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shattered vessel, now tearing his hair, and
anon extending hw clenched list towards us in
»iun menacing and detestation, i reversed
as liis ship had been in every direction by our
bills, site was rapidly sinking: and just as she
was finally settling down, some of her crew
sought shelter ill lier lops, whiledtliors plunged
into the sea, and swam towards us. Alas!
tlie case of those who st'il cling to the masts of
their sinking ship was not a jot more hope
less than that of the unhappy men w ho looked
for safe!v in the mercy ol Stamar. bceing
that they swam vigorously and persevering y
towards us, he shouted, “Snoot me u.fa ,ow
of those jollv follows. Wort Dicu ! they
seein marvellously well inclined to aid in the
consumption of our grog and biscuit. I ake
irool aim. 1 sav, tlierc, some of you, and shoot
mo tnein oil!
llis orders were obeye Ito tlie very letter.
Shot followe I shot in quick succession, and
man afn r man foil bcncatii the murderous aim
of the ferocious pirates. Now and then a cap
or a straw Hat rose to lhe surface, and floated
round the shattered vessel which the foaming
waves were now fast cngulphing.
Suddenly, with a sound like the rushing of
a huge water-spout, an immense cl warn opened
in the waves, the merchantman balanced her
self for a moment or two and tlien, with one
lightning like bound, descended ; tlie tops o(
lie. - masts were for an instant seen lashing
the waters, and tlien she and the unhappy
wretches, who were clinging to her, disappear
ed for ever. To the tumult of tlie horrible
scene that had been enacted there succeeded
for a lew moments a frightful expressive si
lence, which was broken by the voice of Sta
mar, who in tones of infernal irony exclaimed
“ Adieu ! a pleasant voyage to you !”
From rh<r Southern Literary Messenger.
THE FOErS DESTINY.
BV A YOUNG LA in', A NATIVE OF VIRGINIA.
CHAPTER t.
A cloud swept o’er the lover’s face,
As he stood before me now ;
A scornful smile was on his lip,
A shadow on his brow.
Two years of exile passed away, and Ernest
Gordon was again in England. Time and
change hud wrought their usual work, and
calnud the tumult of feelings which nothing
could entirely subdue. Tnough his brow wore
no longer its deep sadness, yet it was shaded
still; and it may be, th;i#lhe memory of some
early sorrow urged him to flee from the
gaieties of the metropolis, and seek the solitude
of nis childhood's home. There, ho could be
alo.ie with his own thoughts. Society no lon
ger charmed h rn ; and scrutinizing the ft ivoli
ties oiThe world, he had learned to shun and
pitv those wiio loved him. Books were now
liis companion ; and son'Climes, in his bitter
ness ot soul, he doomed them the only friends
Wiio never altered or bet rayed.
It is a sad period in life, when such feelings
crowd upon us ; when the beauty seems taken
from our future, and the light gone from our
path-way. Gloom like this was on Ernest,
as he wa idered through the old familiar haunts
of uis boyish days—and he pondered on those
days as the only happy period ho had ever
known ; forgetting that many hopes brightened
over him still, that tio en of existence is with
out its blessings, and that none can be really
unhappy while there is good remaining to be
done on earth. How few, in such mournful
meditations, perceive that the change is not in
t.ie scene aud objects around them, but in
t lemselvos ; that the blight lias fallen, not on
their prospects, but on the withering flowers
of their own hearts. Tne stars are always in
Heaven, and the darkness which shuts them
from us, is around ourselves.
It was early on a summer afternoon that
Ernest was seated in the library, whose trea
sures h id so often contributed to the consola
tion of liis lonliest hours. The windows of
tlie room were open, and the soft breeze sighed
through the curtained casements ; repose res
ted like a mantle on all, aud its influence fell on
Ernest also. Uis eyes were fixed on the page
before him, but his thoughts had roamed far
away to the records of the past.
Tnrowing aside the learned volume, he took
a pamphlet from the table and carlessly opened
it. While lie glanced at its contents, a change
cainc over h:s countenance, as if the lava of
years had been suddenly removed from the
world of his memory. Tlie lines he looked
on were addressed to the writer’s “only friend,”
and wore these :
“ I will not forget thee ! the links of the past,
They are clinging around me yet;
And the thoughts which connected my spirit with thine
Are such the heart cannot forget.
They are lingering near me in tenderness still,
Unstained by tlie touch of decay,
And are brighteu'd by gloom, as stars shine at night
Which lose all their lustre by day.
