
for a dinner.
‘1 have been robbed on the road, continued
Charles.
‘ Indeed ! as how V interrupted the Cyclops.
• While 1 slept.’
• While you slept ? Why, that’s a bad
look-out, young fellow ; but you might expect
as much, 1 think, in these parts, if you make
the highways your bed ; for we find enough to
do to keep ourselves from being robbed with
our eyes open.’
‘ I am pennyless and in want of foot!,’ added
Charles; ‘ but,’ fixing his eyes earnestly on the
man, 1 seek no charity—whatever hai.d sup.
plies my necessities shall be repaid by my la.
bour.
4 1 dare say it’s all very true what you say :
however, as you are a stranger to me, you II
not take it amiss if I don’t interfere.’
With these wor Is the blacksmith hastened
back to his forge, and began to ply bis anvil
with redoubled diligence. Charles covered
his face with his hands, and felt at th ;, t mo
ment more anguish of mind than lie had ever
known. He remained in this attitude, bitter
forebodings crowding fast upon him, until he
was roused from it by a soft female voice.
4 Young man! If you please, my mistress
wants to speak with you.’
He looked up. A rosy-cheeked lass, with
dove-like eyes, in a mob cap. black stuff-gown,
and a white apron, tucked up sideways, stood
before him.
4 And who is your mistress, pretty one?’
said Charles, with that indiscribable smile of
his, for there was a somethiug in the girl’s
manners and appearance which operated like
a charm— 4 Who is your mistress, and where
does she live V
4 Over the way, if you please, sir. Her name
is Mrs. Saville.’
4 1 don’t know her, my dear,’ replied
Charles.
4 1 know that sir,’ and a sort of awkward
blush diffused itself over her countenance,
called there as much bv the strange meaning
of Charles’s gaze, as by his flattering epithets
of 4 dear,’ and 4 pretty one.’
4 Are you sure you are right ?’ he con
tinued.
‘Quite sure, sir,’ she replied ; 4 mv mistress
said, 4 Mary, do you see that |>oor young man
sitting there ?—he seems ill—go and tell him
I want to speak with him.’—So I have come
to tell you.’ I
The innocence and simplicity of this mode
of authenticating her embassy left no doubt
upon Charles mind, that Mrs. Saville whoever
she might be, did 4 want to speak with him;
and he followed his conductress to a large,
old-fashioned, but substantially built mansion,
which stood back twelve or fifteen yards from
tiie public road. He was ushered into a spa
cious parlour, solidly rather than elegantly
furnished, where he found Mrs. Saville. She
was considerably advanced in years, somewhat
below the middle height, with flaxen hair, and
a remarkably pale, but delicately transparent
comp'exion. Her air was’ courteous and re
fined, and bespoke the gentlewoman of the old
school. Tliere was a clear silvery tone in her
voice, coupled with a certain emphatic pre
cision in her mode of talking, and a quiet ease
in her stately unembarrassed manner, which
forcibly reminded Charles of his own beloved
mother; nor was this impression weakened
by a peculiar character of benignity and good
ness which dwslt upon her still interesting
countenance.
Benevolence and pity, when they are of the
right quality, (equally remote from the parade
of doing good, and the impertinence of worth
less curiosity,) perfotm their task with a gen
tle impatience to hasten relief, by sparing the
unfortunate every anxious feeling of sus;>cnse.
Mrs. Saville, in’a few kind words, informed
Charles of her motive in sending for him. He
was touched to the very heart. It seemed ns
if the years of his infancy and boyhood had
returned ; for, never since those ycurs, never
since his motlier’s death, had the voice of man
or woman readied his lieart. It seemed, too,
as if here were a being tiie lieart might trust;
one who would not fling njion its breathings
the churlish spirit of a selfish world, nor inter,
pret its desires by the cold cunning of sordid
calculation ; one whom even he, with all Ins
proud scorn of unrequitted benefits, could lie
content to call and feel his benefactor. He
related what had befallen him on the road,
and how it Iwd hence elmnced that lie wa* in
his present plireht. But tins wa» only luilf the'
tale ; his expressive features, his natural grace,
and the simple eloquence of ingenuous truth,
told for him, while, as he partook of refresh
ments he so much needed, Mrs. Mrs. baville
extra.-ted in detail the 4 story of his life.’
4 You have spoken much of your mother,’
said Mrs. Saville ; 4 but nothing of your fa
ther.’
4 1 never knew him; he died when I was in
my cradle.’,
4 That was a sad mischance.’
4 My motlier fell it so,’ replaxl Ch vrles; 4 for
as often as she talked to me of him, it was with
a grief as fresh as when lie died.’
