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HfMTTWDTIPIDW IT A TD)W fP A oIW IIJII jillmuJm Mll iAluliiM ll llnMiiMiA TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. Original For the Southern Literary Gazette. TO MARY*. —A PARODY. BY THOMAS I. A WHENCE. I’m sitting in the old seat, Mary, Where I sat long ago, When you were ’cross the way, Mary, Scarce hall’ a pebble’s throw. I’m thinking of old times, Mary, Times that are past and gone, When your smile lit my way, Mary, And o’er me brightly chone. Oh! those were happy days, Mary, Too swift the hours flew by ; Could old Time’s wheel turn slow, Mary, While you were ever nigh ? At noon, or dusky eve, Mary, Or soon, or late, i came, Wi.h a smile you welcomed me, Mary, A smile always the same. Your seat is vacant now, Mary, The old room looks so lone, And silence takes the platre, Mary, Os your sweet, gladsome tone. The btin.ls are open still, Mary, But I mi -s your pleasant face, The heaven ot your daik eyes, Mary, Your form of winsome grace. When my daily task is done, Mary, And my step is homeward bound, I loiter on the way, Mary, For nowhere are you found. And now my heart is like, Mary, Some old deserted hearth, Whose cheerful light hath fled, Mary, Its gladness and its mirth. And the light that brightly burned, Mary, In your window far on high, Hath fled, and no blest star, Mary, Flumes and frowning sky; I cared not fur the blast, Mary, When I that light could see, The stoim how e’er it raged, Mary, Fell harmlessly on me. And olt in the old seat, Mary, I’ll st, and think and sigh, O'er scenes I’ve hoarded up, Mary, To live in memory. Yet my heart thall still live on, Mary, Still hope that you’ll return, And the light I miss so much, Mary, Again will brightly burn. iet, should you ne’er come back, Mary, Wherever you may stray, flits heart wid follow still, Mary, Near you will ever stray— Whatever path you choose, Mary, May peace and joy attend, I o make it one oi pleasantness Tiil you shall reach its end. I miss you from your place, Mary, M here you sat long ago, W hen a smde was on your lip, Mary, A smile upon my brow. And I turn my gaze in vain, Mary, To the old accustomed plaee— W here you sat, soon will smile, Mary, On me a stranger’s face. Your place will soon be filled, Mary, Another will sit there, But thee i’ll not forget, Mary, “ Weie she fifty times as fair.” 1 hrough all Lie’s weary years, Mary, To glad my aching sight I’ll keep thy image still, Mary, Forever pure and blight. Georgia , May, 1849. A pretty neighbour, who, upon the approach of sum nier, new oil with tile birds to t.ie country, an t —lias never tnr!i U back, i .ie ne.-t i occupied atiil, but by a strange tDripol Cales. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE MAROON. A LEGEND OF THE CARRIBEES. BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ. Author ot “The Yemassee,” etc. XI. lint lie gathered courage for a second trial. 1 lie answering echoes were not follow ed I iv an v evil, though they seem cil to mock his ears with a laughter such as he had heard from the tyrant ot the Dian de Burgos, when he devo ted him to his melancholy exile. He passed again into the cavern, taking care, by his own silence, to provoke no su ch fearful responses as those which had driven him forth. A few feet brought him to a small dark pool which lay directly in his pathway, and which left but a narrow space between its own margin and the walls of the cavern.— This he sounded with his spear, and found to be shallow. It was a lakelet left by the waves of ocean, by which, at its overflow, the cave was evidently penetrated. Passing this pool, our ” Maroon ’ found himself upon a dry floor, the foundation of which was the solid rock ; but a slender coating of soil had formed upon it. which was, in turn, clothed with a nice smooth covering of green and velvet-like moss. Here he was gladdened by a glimpse of the sun, which, breaking through a chink in the r °ck, a slender crevice, glided along the rugged vaultside, affording to the timid adventurer, a more perfect idea of an angel presence, than he had ever before possessed. Another opening in the r oek. almost immediately above, affbrd cd sufficient light for his examination ot the whole interior. The cave nar rowed to a still slenderer gap, as he ad vanced, than was the one by which he bad entered. This was the entrance to another apartment. It was some time before he ventured to enter this and not until he had thrust his spear, lts lull length, into its recesses. He dien clambered up, for the elevation of this inner chamber was greater than the first. Here he was again refreshed “ith brief glimpses of the sunlight, a MUM mmAL> mmm to utme t m Am m mmm, mb to mmi mmumiaL which, peeping in through two open ings of the rock, looked like two of the most natural and smiling eyes in the world. This apartment, though of less height, was of larger area than the oth er. It soon afforded him new subjects of curiosity if not