I will not forget thee 1 100 many blight hopes
Are gathered around thy dear name,
For with aecenta of kindness thou grecteet me oft.
When others spoke only to blame.
The memory comes like a breath of the south,
With fragrance and loveliness fiaught;
For communion with thee, was hallow’d bv love,
And chasten’d by beauty of thought.”
Ernest’s conscience smote him for his for
gelf i Iness, as he rend tne verses addressed to
himself and signed with the name of Walter
Vere Since their parting, these friends had
lieard nothing of each other—for Walter, with
that peculiar reserve which generally forms a
feature of an imaginative diameter, had said
nothing of his plans or destination ; uud Er
nest, in the selfishness of his individual disap.
pointmciits, after the lapse of a few mouths’
absence, had rarely thought of his youthful
companion. Perhaps he may be forgiven this
neglect, by those who feel that the memory of
ch'hiish friendship is often lost in the engross-
ment of u dee|icr passion. But now, when
the variety and distraction of travel had passed
away, and he was once more enjoying the
quiet of home, Gordon’s interest in his friend
returned with redoubled ardor, and tie dwelt
with tiie teuderest affection on the£proud und
w i -olive du«j>osition of die gifted poet.
Entirefv ig< orant of Waller’s residence, Kr.
wro'e to H r Geffrey Kucher inquiring
t,,- « ; f>r !•* bad resolved to compensate by
t ' i a,el attention, list past neglect
and suspension of their intercourse. A few
days brought the wishe J-for information, and
Ernest despatched a note to his friend.
“ Once more, dear Walter,” he said, “ my
wanderings are ended, and again I am among
the tranquil beauties of borne. This place re
calls the happy hours we have passed here,
and in roaming through its familiar scenes, I
j can scarcely realize that years have fled since
we enjoyed them together. Will you not
come to me, Walter? The sight of long for
gotten things will impart to you anew inspi
| ration —and communion with your earliest
friend, will blot out the memory of sorrows
! we both have known too well. Do not deny
me, Walter ; 1 have so much, so very much
;to tell you, which I cannot write. Moreover,
I long to learn your prospects and hopes ;
they were confided to me so openly once, that
I cannot relinquish tlie pleasure of a renewal
of vour confidence. lam here alone, and the
thought of having you for a companion, has
given me a taste of joy I have not felt since
I we parted.”
Ernest wrote truly. In solitude, his more,
youthful feelings had returned, nnd it was with
an interest he Ifctd long ceased to cherish for
the common events of life, that lie looked for
Walter’s answer. It came at last, and Ernest
read as follows:
“ Thanks, a thousand thanks, dear Ernest,
i for your kind invitation ; it would indeed bring
j back the past, to be with you again—but it
j may not be. The poir have but few of the
! pleasures of this world, and rny destiny shuts
J me out even from these. I must remain here
I and toil in solitude—but do not think ine in
j sensible of your goodness because I am forced
|to decline its offers; believe me, \ our affection
: is among inj dearest consolations, and you
j can never know how precious 1 hold it, till,
j like me, you have only one or two to love
! you. You express an interest in my pros
jpccts; alas! Ernest, there is little in the fu
j ture that promises well for me. My writings
| are sufficiently profitable to prevent our suf-
I (bring, but I no longer work with the zeal of
my past efforts. Now, exertion is painful, and
I turn, almost with loathing from the veryi
lines which are the sole support of my daily;
existence. Do not deem me ungrateful, Gor- |
don, because I speak often of my sorrows ;
they have, alas! been more familiar to me than
I joy. I have but one real pleasure on earth,
; and that is the consciousness of giving com
fort to my mothcrand sister. For them I live,;
mid perhaps tiieir affection is the dearer, be- j
cause, with the exception of yours, I have pro
ved it to be the only love which changeth not.
Do you remember, Ernest, how often in our
boyish anticipations, I used to picture a man- ]
hood bright with honor and glorious with re
nown ? How confident I once was, in mv
powers; how soaring was the ambition which
urged me to win celebrity! Those hopes have
vanished. I find that in trusting to rny own
intellect, I leaneJ on a broken reed, ami that
in sighing for fame, 1 pined for that which can
only lie gained by pa ting with happiness.—
I am wiser, or at least humbler, than I then
was ; for nothing produces in us humility so
soon, as the shadowing of our proudest and
brightest hopes. But I will not weary you,
my friend, by dwelling longer on my misfor
tunes ; their recital can avail nothing. Will
you not write to me, Ernest ? Let me real
ize one of my early dreams, in proving the
truth of your friendship. Through years of
silence and separation, I have never doubted it,
and it would be painful indeed to find it vain at
last.”