4 Then vou know the manner of his death ?’
observed Mrs. Saville.
In answer to this question, Chailcs related
all tiie circumstances of that event, as he had
heard them from his mother. Mrs, Saville
appeared greatly interested with the narrative;
for it partook of that deep-toned with which
it was ever invested by her from whose lips
alone he had listened to its recital.
4 1 do think,’ said she, when he had conclu
ded, 4 it were a thousand pities you should not
have a friend at this critical moment of your
life.’
4 It is a wide world, madam replied Charles,
thoughtfully, 4 and tliere are paths enough for
all who are in it: sooner or later, I shall find
my way into one of them.
4 So I doubt not you will,’ answered Mrs.
Saville; ‘but it is because the world is wide,
because there are many paths, and because of
those many there be some that are very bad,
that they who are entering upon it. and have
their path to chflose, stand in need of those
who have gone before them to direct their
steps.’
4 1 have lieen the child of misfortune hitherto
by decree,’ said Charles ; ‘henceforth I elect
myself the child of fortune by choice, and
bind myself upon her wheel, the seeker of ull
giddy turns.’
His features brighted, and a bold daring
flashed from bis eyes, as the still fascinating
vision of a troubled destiny dimly floated before
his fancy.
4 1 will not seek to turn you from your
cfioice,’ continued Mrs. Saville, with the same
unperturbed and mild tone of-expostulation she
had all along maintained; ‘I would only ask
to be permitted to give myself one of those
turns of fortune’s wheel, of which you are so
enamoured.’
Charles was silent.
4 Come young man,’ added Mrs. Saville, 4 let
me have power to persude you, there is an
over-ruling Provident e that guides (and to
fulfil itsown inscrutable purposes) all the seem
ing chances of this life. Compare (air jour
ney through it, from the time when we com
mence it alone, to a traveller having to cross a
broad and rapid river, by the aid of stepping
stones, placed at irregular, and sometimes
hazardous, distances You are that traveller;
you have arrived at the margin of this river ;
you are considering how you shall cross it
let me place your foot on the first of these
stepping-stones. How you are to reach the
next, and the next, and the next, and whether
you are to find them many or few, that so your
passage shall be easy or difficult, nor you nor
I can tell; but Fortune, your chosen goddess,
offers you the first-'
This unex| ected and irresistible appeal,
urged with such singular adroitness and delica
cy, urged, too. in tones, and with a persuasive
gentleness, that stranply recalled thrilling re
membranes of his mothei, overpowered the
feelings of Charles. A thousand emotions
struggling for utterance ; but all he could say
or rather attempt to say, was a stammering
acknowledgment of gratitude, without accept
ing or refusing the kindness that excited it.
‘Your agitation,’ continued Mrs. Saville,
after a short pause, ‘convinces me I have
struck thcchojil whose vibrations are in unison
with my desires. 1 take your answer from
the unerring oracle of awakened feelings which
have no words, but express themselves in the
trembling language of the eye, Or the burning
of the flushed cheek. You are my guest to
day. To-morrow, you shall depart upon an
errand that I dare promise myself will not dis
appoint mine or your hopes. Remain here,’
she added, rising from her chair, 4 1 will re
turn directly.’ With these words she left the
room.
Before Charles could recoVer from the spell
like trance into which this address had thrown
him, Mrs. Saville re-entered the apartment,
with an open letter in her hand.
4 1 feel assured,’ said she, 4 1 am only fulfill,
ing an appointed duty in what 1 have done,
for these things are not the work of chance.
This is a letter to my brother. He is an ex
cellent man, and has the power, where h&secxt
the propriety, of befriending the friendless.
If he take you by the hand, it must be your
own fault should you not adequately benefit by
the introduction. You shall hear what I have
said, that you may know precisely the cir
cumstances under which you will present your,
self to him.'
Mrs. Saville then read the letter. It was
little more then a statement of the manner in
which she had become acquainted with Charles
and his history, and a simple, but earnest en
treaty. that lie would endeavour tc complete
what she had begun.
4 Now,’ continued Mrs. Saville, 4 you shall
depart with this early to-morrow. If you are
at the first mile-stone, beyond the turnpike
where the two roads meet a little before five
o’clock, the stage will pass in which you may
proceed to London.’