alarm. In the cen tre of the chamber stood a roek, scarce ly larger than a blacksmith’s anvil, and having something of the appearance of one, on which lay the remains of a fire. Brands lay half consumed, the fires of which were now extinguished ; but the allies were there, still undisturbed, as if the flame had only recently gone out. Piles of an aromatic gum, lay upon a shelf of the rock, and other piles, in slender fragments, of wood of which our Maroon knew nothing, lay contigu ous also. But what, more than any thing beside, arrested and confounded our “ Maroon were certain numerous Hireds of dark hair, soft, fine and very long, like the hair of women, which hung, neatly tied in separate volumes, bom the tops of reeds, which were stuck about the vaulted roof of the cav ern, and wherever a crevice could be found sufficiently large in which to in troduce their slender extremities. Ex amining several of these shreds of hair, the wonder of the explorer was increas ed to discover that the ends of them were shriveled as in the flame. There were other objects to excite his surprise, if not to occasion his alarm. Baskets ot shells and pebbles, flowers which had decayed, a bow and many arrows, —all of the latter being broken—and a heavy string of large pearls which had been slightly injured in the lire, but which Spanish cupidity readily conceived would still possess considerable value in the Cuba market. XII. Here then was a curious discoverv. lhe island was not inhabited, lie had traversed it for three days and had found no footstep but his own. Had it ever been inhabited ? Scarcely :—the im punity with which beast and bird en joyed its securities, and of which he had sufficient proofs in his three days’ expe rience, was conclusive of that question. But that it was visited by human be ings, the witnesses in the cavern were numerous. Did they come frequently, for what purpose, and from whence?— iliese were the next questions. That they came frequently might be inferred from various circumstances. The brands which had been swept from the altar, were in great heaps in one corner of the cavern. Ihe shreds of hair were equal! v numerous and of different degress of age. This difference was very percep Able upon the slightest examination. 1 hey came for a religious purpose.— The shreds of hair, the altar, the aro matic woods and gum,—were all sig nificant ot sacred rites. From whence? Surely, was the thought of the “Ma roon, bom that isle, or continent, the dim outlines of which had fixed his gaze but an hour before. A farther search led to farther discoveries, but all of the same character. Vast stores oi these shreds ol hair, seemingly the ac cumulation ot centuries, were found in remote crannies and dark recesses ot the vault. A thousand little baskets ot shells, and white and blue fragment?, —pebbles that seemed like glass,— and, more precious in the sight of Lo pez, numerous strands of pearl, such as he had already discovered—which, dark and dingy w ith fiequent smoke* in the cavern, he tbund could-be made clean by a little water. In a recess ot the rock, the most obscure, he made the discovery of a niche which had evi dently been used for a couch. It was softly lined with moss and leaves, and there were flowers in bunches at the head and feet which might have been giaspcd by the hands of youth and beauty, lhe impression of the head was perceptible upon a pillow of moss at one extremity, and suggested to our Maroon the idea of a far more com fortable couch for himself, than any which he had yet found upon his island. The sun had been rapidly sinking while he had been urging his researches, and the cheerless dusk of the horizon without, as he emerged from the ca vern, determined hint once more to re turn to its recesses. He did so, and, ascending the mysterious recess in the inner chamber, though with some hesi tation, lie soon sunk into a deep slum ber, in which, though he dreamed of strange forms and aspects about him, lie dreamed of nothing to impair the virtue of his sleep. XIII. But, with his awakening thoughts, apprehension, rather than pride or ex ultation, followed the consciousness of his new discoveries. Ilad he not rea son to fear the return of the strange people by whom the isle was visited, as it would seem, periodically? That they were a barbarous people he could not doubt—that they would resent his presence, and treat him as an enemy, he had every reason to dread. He : should be a victim to someone of their ! cruel sacrifices. lie should be immo- lated on the altars of one of the bloody deities of the Carribean worship. The man, brave by nature, and in the situ ation of Lopez de Levya, might well entertain such apprehensions. How much more vividly would they occur to the imagination of one so timid and feeble of soul as our “Maroon.” They kept him—assuming various forms of terror —in a cold sweat for several days; and though the impression was naturally weakened and dissipated the more familiar the images became, yet any immediately impelling thought brought them back upon his spirit with a ghastly and withering influence.