“ Poor Walter!” murmured Ernest, as be
finished those mournful lines : “ he has indeed
known many sorrows, but he has escaped the!
haughty scoru whose blight is now upon
me !”
Ernest did not suspect that the disappoint
ment, which had withered some of the better
feelings of his heart, was even then clouding
the sunshine of his friend, and stealing away
the beauty of his life. He dreamed not that
his sadness was us nothing, compared to the
wild, unmitigated despair of a being like Wal
ter. Ernest had many resources ; —wealth
gave him power ; and change had brought
him calmness. But the poet was poor his
sufferings had been increased by silence and
loneliness ; there was no excitement to draw
his thoughts from the hour which lmd sealed
his misery in revealing the hopelessness of his
early passion. He had worshipped too long
at that forbidden shrine, to kneel before ano
ther. Tlie incentive to exertion was gone
with the faithless dream in which he had gar
nered up the hopes of his life. The poet was
oftoo gentle, too loving a nature, to find sup.
port in the pri<se which had proved a solace to
Gordon. He could not, like him, repay the
scorn of the one, on the many ; and while
Ernest smiled in haughty bitterness, Walter
w apt in secret sorrow.
CHAPTER 11. •
Hie sorrows were in secret kept,
Their strength was never seen;
And those around him did not dream
How wretched he had been!
It was a sweet summer night, when the
brother and sister gazed together on the quiet
and religious beauty of the far off stars. The
poet’s brow w’as pale with deep and troubled
thought, and in tlie uncertain light, his eyes
emitted a strange brightness from their dark,
passionate depths. Ilis smile too, was sad and
beautiful as the moonlight. Lucy looked at
him in silence,as, wrapt in the mournful reverie
which was now a common mood with him, he
gazed on the orbs wandering above them.
Tears filled the sister’s eyes as she marked the
| unconscious absorptien, and witnessed the
gloom which so often cast its shadows over
: Waller’s spirit.
“ I have not told you, Lucy, that I shall be
obliged soon to go to London,” said Waller, at
; last ; speaking as if w ith an effort. “ The
publisher sayß my presence will be necessary
in superintending my furthcoming work, and
; though dread the very thought, 1 must go.”
“ I can scarcely regret tlie necessity, dear
i Walter,” said his sister, “ for 1 think the change
of scene and exercise will improve both your
; j health and spirits."
“ I cannot bear tlie idea of mingling again
in tlie crowd,” lie said ; “tlie very air of Lon
don make** me gloomy, ond 1 feel doubly deso-
Inie iii a tlu-o ig w lit re so iiiuiiy are happy, I
; w ish Ernest would go with me."
THE SOUTHERN POST.
“Can you notask him?” inquired Lucy
calmly; but the mention of his name, whose
sound to her was now an abiding sorrow, called
up a sudden paleness on her cheek.
“ I will write to him,” continued Walter;
“ he has so many friends in London, it can bat
be a pleasure for him to go there. It is the
wretched only who shun t/ie multitude!”
“ And why should you be so wretched,
Walter ?” asked Lucy, almost reproachfully.
“ You have blessings even yet —and is it no
consolation to remember you are tlie stay and
comfort of our dear mother ?”
“ Yes, Lucy, that consolation is the sole
comfort of my life. As for my blessings—
where are they ? Is it a blessing to toil unre
quited and in solitude ? Is it a blessing to see
you suffering from this harsh climate, without
the power to find you a gentler one ? If these
are blessings, Lucy, I am blessed indeed !”
•“ You must not think of me, dearest,” slie
answered. “ Believe me, the suffering of sick
ness can never give the pain 1 feel at your re
pining in bitterness.”
“ Not in bitterness, my sister, but in sorrow
and hopelessness,” said Waliar. “ But it is
too cold for you here, dearest,” he added, after
a moment's pause. “ Retire to rest, Lucy—
and may your dreams be happy !”
“ Will you not go too, Walter ?”
“ My dreams are not bright enough to tempt
me,” he answered, with his strange, sad smile.
“ I will watch with the stars a little longer,”
and Lucy left him.
Walter looked after her sorrowfully, and lie
thought her slight figure seemed wasted, even
since he last observed it.
Lucy sat long at her window, wrapt in si
lent, cheerless meditation ; and when at length
she retired, she perceived through the dimness
of the night, that her brother was still at liis
station.