4 1 am utterly unable, madam’—exclaimed
Charles, with an agitated voice
4 Spare yourself and me,’ interrupted Mrs.
Saville. 4 1 should be sorry if you were able
to say what it is natural you should feel, on an
occasion like this. So here let us dismiss the
subject. We shall not be at a loss, I dare say/
she added, smiling, 4 for others;’ and imme
diately led the conversation into various chan
nels, till the excitement of Charles’ mind
gradually subsided. He then entered with
animated freedom into discourse; and it was
easy to perceive how lier first favorable im
pressions were d3e|icned, as site insensibly
drew from him lltc authentic transcript of his
mind.
When night came, lie took leave of Mrs.
Saville. His farewell was imprinted. on the
i hand extended towards him, with a silent fer
| vour that would have satisfied tlte excellent Mr,
U'rarilield Ins heart wa* indued 4 in tlte right
THE SOUTHERN POST.
place.’ In his bed-room he found the letter
lying on the table, sealed and directed ; and
beside it a neat little silken purse, containing
twenty guineas.
Charles sat down to think; to live over
again the extraordinary day he had passed.
He was too young and inexperienced to read
its eventful history, by the sober light of rea
son. The world and its concerns, the human
heart and its mysteries, tire holy deeds of un
obtrusive virtue, were to him all unknown.
What had happened, therefore seemed more
like a tale of fairy land, than that thing merely
which men call good fortune; of which tire
instances are so many, that were they all re
corded, we should cease to write romance, as
less romantic than truth. Thought could not
help him out of his perplexity. 4 View it how
I will,’ he exclaimed, at the close of his medi
tations, 4 it is a miracle ; but at all events I will
see the end of it.’
With this declaration he retired to bed. In
the morning he awoke refreshed and cheerful.
When he descended from his room, the only
person he saw was the pretty dove-eyed lass,
who had been the ambassadress of Mrs. Saville
the preceding day. She looked as if she knew
all that had happened, and rejoiced in her
knowledge. A passing word of gallantry
esca|>ed his lips, as she opened the door for
him; and hastening to the ‘first mile-stone
beyond the turnpike-gate,’ the stage soon ar
rived in which he was conveyed to London.
It should be here mentioned, that when
Charles entered the village, and seated himself
upon the old stone, in the way already des
cribed, Julia Montague, a young lady in her
eighteenth year, and the neiceof Mrs. Saville,
was standing at the parlour window, while her
aunt was busy settling the accounts of the
week in another part of the room. It is not
meant to be insinuated, that if, instead of
Charles Coventry, (and the reader remembers
what sort of a looking person Charles Coven
try was,) a poor, decrepid, aged man, had
rested his weary limbs on that same piece of
antique stone, there would have been the least
difference in Julia Montague’s humanity. Be
that as it may, however, it was entirely owing
to her humanity, in the first instance, that Mrs.
Saville saw Charles at all; tor the weekly
accounts were very long, and it is exceedingly
probable he w»uld have left his seat before
they wers finished, had not her niece been the
first to pity his distressed condition. Oh, the
unsearchable depths of woman’s sensibility !
{To be Continued .)
From the Boston Mercantile Journal.
TIIE THIRTEEN VOTES, OR THE WAGER.
A TRUE STORY.
In a town in the interior of the Granite State,
not many years since a gentleman of some pro
perty, and not a little political consideration,
resided, whose name we shall call Martyn.
He was a great stickler for patty principles,
insomuch that ho was sometimes induced by
party zeal to violate his moral duties. On
one occasion in particular, when a very im
portant election was taking place, upon the
remit of which, perhaps, the very existc ce of
his party depended, he was so carried away
bv his party feelings, as to deposit thirteen
votes for one individual at the same time in
the ballot box, in defiance of the law which
provides that no man to whichever parly he
may happen to belong, or however worthy
may be his favorite candidates, shall deposite
more than one ballot for any one mdividual, for
one office!
Wattie Martyn was unfortunately detected
in this equivocal act —and although no legal
action was laid in relation to tlte subject, yet
there were those in the town in which he resi
ded, who were unwilling to admit that excess
of party zeal was a sufficient a|>ology for his
dereliction of moral duty—and the simple act
of depositing thirteen votes for one candidate,
at one time in the ballot box, although palliated
and excused by some of his warm political
friends, was severely censured by others.
This occurrence furnished a subject of con
versation among the worthy citizens of the
town for several weeks—at the end of which
time, it gradually and partially died away, but
was not forgotten. Poor Mr. Martyn was
doomed to hear the words thirteen votes oc
casionally repeated by bis political foes in the
most significant manner—evidently with th-t
design of disturbing tiie equanimity of bis feel
ings. In this they succeeded but too well.