— Three days elapsed after this discovery before he found himself able to recur to it without a vague and overpowering sense of terror. But the pearls shone in his eyes. He had grown wealthy on a sudden. He drew forth the nu merous strings which he found suspend ed in the cavern. Every Spaniard of that day had an instinctive appreciation of treasure. Lopez had never seen so much riches at a glance before. He examined his pearls in the sunlight.— lie cleansed them of their impurities by the ocean’s side. And he was the master of all this glitter. He had never dreamed of such vast possessions, in Spain—but when he thought of Spain, and felt the probability, in all its force, that he should never again behold its shores, he was almost moved in his desperation to fling his newly found treasure into the deep. But the latent hope, which dreamed of the pos sible approach of some future mariner, forbade the sacrifice; and restoring his possessions to the dark crevices from whence he had taken them, he stretched himself out upon the eminence which vaulted his possessions, and which had now become with him a favourite place of watch, to gaze upon the broad plane of ocean by which he was girded on every hand. XIV. No sign of hope for the “Maroon.” The sun shines with a red and scorch ing influence. There is not a cloud in the sky to curtain the brazen terrors of his countenance. lhe ocean sleeps, smooth as glass, unbroken in its wilder ness of range, spread out like an end less mirror of steel, that fired the very brain to gaze upon. And in the sky, on the return of night, might be seen the moon, bright but placid, nearly at her full, giving to the scene something of an aspect melancholy, such as she habitually wears herself. Not a speck upon the waters, —not a speck,—and, while the lull continues, no possibility of a sail in sight. He looks toward the taint uncertain line of shore, which he has fancied to be beyond him on the south. It is no fancy now. It is cer tain. The subdued waves lessen the usual obstacles of vision. The line of iand, if it be land and no mocking cloud appears to rise. It undulates, lhere are inequalities which strike his eye, and which, seen at that distance, cannot be subject to doubt or disbelief. Ho trembles with mixed feelings of hope and terror as he comes to this conclusion. Once more to behold the human form—once more to look upon the friendly aspect of man, and to say ‘Brother! But will the aspects be friendly that shall look upon him from that shore? Will they hearken to his cry of pleading? Will they understand him when he uses the endearing title of “ brother” to the savage chief who leads the marauding party ? These sugges tions but fill our “Maroon” with dis may. Crouching in the shade, his eye fixed on the opposite shores, as he believes them, he starts suddenly to his feet. He passes his hand across his brows— his lingers press his eyes, as if to re move some speck, some foreign atom, f.otn his vision. Can he believe his eyes ? Does he, indeed, behold an ob ject upon the waters approaching him from that doubtful and hostile shore? He sees; —but now it disappears. It is gone! He looks in vain, his whole frame convulsed and quivering with the emotions of his soul! Again it rises into view. It disturbs the smooth suifaee of the deep. The brightness of the mirror is shaded by a speck, and that speck grows upon his sight. He can doubt no longer. It is a boat which he beholds —it brings with it a savage enemy —the fierce cannibal of the Carribean !Sea! He drops his spear, and his cross-bow —his hand grapples, not his knife, but his rosary. He tails upon his knees —he counts the beads with hurried hand and failing memory. He clutches the agnus Dei —he strains it to his lips,and with many a broken invocation to some favourite saint, he harries away to put himself in shelter. His search has fortunately enabled him to find many places of temporary hiding, such as would probably suffice for safety during the stay —which was evidently brief always —of the savages by whom the islet was visited. At first, he thought of occupying a dense piece of copse which lay at a little CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, MAY 25, 1850. distance in the rear of the elevation in which the cavern was found. But a doubt whether this would not be pene tiated, in a desultory ramble of the intruders after fruit, and a curious de sire to be in some situation which would enable him to watch their pro ceedings, led him to abandon this idea. The cave itself was obviously one of their places of greatest resort. It was here that their religious rites were per formed. The islet itself was unem ployed. It was a place set apart and sacred to some special and su perior purpose. The vaulted chamber was the place of their mysteries. He determined that it should