The next morning Walter wrote to Ernest
asking him to accompany him to the metropo-
I is.
“ 1 dread the prospect,” he said, “but my
going is necessary, and 1 would not neglect
any thing which may add to the comfort of
those dependant on me. Now, more than
ever, I am bound to make every exertion—for
anew affliction is approaching, and death is
written on the brow of one, nearest and dearest.
It is not yet too late to save her, and if my
next work prove popular and profitable, I shall
seek her health in a foreign land. Poor Lucy !
she is sensible of her clanger, even while she
attempts to conceal it; but her confession is
not needed to reveal the decay I can trace so
surelv on the cheek and in the eve!”
Ernest readily consented to accompany his
friend, but he little suspected their mutual dis
like to London arose from the same cause.
Walter’s letter awoke new feelings in Ernest,
and as he read of Lucy’s danger, her sweet
face came back to him, as from a dream. lie
remembered, and without vanity, the one short
interview, which had betrayed to him her
heart’s secret, and he asked himself if he had
done wisely in coldly passing hv such love.
Ernest’s first love was very like most men’s
—it was more a memory than a reality—for,
it was not proof against neglect nnd new asso
ciations. His devotion to Lady Alice had
been so scorned and repulsed, that it had given
place to a feeling of dislike; and pride, more
than affection, induced him to avoid tlie possi
bility of meeting her. With much true and
deep feeling, he mingled a vein of worldliness,
which perhaj s did more than any thing else
towards healing the wounds of his bosom.
“Can I not aid Walter in restoring his sis
ter ?” he thought. “ I have wealth, and it is
all he needs. She, perhaps, can love me, even
now; and I would willingly show the world,
that there are others as worthy of adoration as
the Countess of Lysle!”
How different the emotion that prompted
the proud, yet hiimble adoration of Waiter!
With a devotedness, which for years had been
liis blessing, he still treasured up one lovely
face; and Alice knew not the heart she tram
pled on when she so haughtily rejected the
poet’s love !
Scarce a week had passed, ere another was
added to the circle of the poet’s home. The
next day the friends were to journey to thecity
—and now Ernest and Lucy were again to
gether. A single glance at her altered and
placid face, told Gordon she was doomed;
and he saw, that in anticipating her restoration
his friend was hoping against hope.
Walter was writing in his room, and Lucy
wandered with Ernest in the soft moonlight.
They spoke of her brother, his hopes, his fears
and the quiet days of their early intercourse.
Gordon vaguely alluded to his own disappoint
ments; but flying from the past, he lingered
over the present. At length all was forgotten
and lost but the wholly enchantment of that
joyous moment —and in the low tone of in
tense feeling, he uttered the sweetest words
that ever fell on Lucy’s ear.
“I am changed. Lucy,” he continued, “from
the enthusiastic being you and Walter once
knew; and perhaps I have lost all claim to
your forgiveness and generosity; but, trust
me, you will find no ie, even among the happiet
and most devoted of your suitors, who can
hold you dearer in his heart of hearts, than 1
do ! Speak to me my beloved—tell me, Lucy !
that you can love me, even yet!”
Lucy was silent, but Gordon watched her
varying color, and he required no other an
swer. In that hour was centered the blessed
ness of all h;r life, and even Ernest thought
not of her danger as he gazed on the dark
lustre of her lambent eyes, which, like her faith
ful heart, reflected back his image. Alas!
why is it, that love and death so often meet on
earth ?
“ We shall return in a few days,” said Wal
ter, as they siparate l at night, “ and Ernest
will come back with me, unless the attractions
of London prove too strong for him.”
“That were scarcely possible now,” said
Gordon, with a glance at Lucy, which sent
the eloquent flush to her very forehead, and
made her visions of the night happier than
they had ever been.
(To be Continued.)
woman’s tempeb.
One of the most important female qualities
is sweetness of temper. Heaven did not give
i to woman insinuation and persuution, in order
! to be surly; it did not give them a sweet voice,
in order to be employed in scolding.
From the American Museum.