These words, so harmless in themselves, or
when applied to others, if addressed to Mr.
Martyn, or ever uttered in his hearing, seemed
to possess the power of a magic cabala, so
wonderful, and so instantaneous was the effect
which they produced on the appearance and
conduct of that gentleman. The moment
thirteen votes reached his ear, his features
were clouded with a frown of indignation—his
eyes were lighted up with a inelanchaly fire—
his hands involuntary grasped the nearest
weapon of offence within his reach, and his
| voice naturally clear and sonorous, was
changed into deep and unearthly mutterings,
resembling the sound of distant thunder, or
the rumblings of the pent up volcano. Indeed
the effect produced on Sir Percie Shafton, by
the sight of the bodkin, as related in the mpnas-
Itery of Sir Walter Scott, was not more sud
; den and terrible than the effect produced on
j Wattle Martyn, by repeating the simple words
1 44 thirteen votes.” His weakness on . this
? point was proverbial, and a wicked youth of
! the village, now a very worthy and respecta
| hie legal practitioner in the city of Boston,
once made Martyn’s infirmity the means of
playing off a mischievous’ and cruel practical
joke, to the great amusement of the bystan-
I ders.
Mr. Smith, the young gentlemen to whom
we allude, being one day at the village tavern,
entered into conversation with a genteel looking
stra igcr, while the landlady was preparing
some refreshment, with which to recruit the
exhausted flame and spirits of her guest.
The conversation turned on the difficulty of
[pronouncing some of the names of places of
Indian origin, which are so frequently met
with in the New England States. In the
midst of the colloquy, Mr. Smith saw his po
litical op|ioiient, Wattie Martyn, coming down
the road. He was certain that Wattie would
| pop into the tavern, and in tiie spur of die
moment laid his plan accordingly.
| 44 What you any, sir,” said Mr. Smith “res
pecting those jaw.breaking names, is (icrfectly I
correct —I agree with you entirely, and am
much gratified to make the acqnaintance of a
gentleman of so much taste. But, my dear
! ,ir, there are familiar English words, and
combinations of words, which, although they
may not be very difficult to pronounce,
are exceedingly difficult to repeat. For in
j stance, it is almost impossible for any one not
.familiar with the practice, to pronounce the
words thirteen votes, thirteen votes, thirteen
votes, for any length of time, without making
the most ludicrous mistakes.”
“Thirteen votes! thirteen votes! thirteen
votes!” repeated the stranger. “I do not see
any difficulty in lhat. I could go on repeating
the words thirteen votes ! thirteen votes ! thir
teen votes! until to-morrow morning.”
44 It is far more difficult,” my dear sir, than
you imagine,” replied Mr. Smith, in his blan
dest umnner. 44 1 am not much in the habit of
betting, but for the curio rity of the thing, I am
willing to bet you the price of a dinner for
yourself and horse, that you cannot repeat in
rapid succession the words 4 thirteen votes, thir
teen votes,” fifteen minutes, without making
some egregious blunders.”
44 Done,” said the traveller —who rejoiced at’
the idea of paying the landlord’s charges so
easily—“and 1 will begin at once.” So say
ing, he took out his watch and noted the time
—then planting himself firmly against the
wall,with his face toward the door,he assumed a
look of great determination, as if he had under
taken an unpleasant job. but was resolved to
go through with it all hazards—and commen
ced pronouncing in aloud, clear voice, with
due emphasis and discretion, the cabalistic
words, 44 Thirteen votes ! thirteen votes ! thir
teen votes! *
In the mean time, Mr. Martyn, not dream
ing of the insoTt which awaited him, bent his
steps, as was his wont, towards the tavern.
As he reached the threshhold of the door, he
beard the offensive words, “Thirteen votes!
thirteen votes ! thirteen votes!” pronounced—
and with a frame trembling with passion, and
with fury strongly imprinted on his rubicond
Visage, he übrubtly entered the bar-room, to
confront the man who dared thus trifle with
his feelings, and attempt to overwhelm him
witlf insult.
His eye beaming with wrath, fell upon the
strangeT, who regarded his withering glances
with the most provoking indifference-and who
| paused not a moment in his recitation, but
continued to repeat the maddening words,
44 thirteen votes! thirteen votes ! thirteen
votes!”
The indignant Martyn next caught a sight
of Mr. Smith’s countenance, convulsed with
laughter. “ What is the meaning of this, sir,”
said he in a voice of thunder. But the only
reply he received was from the mouth of the
stranger, who, with the most irritating perti
nacity, continued to bawl, even louder than
before, 44 thirteen votes ! thirteen votes! thir
teen votes.”