be the place ot his concealment. lie had sought out all its secret places. He had seen that certain of their remains—their shreds of hair—their baskets of shell — their broken arrows—had been undis- 1 turbed for a long season; and behind these, in convenient fissures of the rock, which were wholly unlighted by the day, he prepared to bestow himself. The suggestions of the naturally timid person, under a consciousness of ap proaching danger, are usually prompt enough. Lopez de Levy a hurried to execute the plan he had conceived. lie entered the cave ere yet the strangers could behold any movement on the shore. His provisions—a supply for several days at least, had been already transferred to the safe keeping of the | vaulted apartment. Ihese were all disposed of, conveniently to his reach, in the crevice of the rock in which his own person was to find security. And, all prepared, he planted himself w ithin the mouth of the cave, anxiously look ing forth—yet not so as to be seen — for the unknown object of his appre hension. XV. The strange object is indeed’a boat— a large canoe with two banks of oars— 1 one of those long and stately barges in which the Carribean was wont to go forth for war or ceremonial. Its side.-. w r ere gaudily and richly painted. Its poop was raised with a triumphal cano py’ ot dyed cotton above it. Its prow was lofty and sharp, and bore, for a , figure head, the savage jaws of a Cay man, or American crocodile. The rowers of the boat were men, but aL besides were women. These were eight in number—seven who sat for ward, and near the prow, and one who sat in the stern, alone and under the canopy. The coarse of the boat was regulated by the oars-men. The wo men at the prow were all richly clad in stained cotton garments. Their heads were tressed with strands of pearl—their necks, which were bare, were covered with similar decorations. Each, in her hands, bore a bunch of arrows and a basket. Beside them might be seen other baskets of aro matic gums, and bundles of wood simi larlv aromatic. Ihese females were all evidently matrons, none of them being less than thirty years of age, and all of them wearing the experience ot look and bearing which is common to those who have been mothers. But *he w ho sat alone at the stern was evi dently none of these. She could not have been more than fifteen years old and looked wild and startled as a voumr fawn, for the first time venturing forth without its dam in company. She was quite as beautiful as she was young; her skin less dark than was usual among the Carribean Indians—not much more dark, indeed, than was that of the Spaniard—and the red blood coursing at moments, from her heart into her cheeks, suffusing it with the most ex quisite tints of innocence and youth. She was well formed and tall. Her hair streamed down over her back and shoulders. Her bosom was quite bare, without pearl or any other ornament. Her dress was of white cotton, purely white, without any of those rich and gaudy dyes, which were so freely used by her people. Before her was a small earthen vessel half covered, from which a slight smoke continued to ascend, as if from a hidden fire below, into this, at intervals, the maiden might be seen to fling a fine powder which she scoop ed out of a gourd that lay beside her. Numerous baskets of flowers and shells lay at her feet, and a bunch of arrows rested upon her lap. The oars-men were all habited as warriors. Their brows were grave. No words passed among them or among the women, un til, as they drew nigh the shore, the latter suddenly broke out into a wild, and not unmusical chaunt, which made our “Maroon” recoil within his vaulted chamber, with an indefinite sense of terror. At this sound the rowers dropped their oars —the boat lay upon her centre, and the women prepared to leave her, though they were still more than thirty paces from the shore. But the water was exceedingly shallow where the vessel lay;—the beach wffiich formed the esplanade of the cave, stretching out boldly for some distance into the sea. Availing themselves of their knowledge of the bar, the women stepped forth upon a ridge, w r here the ocean, disarmed of its billows, swept along gently to the level of their knees. They brought forth their billets of fra grant wood—their baskets of shell — their sheaves of arrows —their vessel of odorous gums and incense. Then, taking the damsel from beneath the canopy at the stern, they bore her, with anxious solicitude upon their shoulders from the vessel to the shore—her feel and drapery being kept sacred from the waves. One of their number seemed to counsel and direct the rest, and it was with feelings of new horror, tha our “Maroon” beheld in her g asp, a* she led the way to the cavern, a sharp broad instrument of stone, that greatlj r>- “hibled a butcher’s cleaver. Hit apprehensions were not now for him self. For what was the unhappy dam sel destined? For the sacrifice? For what crime—what penance—what ter