MINIATURE SKETCHES.
riEFERF.NCI FOR FOREIGN PRODUCTIONS*
It wculd seem that some men lay aside their
judgments at times, (if indeed they have any)
and choose among objects presented for the
supply oftlieir physical, mental, and even mor
al and religious wants, not by the scale of re
lative value, but that of prejudice. In this
respect how frequently are men lound acting
the part of children. To say nothing con
cerning the principle taught in Holy Writ
concerning the reception of the word of the
prophet, “in his own country,” in view of
sermons and lectures ; it is a sourer, at once
of pain and disgust, to witness the conduct of
■ many. Present them with a piece of cloth
j or other article ofphys cal labor, of/tomc-maß
ufacture, and announce the fact, and in vain
do you attempt to convince them of its true
quality and value. Offer such individuals any
i product of mental labor claming their own city
|or neighborhood for its place of origin, and
■ how quickly do you hear them arguing its in
feriority to foreign works which, it maybe,
they never saw. Now s tch grown children
remind one ever forcibly of the peculiar fan
jcies of infancy. Often have l seen rustic
jchldren meet their parents returning with
j their wagons from some distant mart, and re
jeeive at their han Is, as “ broady-cakes,''’ tlie
| dry and soiled buiscuits which were baked in
; tiieir domestic ovens, and watched them feast
: ing with delight. And yet such children do
not act a more puerile or irrational pail than
thousands of Americans of full stature and
manhood’s years. J. E. S.
FEMALE INTKEPIDITV.
During the fire on Saturday night last, the
occupants of one of the buildings in Rose
Alley, in the hustle and confusion of saving
their little effects from the devouring element,
and after being driven out by the flames, des
\ covered that one of their children, a boy about
four years old remained yet asleep in the up
per part of the house—the mother after hear
i ing of the situation of her child rushed through
j the flames and seized her sleeping boy, and no
I sooner had she gained the object for which she
; was willing to risk her life, than it was discov
ered that all means of escape were cut off",
| save that of leaping from the second story win
dow with her child, which without a moment’s
hesitation was done, without any material in
jury to herself or her child.
Alb. Evening Journal.
IRON HOUSE.
The Glasgow Chronicle has noticed an ele
gant plan of a sea coast cottage of iron hung
up in the Tontine Coffee room, Glasgow. The
plan referred to seems to have six rooms,
kitchen and laundry, and other conveniences,
for the small sum of £250, or if a double
Douse fourteen rooms, 500. This is not half
the price of a common house with similar ac
commodation, and can be ready in two
months.
ANOTHER YANKEE NOTION.
The Bangor Whig says an ingenious Me
chanic of that city is constructing a beautiful
carriage to be propelled without horses, steam
or magnetism, but solely by the weight of the
passenger, applied to treadles.
FOR MARRIED PEOPLE.
If married couples would only remember
these threesimple words—“ Bear and forbear,”
and put th# maxim into practice, they would
add much to their happiness in some instances.
“FORCE OF HABIT.”
A toper in New Orleans taking a check to
a bank to be cashed, was asked by the teller,
how he would have it ?’ he replied instantly,
‘ cold, if you please, and without sugar.’ ”
SIMPLICITY.
A countryman giving evidence in court,
was asked by the counsel if he was born in
j wedlock? No, sir, answered the man, 1 was
born iii Devonshire.
Diogenes being asked why it was that phi
losophers sought the society of the rich, much
more than the latter sought theirs, replied—
“ Because philosophers know what they want,
and the others do not.”
I saw’ a pale mourner stand bending over
the tomb, and his tears fell fast and often. As
lie raised his humid eyes to heaven, he cried,
“My brother! —oh! my brother!"
A sage passed that way, and said,
“ For whom dost thou mourn ?”
“ One,” replied he, “ whom I did not suffi
ciently love while living; but whose inestima
ble worth I now feel.’’
“ What wouldst thou do, if he were restord
to thee ?”
The mourner replied that he would never
offend him by an unkind word, but would take
every . occasion to show his friendship, if he
could but come back to his fond embrace.
“ Then waste not thy time in useless grief,”
said the sage ; “ but if thou hast friends, go
and cherish the living remembering that they
will, one day, be dead also.”
A king having inquired of one of his cour
tiers why he always spoke well of another, who
was always calumniating him, “ Be not aston
ished, sire,” he replied, “ we are both liars.”
The Daiien Herald of the 14th inst., in
i apologising to its readers for the omission of
several articles, in consequence of the absence
!of one of its compositors, who it says is on a
periodical spree, concludes thus:
“We wish Brandreth or Peters, would
manufacture some pills to keep printer's sober.
A printer should never get “ shot in tlie neck,”
—it unnerves his lO”’s—squabbles his page—
hatters his Ts —and often he finds his form in
a gutter, in such a filthy condition that tlie
devil himself —(printer’s devil, g<-ntle reader, '
we mean,) turns swsy in disgust."