Martyn then advanced towards the stran
ger, his frame absolutely'quivering with rage.
|“ Who are you, scoundrel ?” demanded he in
| the most imperious manner, 44 and how dare
yon insult me in this way ?”
Tiie stranger thought the rage of Martyn
was counterfeited, and a ruse of Smith’s to
win the wager; and the answer to his ques
i tion, shouted out in a still louder voice than
before,*was 44 thirteen votes! thirteen votes!
!thirteen votes!”
“ I will not put up with this insult,” scream
led Martyn, doubling up his fist—and putting
| himself in an attitude.
“Thirteen votes, thirteen votes, thirteen
j votes,” vociferated the stranger at the top of
j his lungs.
“If you repeat those words again, I will
I knock you dowu, you rascal,” said the in
iuriated Martyn, with a howl of desperation.
The stranger felt somewhat indignant at
being addressed in this rude and uncerimo
■ nious manner, but was determined to win the
; wager, and raising his toice, bawled with the
lungs of a stentor, 44 thirteen votes, thirteen
j votes, thirteen votes.”
44 Take that then for your insolence,” shriek
ed Martin, suiting the action to the word, and
'giving the luckless traveller a box ou the ear
which laid him prostrate on the floor.
But as the stranger fell, his yell of surprise
anger and agony, took the sound of 44 thirteen
votes, thirteen votes, thirteen votes !”
Highly exasperated at what he conceived
to be a base and unfair contrivance to cheat
him out of his wager, the stranger rose in
great dudgeon still exclaiming in a voice which
a boatswain in a hurricane might have envied
“thirteen votes,thirteen votes, thirteen votes,”
and fell pell rnell upon poor Martyn, pounding
him without mercy, and bellowing out between
every blow, “thirteen votes, thirteen votes,
thirteen votes.”
The traveller finally kicked Martyn out of
the room, and as he closed the door upon the
unlucky illegal voter, he looked at his watch—
saw that the fifteen minutes had already ex
pired—gave a loud and exulting shout of
“ thirteen votes! thirteen votes! THIR.
TEEN VOTES!” which made the welkin
ring again—sank exhausted in a chair, and
claimed his wager!
A VENERABLE CONSUL.
Miss Hall, in her 44 Rambles in Europe,” (a
very interesting work by the way) in 1836,
while at Leghorn was waited upon by the
American Consul at that port. He holds his
office by the appointment and under the hand
of Washington. If still living, he is doubtless
i the only man in existence who can exhibit the
signature of the immortal father of his country
|as the seal ot his office. In 1836. according
to Miss Hall, his form was erect and his face
was slightly wrinkled. 44 He would,” she says,
44 pass for fifty-five, or sixty—and yet he must
be verging upon ninety.” It is more than
a half a century since he has looked upon his
1 native land.
FEMALE INFLUENCE.
Sam Slick says, 44 Though the men have
! the reins, the women tell ’em which way to
drive.”
EPIGRAM—TEARS.
Tear* are but dew* that mercy throw*
Upon thi* world of our*;
Like 4 bead* of morning on the row,
' To nounah feeling'* flower*.
WEALTH.
Wealth m this country may be traced back
to industry and frugality ; the paths which lead
|to it are open to all; the laws which protect
it are equal to all; and such is the joint opera
tion of the law and the customs of society, that
the wheel of fortune is in constant revolution,
and the poor in one generation furnish the rich
of the next. The rich man who treats pover
ty with arrogance and contempt, tramples
upon the ashes of his father or his grand father ;
the poor man who nourishes tee lings of un
kindness and bitterness ag dnst wealth, makes
war with the prospects of his children and the
order of things in which he lives.'
Gov. Everett. |
ORIGINAL.
For the Southern Post.
The 44 Spectator Revived.”
Mr. Editor—Looking over your lasi paper, my atten
tion was suddenly attracted by the above caption, and
I read with some eagerness, the remarks that followed.