rible superstition ? To appease tin. malice of what bloody god, was thi. poor child, so young, so beautiful —so evidently innocent—to be made tht victim? Her sad and fearful looks— the tears which now gathered jn hei eyes —the wild ehaunt of the women, and the stern, grave aspects of the men —these all seemed to denote an occa sion of w r o and terror. The men did no; leave the boat —they drew no nearei to the land. The shore seemed to In a consecrated one, which the masculine footstep was not allowed to pollute, lhe girl, still borne upon the arms ol the women,and following her who seem ed to be the officiating priestess, was carried into the cavern; the wild chorut of the women being resumed as the} entered the gloomy portals, and rever beiating from the walls within, with a sound at once sweet awful and inspiring. XVI. Our “Maroon” was already crouch ed, close, in his place of hiding. He beheld in silence and safety, but with an awful beating at the heart, the whole of the strange procession. lle saw the women circling the altar stone with wild contortions and a strange unearth ly song. He saw them, from several branches of wood, draw forth the hi - lets, with which thev kindled a flame upon the stone, lhe fire was drawi from the vessel which had been supplied with fuel on the voyage by the hai.d of the young damsel. She sat apart, on a low projection of the wall, to which she had been conducted, and bu; a few paces from the cavity in which Lopez found retreat. She took no par. in the ceremony, though she seemed deeply interested in its progress. At certain pauses in the wild incantation* particularly when certain emphath sounds or words closed the chaunt, she clasped her hands aloft, and her groan was audible, as if in supplication. Tin fire began to blaze suddenly above tin stone, and its strange gleams p’.ayed in lively tints upon the gloomy walls oi the cavern. Then the circling dance and the chorus were renewed. Then at certain sounds, the women paused and at such moments, the maiden rose, and, approaching the flame, threw into it f agments of wood or gum with which she had been supplied. At al. such additions, the flame blazed up more brightly, and the chaunt wa more wild and vigorous than ever. Al length it ceased; and, in an instant, every woman crouched down around the stone where she stood, except the one who seemed to act as priestess. She did not join in the chorus of the others, but in a low chaunt of her own performed some separate office. She now approached the maiden, and con ducted her toward the altar. At hei words, the damsel bent over the heads of the kneeling women, separately, and her tears fell fast as she murmured in their several ears. She took from the necks of each her strands of pearl. They themselves unbound them from their own tresses, which now hung down mournfully, of great length, from everv shoulder. The pearls were collected by the priestess and laid apart. Our “Maroon,” from his place of watch, followed with keen eyes, and saw where she laid them. The women now re ceded. The girl embraced them each, with a deep sobbing, and they respond ed with mingling sighs and songs, while passing out of the chamber in w hich they left her with the officiating woman. When their voices were heard only faintly from the sea shore, where they had now assembled, the maiden was conducted to the altar place by her matron-like companion. Her mourn ful utterance announced some sadder ceremonial. The girl answered her by a cry and threw herself at her feet be fore the altar. The woman knelt upon one knee. The head of the maiden was supported upon the other from which the long black hair depended, half shrouding the drapery of the priest ess. Very tender were the few words which then passed between the two. The girl clasped her hands together, and her tearful eyes were full of the sweetest but saddest resignation. The woman smoothed her tresses out with her fingers, stooped and kissed affec- tionately the lips of the child, and while everything betokened nothing less than the truest sympathy, and the most heartfelt and generous affection between them, what was the horror of our “Maroon”—now deeply interested m the event —to see the woman pos sess herself of the broad knife of stone which lay on the foot of the altar. Timid and feeble as he was of soul, his fingers clutched his knife* with a convulsive resolution, which, in the ease of a braver spirit, would have long be fore declared itself in action! ‘XVII. The moment in which the Indian lamsel lay th is prostrate and at the nerey of one who seemed about to com plete the rites in which she had been engaged, by the sacrifice of the innocent creature in her grasp, was a moment of the most cruel humiliation to the imbecile Spaniard. His sensibilities were violently excited. Every sym pathy of his heart was awakened. His letter nature—his human training— ,iis Christian teaching—such as it was possible for him to acquire in thatday of