O II I G I N AL.
For die Southern Post.
A DREAM OF THE PAST.
BY JULIET.
Never before did a dream so sweet
Throw a delight in my waking hours ;
Never again shall my weary feet
Enter the shade of such charmed bowers!
Never before did the summer skies
Bend with such beauty o’er vale and stream—
Never again shall tiieir rainbow dyes
So like the glory of Eden seem !
Never before was n>y heart so light—
Never again can it feel so gay !
Gone is its joy with that vision bright—
Vanished was hoj>e when it faded away.
Never before did this ardent soul
Worship so fondly at Love’s pure shrine;
Never again can his strong control
Cease in the heart that at first was thine.
Never before did a ray so brief
Brighten my path with its lovely spell i
Never again shall it lose the grief
Shading it o’er at our sad Farewell!
Philadelphia, May 9th, 1933.
For the Southern Post.
TIIE DAYS OF POESY.
Past are the days of Poesy—Now no more
The gentle Shepherd seeks the murm’ring rill,
When the bright moonlight sparkles on the w ave.
To pour his plaint upon the ear of nightt
No whisp’ring loves float on the zephyr’s wing.
No oaten pipes in dulcet notes resound
Along the windings of tlie peaceful vale.
Yet are our skies as bright—our streams as sinoothe
As when of old, the pastoral song was tuned.
The merry wood-lark sings as blithely still,
As tenderly the mind steals thro’ the grove,
As free, as pure—No! not as pure our tho’ts :
The flattering tale we breathe in beauty's ear,
The serenade in summer’s midnight hour,
That o’er the sleeping maiden’s half-closed sense,
Falls like the whisp’rings of a heavenly choir,
Come not from truth, “ enthroned in the heart.”
Simplicity, the soul of inspiration, fled,
Leaves nature withering ’neath the hand of art.
We pay to passion what is uue to love!
HENRY.
South Carolina. May, 1839.
For the Southern Post.
ETOWAH CAVERN.
“ Give us, ye powers, the wondrous scenes to show,
Conceal’d in darkness, in the depths below.”
All limestone countries abound with caves, or lime
sinks, as they are called by the natives, of greater or
less magnitude; and perhaps no where will they be
found more numerous than in that part of Georgia
which embraces the section of country lately in the oc
cupancy of the Cherokee Indians. There is not a mile
square, where it is most strongly impregnated with lime,
on which will not be seen one or more of these sinks ;
and it is said, tnough I apprehend it rarely happens,
that at times a "traveller,” in wending his way over a
smooth and level country, unconscious of the “ sandy
foundation” on which he rests, is precipitated, man and
horse, by the sudden " evanning” of the earth beneath
! him, several feet, and sometimes to a depth from which
;he cannot extricate himself. Many there are, howev
er, of a regular and easy descent, and not so deep as
to contain water in a dry season of tlie year, whilst oth
ers sink abruptly to a depth which has never been as
certained; and the weary and benighted land-hunter,
in the early settling of the country, before the roads
were plainly marked out, has taken his chance with his
knapsack, in the woods, among the ravenous beasts of
the forest, sooner than prosecute his journey over a
“land” presenting such awful chasms to engulf them
But as I am in no danger of falling into such a dilem
ma, I shall leave those comparatively insignificant ones
to their especial care, and proceed to give a brief de
scription of the one at the head of this article.
I will first, however, take the occasion to observe,
that although there are doubtless many caverns in the
United States of greater extent, and perhaps magnifi
cence, yet there are others comparatively insignificant,
which have become the w-onder of the world around
them, and are ranked among the greatest natural cu
riosities of the States in which they are found;
and had this been located somewhere to the “far
North,” I would venture the assertion, that there are
native Georgians, now ignorant of its existence, who
would, ere this have penetrated and explored every
room which it contains, with utter amazemeut and de
light.