I at first hoped that it was a literary notice of some
praiseworthy attempt having been made (and success
fully) to re-produce something after the manner of Ad
dison and his collaborators; and I must confess I felt
somewhat disappointed at finding that it was only an
invitation to attempt something of the sort. However,
the invitation is a good one, and given in right good
spirit, and ought, by all means, to he responded to. —
Your correspondent appears to be sanguine, and does
not seem to think it at all impossible or even difficult to
raise -up amongst us Addisons, and .Steeles, and Tick
ells, and A nous. (By the'way, pray who was (his last
gentleman ? He must have written a great deal, for
his name is appended to works and writings quorum
uifinitus est numerus .) This may not prove so easy a
matter as Ireneus seems to think. We must learn to
adhere closely to the true principles of language. We
must learn to prune away redundancies, to write with
lucidness and avoid obscurities, to use phraseology well
adapted to the meaning we desire to convey, to exp-css
ourselves elegantly and.gracefully, casting aside all
rough and ill-turned periods, avoiding awkward and
local expressions and cant phrases, which answer very
well in the slang dialect, and which are wholly unsuit
able any where else, although unhappily, but toomucu
in use at the present day. We must draw from the
41 pure well of English undefiled.” (Pardon the trite
ness of the phrase for the sake of its truth.) Too fre
quent repetitions of the same word, though used in dif
ferent senses, is another blemish in style, ns you may
perceive, if you will recur to the first few lines of this
communication, (I can criticise myself as well as oth
ers,) “ a literary notice of some praiseworthy attempt,
See. Sec., where you will find the word some used four
times in as many lines. This detracts from the ease
and grace of writing, and seems to indicate, with a
dearth of words, a corresponding want of ideas. Ma
ny other remarks to the same effect might be made—
but this is not the place for them.
At the same time, however, that I beg Ireneus to ob
serve that it is not so easy to write like Addison, I am
very far from wishing to cast a damp upon his really
praiseworthy effort to bring essay writing into favor
with the contributors to yaw paper. On the contrary,
I-would second him, by all means. As you very pro
perly observe, in your own remarks on the subject,
“nothing will be done without an effort.” We cannot
expect to acquire a proficiency in any thing without
practice. To write well we must practice much, and
write with great care ; and then too, we must expect to
I be criticised, and must endeavor to profit by the criti
cism—and unfortunately, too often, “ there’s the rub”—
“ Genus irritahile vacum S'ill, when well applied, it
is a wholesome medicine, if it be a bitter one, and we
must not refuse to take it, thought it cost us a wry face
l or two. We should learn also, to suit the style of our
writing to our subject, and its method of treatment. —
| One should not attempt to write an essay in the same
' style in which a patriotic orator would address his con
stituents from a stump, nor use the same high-flown
expressions as a lover irditing “a sonnet to his mis
tress’eyebrow.” Write whatever you like, or in any
. ;yle you please, but let every thing be in good keeping,
• ccording to the advice of good old Horace —“Sit quod
vis, simplex duntaxnt et unum.” Now all this requires
practice, and we cannot expect to attain it by any oth
er method. There is no railway to the summit of Par
nassus —no steam conveyance to the pinnacle of know
ledge—no fast coach, “ through by day-light,” which
will take a man from the breakfast table a dunce, and
set him down to supper an accomplished author. No
thing but labor, hard, solid labor, will do it. But let
not this deter any one from making the effort. Try—
for labor will accomplish all things—and if success
crown your efforts, how great the reward —to take your
seat among the monarchs of the mind ; to be one of
those, the mighty wizards, whose wand can rouse or
control the passions—one of those benefactors of their
race, to whom it is given.
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art.
To rouse the Genius and to mend the Heart.
Is it not a meed worth struggling for ? If you ask to
what is owing the high moral culture and superior ci
vilization of our kind at this day, you are answered,
“ The Press.” The Press ! True. But why the Press ?
Only, in as much as it has been an engine in the hands
of these mighty masters. They have wiekled the pow
er of it—they have used the means which it afforded
them to extend, far and wide, lhat influence over the
human mind, which they never could have obtained,
save by the general excellence of their works. The
press diffused these glorious monuments of human in
tellect, and darkness, ignorance and falsehood fled be
fore the stream of light which burst forth in floods of
splendor on a benighted world. Esto perpetua ! May
tiie light endure forever, or change but to increase.—
Let the young and ardent spirits of Georgia start up,
and catch a ray of that divine fire—let them cherish it,
and we may hope, ere long, to see her contribute a
worthy share of bright gems to the already glittering
chaplet of American literature. The power exists, but
it wants training—shall the will be wanting ? No—l
cannot think so—let the plan suggested by Ireneus be
adopted, and though I am not quite so sanguine as to
the final result —though I do not feel quite so confident
a hope of seeing a publication “ under the auspicious
title of the ‘Spectator,’ new series,” yet of one thing I
feel very well satisfied —if the effort be made, good must
conie of it. HEINFRED.
For the Southern Post.
TO JULIA.
Death! and darkness ! and desolation !
These shadow forth my fate —mourn not—
The grave should take what hope has fled from
Anguish made its prey—hearts dark as mine.