constant war and rapine—were all active in urging him to adventure his own life, in saving her who seemed about to perish before him. She too, ;o young, so resigned, and—not the east consideration—so really beauti fal. But the necessary nerve was want ing to the “ Maroon.” He who dared not the single stroke, though prompt ed by the woman he professed to love, when it would have saved her from shame and himself from the bitter exile which he now endured, was not likely „o exhibit any rashness—any ordinary murage,—though with such a threat ening spectacle of death before him. Happily for humanity, his apprehen sions were all idle. The meditated sac rifice in which the priestess was about to officiate, contemplated not the life out the long and flowing locks of the lamsel. These were severed at a stroke, and hung up in the chamber, from an arrow, the shaft of which was nade to penetrate a crevice in the roek. Then the maiden rose v and taking the ounch of arrows which she had brought, she snapt then in twain before the altar which the matron still continued to .upply, with aromatic gums and fuel, some further cremonies were perform ed—there was a solemn imposition of lands, while the virgin knelt before the priestess, and the lips of the latter were slued to the forehead of the girl. A irief dialogue, in subdued and mur nuring tones, passed between them, md then the voices of both rose in a wild, sad chaunt, the burden of which was caught up by the voices of the fe males without. One embrace followed the subsidence of the strain, and the natron and the vigin parted—the form er hurrying from the cavern, and the latter sinking down, in an agony of tear and grief, before the fitful blaze upon the altar. Lopez de Levya drew a long breath. He began to grow courageous. The voices of the women without were lying away in the distance. Could hey have retired to the boat, and could .hey be returning to the distant shore from whence they came, leaving the naid alone as he himse.f had been left; Her evident sorrow and apprehension ieclared this to be the case. But it was evident that no such feeling moved aer abandonment as had occasioned uis. The proofs of a deep and tender .nterest had been shown her to the last. He had heard the sighs, the moans the murmurs, of the officiating matron. He had witnessed her fond caresses of the damsel. He had heard with quiver ing sensibilities the wild sad chaunt of the attending women, whose song still feebly fell upon his senses from with out. The scene which he had witnessed was a religious ceremony. But what did it contemplate? Was the maiden thus left to herself- —and to him—de stined for a sacrifice —to perish at last, before the altars of some strange and savage divinity ? It might be so; but certainly no such purpose was designed at present, for he did not fail to per ceive that an ample supply of food was left with her, sufficient for a month’s consumption. Or, was she destined, herself, to become a priestess, officiat ing, like the matron, who had left her, In the same, and other mysterious rites, hereafter? This was the more proba ble conjecture. At least such was the thought to which, after a rapid mental survey of probabilities, our “Maroon” arrived. Perhaps a little more delibe ration might have rendered it doubtful, whether the innumerable signs which the walls of the chamber presented, of repeated ceremonials like the present, were not proofs that the proceeding could not regard any such appropri ation of the neophyte. It was a cere monial evidently common to the tribe or nation. It was one through which, at a certain period, each virgin had to pass. It was indeed, a dedicatory, but it was an invocatory service also. We may, in this place, briefly declare the object of the ceremonial. THIRD VOLUME-NO. 4 WHOLE NO. 104. Among the Caribbeans, as among the Aborigines of the new world in most quarters, both sexes were dedi cated, separately, and by different rites, to fortune. The period in life when they were to emerge from the salutary restraints of the parent, and to be left to the assertion of their own wits and the exercise of their own intelligence, was that chosen, in which to solicit so? them the protection of the gods, who should confer upon them some espe cial spiritual guide and guardian.