This Cavern is situated in Cass county, about five
miles southwest of Cassville, and one mile north of the
Etowah river, from which circumstance it derives its
name. The circumjacent country is, as in most in
stances of caves of any extent, broken and mountain
ous ; and the cavern itself opens on the east side of a
small mountain, about two hundred feet from its base;
but the ascent to its mouth is by no means difficult.—
On arriving at the aperture we found our entrance into
the cavern to be through an arch of about fifteen feet
in heighth, and perhapv as many in width, overhung
with cragged rocks partly covered with vines and bri
ars. We now prepared our torches for a descent.—
After having penetrated into the mountain perhaps
three hundred feet, by an angle of about 30 degrecs i
rendered difficult, if not dangerous, from the number of j
large stones in our way, which, by some convulsion of
nature, had been detached from above, we found our
selves in a large and capacious chamber, with a smooth,
level and firm floor. Here, in this habitation of soli
tude, cold, dark and silent—like the chambers of death
—we paused to contemplate the gloominess of the ca
vern, and to enjoy those sensations, which on a first
visit to such mansions of eternal darkness, our situation
could not fail to awaken.
1 have been accustomed to sublime scenery—l have
stood enraptured and amazed on the tops of some of
our highest mountains, and gazing with inexpressible
delight on the beautiful and magnificent landscapes
which nature had strewed around me in the vast dis
tance, with a prodigal hand, my feelings were awaken
ed to a lively sense of the goodness, greatness and mag
nificence of an All-creative Power; and involuntarily,
I was constrained to bow in reverence of its splendid
grandeur.
But the sensations which I felt, wlien for the first time,
I found myself in this gloomy “ world within a world,”
and shrouded from the world without by darkness tan
gible and impenetrable, no language can describe. I
felt my heart new-opened opened within me, and could
almost exclaim with the Poet,
“ Vain pomp and glory of the world. I hate ye.”
How different in character and attributes is the God
who reigns in these awful caverns, from that God whom
we should delight to contemplate from the mountain’s ;
top! There, he is a God of Light, of Truth and of!
Greatness, but here, a God of terrific Power, Wrath ,
and Vengeance. While we ahould there be constrain-1
ed to worship him, from Love and Gratitude, we would !
here approach his gloomy Throne with Fear and Trem
bling. I was forcibly reminded of that passage of Ho
ly Writ which describes the sinner in the last day, as
calling upon tlie rocks and mountains to hide him from
'he presence of a tin-avenging God
We now built a large fire in the centre of this ebam*
*“ r with some pine knots, which olhers no doubt h.H
carried theie for the same purpose, to dissipate ,h„
gloomy darkness which surrounded us, and to afford '
ght by which we could examine more minutely such
objects as presented themselves. We found ourselv
in an immense vaulted area, covered with one soln
arch of rock, perhaps one hundred feet high, and to all
appearances entire; its diameter was from 60 to 7o
feet, and its perpendicular walls seemed to enclose
in on all sides, save the one through which we had ***
tered, where the aperture had now expanded to abom
40 feet In this room our Indian guide informed us the
Indians were accustomed to celebrate their green cor
and other national festivals. From this chamber there’
is but one avenue leading further into the cavern and
through it we had to pass for some distance on our
hanus and knees, when we again found space enousl.
to proceed erect, and ascending a steep hill by an av
enue 100 feet in length and from '0 to 30 in width, we
entered another chamber of almost inconceivable gran-
We had now penetrated into the very bowels of the
mountain, and perceived avenues leading from this
chamber in various directions, and into contiguous
rooms of greater or less dimensions. Here it may be
! pro , pe ! r IO u,lSorvc ’ li,at !li e great extent of the cavern
and the number of its spacious rooms and chambers
render it difficult, if not impossible, to describe The'
mountain is doubtless hollow throughout, but cut up
| and d,vided b r Partitions, into chambers and rooma of
greater or less extent; all, allowing for their different
dimensions, bearing some considerable resemblance to
each other, and no one who has explored it,altho’some
suppose they have visited £0 or 40 rooms, pretend to
have found the extent of it, or to know the number of
rooms and chambers which it contains.
I shall endeavor to give a feint description of the hot
room, so called from the number of those birds which
inhabit it, and will also mention such curiosities as I
found in others, worthy of notice.
This chamber is the most extensive which the cavern
contains. It is also enclosed by an imniei.se and finely
arched roof, supported by pillars and columns compo
sed entirely of stalactites of lime, or as appearances
would seem to suggest, of petrified water, the result of
its dripping for a long series of ages. Some of these
pending from above have not united with those ascend
ing from the floor; and their extremities, not yet petri
fied, are of the consistence of lime mortar. They are
of various and elegant shapes; some are as regular and
uniform as the columns of art, whilst others bear a stri
king resemblance to animated nature. One in parti
cular reminded me forcibly of the unwieldy bulk of the
ele pliant. They are generally hard and firm, and when
not smoked by the light of the torch, so glittering as
almost to dazzle the sight. The roof is overspread with
; a thousand icicles and spars, white as shining marble.