Should seek, as fitting tenement, the tomb.
Mourn not, sweet girl, that such should be my fato
There is no terror in tiie dreamless rest.
Awaiting the wan spirit which hath striven,
And driven in vain to find a solace here—
Rest! rest! ’tis all 1 ask ot wish for—too much
My heart has lived lo last—too mildly
Has its pulses beat—their strength has fled ;
And now with nerve relaxed and fluttering beat,
It calmly wails release —speed, speed, thy flight—
Thou winged messenger of Time—quick is joy
And rest is Heaven to the o’erchsrged henrt ;
And where will these he found for me.
Have in the dark and dreamless grave.
March 23d. 1’ E. C.
For the Southern
REFLECTIONS,
On seeing n Man with Consumption.
I met him in the walks
Os trade—a busy man, with bustling air,
And brow of calculating thought, earnest,
S Intense, as though he planned for a long. lon®
r uture —his eve was settled and calm, save *
j When its quick glance told out the restlessnew
: Os a spirit, yet full of earth * fires and hopes
| He spoke, and his tones were hoarse and hollow
i And sepulchral, making the hearer think
I Os the death-chamber and a pate gasping
Man, struggling in life’s last consciousness,
j With mutuality's doom—of the coffin, '
j And the unsightly worm, and the fearful
| Stillness of the graveyard—and yet he talked
- Os life and better health—presumed on length*
j Os days, and as a home, thought of earth. *
! Poor man ! his nature allied him to dust
And death, mighty Archer, had long since shot
His bolt in poison dipped—consumption fell
Incurable, and now in haste, he came
To claim his prey, and bear the skeleton
Trophy, to the realm of bones and loa'hsome
Rottenness. But ah! thus it ever is.
Oh, what fools we are! presumptuous and mad -
And glad to be deceived. Precarious breath ’
We hold to be perpetual—cherish hfe
For ends ignoble—fondly dream of hope
And ’mid the very relics of the dead,
We muse on brighter better things to come.
Buoyant fancy sports among the broken
Marbles of the burial place, lies down
111 reverie on the sod, green with man’s
Frail emblem—mortality underneath
Colors the future with roseate light,
And the heart but too willing to be duped,
Lifts its songof gladness, and gay of wing,
Speeds on to death, e’en as a thoughtless bird
l o the fowler’s snare. Aye, we cling to’earth,
Love our poison—music try to make, with
Our very' chains, and yield’ourselves to love
Ot bondage, with devotion deep and strong
As e’er Chaldean shepherd felt, looking
To the star he worshipped—nor hopes defeat’
Nor thirsty care, nor the heart’s grief beeped up.
A burden heavy, can break our hold on
Things that perish. False to virtue—Heaven—
All that lives beyond the reach of chnnge,
Yet true to sin and sense and shame, we live
Slaves to what we see, and die the victims
Os a doom dim, yet awful—linked closely
All the while with the sad soul’s deept fear.
Oh ! what a mystery is man —fearful,
Yet bold—suspicions, yet confiding all,
E’en w’here trust is ruin, hunted by the curse
Os sin that comes in haste upon the track
Os years, with stealthy step, nearer and still
Nearer—escape impossible—but man
Knowing tlris, vet hopes—buys, sells, and seeks gain-
Forgets God —fits him for a long blight race,
Though youth’s hot blood courses the veins, or creep*
Slowly, thick withfeU disease—though mature,
And prone to think —>>r bowed with Time’s burden,
’Tis all the same —deceived alike—old—young,
Dream on until the death-pang stills the pulse
Os life—corrupt ‘this well-wrought frame,’ and leave!
Its goodly members broken and scattered
At the grave’s mouth.
Oh! man proceed—vain—earthly—
Why wilt thou make of thyself a fool, forever
Shunning the truth, as though it were thy foe?
Why seek to heal thy heart’s wounds with the balm
Os earth, scorning the true remedy ? Hating
The light, ihou livest—mocked, betrayed, undone—
Shrouded in the mists and shadows of sin,
’Till at last the illumination comes *
I Yherc knowledge is despair. * CLIO.
For the Southern Post.
Mr. Editor —Seeing in your Inst Saturday’s Post, ■
query relating to the bird variously called “ Bull Bat,”
44 Wnip-poor-will,” and “ Chuck (not ‘cheek’) Will’*
Widow,” you will perhaps give a place to a few re
marks on the subject. I have not had access to Wil
son, who has given an account of this bird—nor to Au
dubon —my remarks, therefore, will be only those which
have resulted from my own observation.