— To propitiate the gods for this favour— to move them to an indulgent dispen sation—to secure a friendly and favour ing protector, and to inspire the young w ith wisdom, courage and faithfulness, were the objects of the ceremonial. In the case of males, they were thus con secrated when able to commence the labours of the chase. They were sub jected to severer ordeals than the other sex, since the leading desire, with them, was their proper endowment with hardi hood and courage. Long abstinence froom food, exposure to cold, and se quent stratagems by which to alarm them and try their courage, were re sorted to by those having charge ol their initiate. The maidens were more gently entreated. Isolation rather than exposure, was the influence employed upon their courage. Food was provi ded them, but of a sort la’her to en flame the fancies than the blood. This was to be chastened rather than exhil arated. Roots of rare efficacy, the vir tues of which they knew, —herbs which assailed the brain and the nervous sys tem, were silently mingled with the food which was left for their sustenance; and the very fumes of the aromatic woods and gums with w hich they were appointed to feed their daily ahd night ly tires, possessed a partially intoxica ting effect upon those who continued to inhale them. It was while under such influences that the visions of the youth were to be observed with heed. The images that were most frequent in theii dreams—tlie scenes which they witness ed—the voices that they heard. —the laws which were declared —these were to be the oracles by which their whole succeeding lives were to be regulated. By these the young warrior was to be guided in the chase or the conflict, and the young woman, in the keeping ot her household, the trainingof her young and the exercise of her sympathies and tastes. The favourite, or leading as pect, or object, in their visiions, was to become their guiding spirit forever af ter. It was customary in many tribes —pei haps in most —to adopt this ob ject as their mark or sign ; —and thi? was the totem, inscribed upon the arm or breast, —not dissimilar to ‘those of knighthood in the middle ages, drawn fom favourite objects of sight, or the events most conspicuous in their live —with this difference, that, in Europe the totem was inscribed upon the shield, the surcoat or the pennon, —among the savages of the new world, upon the na ked person. (Continued in our next.) (Slimpscs of lira ‘Banka. LITERARY PORTRAITS. From Gilfillan’s Literature and Literary Men. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Having accepted from Mrs. Biown ing’s own hand sadness, or at least se iiousness,as the key to her nature and genius, let us continue to apply it in our future remarks. This at once im pels her to, and fits her for, the high position she has assumed, uttering the “Cry of the Human.” And whom would the human race prefer as their earthly advocate, to a high-souled and gifted woman? \Vhat voice but the female voice could so softly and strong ly, so eloquently and meltingly, inter pret to the ear of him whose name is Love, the deep woes and deeper wants of“poor humanity’s afflicted will, strug gling in vain with ruthless destiny ? ’ Some may quarrel with the title, “The Human,” as an affection; but, in the tirst place, if so, it is a very small one, and a small affectation can never furn ish matter for a great quarrel; second ly, we are not disposed to make a man, and still less a woman, an offender for a word, and thirdly, we fancy we can discern a good reason for her use of the term. What is it that is crying aloud through her voice to Heaven ! Is it the feral or fiendish element in human nature ? That has found an organ in Byrun—an echo in his bellowing verse. It is the human element in man— bruised, bleeding, all but dead under the pressure of evil circumstances, un der the ten thou and tyrannies, mis takes, and delusions of the world, that has here ceased any longer to be silent, and is speaking in a sister s voice to Time and to Eterniy —to Earth and Heaven. The poem may truly be call ed a prayer for the times, and no col lect in the English liturgy surpasses it in truth and tenderness, though some may think its tone daring to the brink of blasphemy, and piercing almost to anguish. Gracefully from this proud and gid dy pinnacle, wffiere she has stood as the conscious and commissioned represen tative of the h iman race, she descends to the door of the factory, and pleads for the children inclosed in that crowd ed and busy hell. The “ Cry of the Factory Children” moves you, because it is no poem at all —it is just a long sob, veiled and stifled as it ascends through the hoarse voices of the poor beings themselves. Since we lead it we can scarcely pass a factory, without seeming to her this psalm issuing from the machinery, as it it were protesting against its own abused powers. But to use the language of a writer quoted a little before, ” The Fairy Queen is dead, shrouded in a \ard ot cotton stud’ made by the spinning-jennv, and by that other piece of new improved machinery, the souls and bodies of British children , for which death alone holds the | stent. ’ From Mrs. Brown ing, perhaps the most imaginative and intellectual of British females, down to a pale-faced, thick-voiced, degraded, ha dly human, faetory girl, what a long and precipitous descent! But though hardlv, she is human : and availing her self of the small, trembling, but eter naily indestructible link of connection implied in a comftion nature, our author •an indentify herself wilh the cause, and incarnate her genius in the person of the poor perishing