This chamber, when I first visited it, presented an
appearance of splendor far different from what it now
exhibits, being comparatively unsullied by the mark of
■ torches, or by the hands of intruders. The sides were
entirely invested with a dazzling incrustation as white
as snow, and the glare of splendor and beauty which
resulted from an illumination by torches and the reflec
tion from the differently shaped objects, may be better
conceived than described. In one of the rooms we
approached the brink of an awful precipice, its depth
we had no means of ascertaining; but I have nodoubt
that from it opeued many rooms in the deep abyss be
low. In another, with some difficulty, we reached a
pure and delightful pool of water, which slaked our
thirst, entered the fissure of a rock, and was seen no
more.
j Thus we passed onward from one chamber to ano
| thcr, in this world of solitude, sometimes admiring the
.beauties of a single column of spars or stalactites, and
j then wondering at the magnificence of a large chain
j her, till we arrived by a long and narrow alley, to the
opposite side of the mountain; and here we found a
small opening, but too steep and narrow to aflbrd us
an egress, aud we turned to retrace our steps. On re
| turning, when we had arrived at one of the largest
| chambers, one of our party fired off a pistol. The re
! port, like the cannon's roar, was truly deafening, and
j with a heavy rumbling noisc.it reverberated and echo
;<d through one room after another, till it died away in
j the distance. It seemed like the “ moanings of spirits.”
j At length, after an absence of about four hours,
. reached the mouth of the cavern, much fatigued. Some
of the party almost fainted ou inhaling the vapid atmos
phere, after having so long breathed the pure air, occa
sioned by the nitre of the cave. H.
LETTERS FROM TIIE WEST INDIES-No. 12.
RARBA D O S ,
Bridgetown, Eartados, March, 1839.
To the Editor of the Southern Post:
Doar Sir—After leaving the harbor of St. Pierre wa
! made the best of our way for this Island, taking advan
| tage of a favorable breeze which promised us a short
passage. In this, however, we were disappointed—
! and for two days were beating through the passage be
tween Martinico and St. Lucia, gaining but little in
the day and less at night, when more caution was ne
cessary in approaching the land—this gave us frequent
and near views of the Diamond Rock, a remarkable
isolated cone projecting out of the ocean something
more than a mile from the southwestern point of Mar
tinico, its base covering not more than two acres, and
rising four hundred and seventy-feet above the level of
the sea. It is said to have been fortified by the English
during the general war of Europe, so. the purpose of
commanding the passage ; they having possession of
the opposite Island of St. Lucia. The carrying of their
heavy cannon up so abrupt a precipice was a very dif
ficult undertaking, but accomplished with great skill,
by first ascending the rock and drilling into its sum
mit by which heavy cables were made fast, thence to
their ship—the cannon were suspended to these cables
and drawn up by the great power of the tackle.
During the night of the second day after leaving Mar
tinico a favorable breeze carried us forward on our
course, and on the morning of the 14th, we found our
selves within sight of this port, where we dropped our
anchor about 10 o’clock.
On approaching this Island from the sea, its features
at once strike us as peculiar, and differs from all other
of the West Indies. You may perceive by an exam
ination of the map, that it lays out of the general range
of the others of the Windward group, and is nearly
one hundred miles to the Eastward, while all the others
have the general appearance of being the peaks of a
range of high mountains projecting out of the ocean.
This Island is a plain about twenty-one miles in length,
and fourteen or fifteen in breadth, based on a soft lime
stone rock, indented as I afterwards found, in many
places with what we call in the Southern States, iimt
•ink*. The soil on the highest ground being a chalky
marl, on the lower spots a dark brown, and near the
sea sandy, the highest lands, I should think, not mote
than one thousand feet abovo the lovel of the sea, and
rising from the beach by regular *teppt» or terraces ri
sing a few feet at each ascent, at considerable inter
vals. The cane, though we found it large, does not
have as rich green vegetation as that of St. Croix, nor
do the estates look so beautiful, for the want of that
neatness and care so beautifully conspicuous in the
landscapes of the Danish Islands, where all the build
ings are neady painted or whitewashed once every
year.
The climate of Burhudoe does not materially differ
from the other tropical Islands, though farther South,
(13 s 10’ N. lat. 53“ W. long.) the temperature «* indi
cated by the thermometer, does not differ from that of
St. Croit. In tlie Commercial Kooms yesterday it va
ried between 7»* and SO® The moel level spot* * r *