The “(Whip-poor-will,” which is heard more fre
quently at the North, and the “ Chuck Will’s Widow,"
which is more common at the South, are different spe
cies of the same genus—(he learned name of which i»
Caprimulgus, (or goat sucker, ns the European species
is termed in English). The Whip-poor-will is the Ca
primulgus Virginianus, and is w ell known for its pecu
liar note or cry, of which the three syllables, Whip
poor-will, give a very good idea. The general cidor of
this species is a dull brown, intermixed with ash color,
and some grey. The quill-feathers of the wings are
dusky, and the first five on each side are marked with
a large white spot about the middle of the feather. This
spot is very conspicuous when the bird is sailing about
in the air, as is its invariable custom in the dusk of the
evening. At that hour, and ira fine weather, they may
Ire seen circling about in great numbers, moving slow
ly and steadily along, occasionally giving a heavy flap
with their long wings, and uttering at regular intervals,
a peculiar cry, which somewhat resembles the syllable
cha-ap, pronounced in a drawling, sleepy tone- Oc
casionally, they may be observed to poise themselves
for a moment, and then rush downward with the velo
city and straightness of an arrow, to wifliin a few fee*
of the ground. During this evolution, a deep, booming
and long sustained noise is head, but whether the sound
proceeds from tne voice of the bird, or whether it i*
owing merely to the violence of its rush through the
air, I am unable lo say. This is the bird known lo
your correspondent, and to others, ns the “ Bull Bat,"
“ Musqueto Hawk,” “ Night Hawk,” Sec. See. These
same names are equally applied to the othe?species,
the “ Chuck Will’s Widow,” which is in the habit of
flying towards night, in the same manner. Very few
persons, I know, are willing to believe that the birds
which are thus seen disponing themselves in the air,
on a summer evening, and darting upon the luckless
insects on which they prey, are identical with those
which, during the stillnpss of the night, make the forest
ring with the oft-repeated plaintive cry of “ Whip-poor
will, Whip-poor-will.” Yet such is the fict, and lam
only surprised that there should exist any doubt at all
on the subject. The writer of these remarks has fre
quently shot the Whip-poor-will on the wing, when fi
guring in the capacity of a Night Hawk or Bull Bat,
and he has also, at night, crept up stealthily to a log on
which one would be uttering his peculiar cry, and shoot
him at the very moment that he was so engaged, and
the specimens proved, in every instance, to be perfectly
similar.
The Chuck Will’s Widow is the Caprimulgus Caro
linensis, and presents, on examination, some specific
differences in form, arrangement and color of the plu
mage —but at a distance, as when on the wing, the gen
eral appearance is the same, and has led to the appli
cation to it of the names before mentioned. Its habits,
likewise, are similar to those of the Caprimulgus Vir
gininnus, hut the cry is quite different, having an ad
ditional syllable, and being pronounced with a differ
ent emphasis or accentuation, which increases, until
the third syllable is pronounced, when the fourth i*
thrown in rapidly and suddenly.
The Genus Caprimulgus belongs to the order Passe
res, and contains twenty-one species, which are distn
buted all over the world. The genus is remarkable tor
the smallness o( the hill and vast size of the mouth,
when opened to its utmost extent, it seems almost as
though the head had been taken off altogether. I nese
birds feed on insects, which they catch by darting upon
them in the air, and it is probably the violent and ra
pid million through the air, with that enormous mourn
wide open, lhat produces the booming sound before al
luded to. When shot on the wing, during their even
ing flights, if the mouth lie examined, it will be b' l lllls
generally well stored with gnats, inusquetoes, small Hie*,
minute beetles, and other winged insecta.
In concluding this hasty notice, permit me toobsrrve,
Mr. Editor, that I am glad to see the subject of Natu
ral History brought into vour columns. I hop*JiJVr
find fevor both with readers and contributors. I
entity of Macon present* facilities and advantages lor
the pursuit of every braneh of Natural Science, and n
would 1* wrong to neglect it. Can you not raise up •
suint amongst vour contributors, which shall send mem
forth into the fields of science? They cannot fad °
return thence with treasures of knowledge, andt".'”*®
of observations, which will enrich your P***? 4 *
they amuse and instruct your readeVs. Th* Bo**"!"*
the Entomologist, the Mineralogist, the Orm'hi**’*’'
all inny find ample space to labor in, and to tabor wiin
profit—and iikm'. sincerely do l M l4 ' ••'»!p )
not he lost. HLNCHMAK
Macon, April 12, MW.