child. Ilow un speakably more affecting is the plead ing in behalf of a particular portion of the race, than in behalf of the entire family! Mrs. Browning might have uttered a hundred “cries of the human, ’ and proved herself only a sentimental artist, and awakened little save an echo dying away in distant elfin laughter; but the cry of a factory child, coming hrough a woman’s has gone to a na tion’s heart. Although occupied thus with the sterner wants and sorrows ot society, -.he is not devoid of interest in its minor miseries and disappointments. She can sit down beside little Ella (the minia ture of Alnashcar) and watch the histo ry of her day-dream, beside the swan s nest among the reeds, and see in her disappointment a type of human hopes in general, even when towering and ra diant as summer clouds. Ella s dream among the reeds! W hat else was Godwin’s Political Justice? What else was St. Simonianisrn ? What else is Young Englandism. And what else are the hopes built by many now upon certain perfected schemes of education, which, freely transacted, just mean the farther sharpening and furnishing ot knaves and fools; and now upon a “ Coming Man,” who is to supply every deficiency, reconcile every contradic tion, and right every wrong. Yes, he will come mounted on the red-roan horse of sweet Ella’s vision ! JIENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. The distinguishing qualities of Long fellow seem to be beauty of imagina tion, delicacy of taste, wide sympathy, and mild earnestness, expressing them selves sometimes, in forms of quaint and fantastic fancy, but always in chaste and simple language. His imagina tion sympathizes more with the correct, ihe classical, and the retined, than with that outer and sterner world, where dwell the dreary, the rude, the fierce, and the terrible shapes of things. The scenery he describes best is the storied richness of the Lhine, or the golden glo ries of the Indian summer, or the en virons of the old .Nova fecotian vil lage, or the wide billowing prairie; and not those vast forests, where a path for the sunbeams must be hewn, nor those wildernesses of snow, where the storm and the wing of the condor di vide the sovereignty. In the mid it of such dreadful solitudes, his genius ra ther shivers and cowers, than rises and reigns. He is a spirit of the Beautiful, more than of the Sublime ; he has lain on the lap of Loveliness, a.id no- been Jandmd, like a lion-cub, on the knees of i’error. r l he magic he wields, though soft, is true and strong. If not a pio phet, torn by a secret burden, and ut tering it in wild, tumultuous strains, he is a genuine poet, who has sought for, and found inspiration, now in the story and scenery of his own country, and l.ow in the lays and legends of other lands, native vein, in itself ex quisite, has been highly cultivated and delicately cherished. It is to us a proof of Longfellow T ’s originality, that he bears so well and meekly his load of accomplishments and acquirements. His ornaments, un like tho-e of the Sabine maid, have not crushed him, nor impeded the motions ofhis own mind. He has transmuted a lore, gathered from many languages, into a quick and rich flame, which w e feel to be the flame of Genius. It is evident that his principal obliga tions are due to German literature, which over him, as over so many at the present day, exerts a certain wild witch ery, and is tasted with all the sweet ness of the forbidden fruit. No w l iter in America has more steeped his soul in the spirit of German poetry, its blend ed homeliness and romance, its sim plicity and fantastic emphasis, than Longfellow'. And if he does not often trust himself amidst the w eltering chaos of its philosophies, you see him, lured by their fascination, hanging over their brink, and rapt in wonder at their strange gigantic, and ever-shifting forms. Indeed his “ Hyperion” contains two or three most exquisite bits of transcen dentalism. Longfellow’ is rather a romantic and sentimental, than a philosophical poet. He throws into verse the feelings, moods, and fancies of the young or fe male mind of genius, not the mature cogitations of profound philosophy.— Ilis song is woven of moonlight, not of strong summer sunshine. To glorify abstractions, to flush clear naked truth into beauty, to “build” up poems slow ly and solidly, as though he were piling pyramids, is neither his aim nor his at tainment. He gathers, on the contra ry, roses and lines, —the roses of the hedge and lilies of the field, as well as those of the garden,—and wreathes them into chaplets for the brow and neck of the beautiful. His poetry is that of sentiment, rather than of thought. But the sentiment is never false, nor strain ed, nor mawkish. It is always mild, generally manly, and sometimes it ap proaches the sublime. It touches both the female part of man’s mind and the masculine part of woman’s. He can at one time start unwonted tears in the eyes of men, and at another kindle on