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the course of the “ Maroon seem more
odious to Maria than it possibly could
have been under a trank and honest
statement of the facts. To have made
this statement required nothing more
than common courage. But this was
the very faculty which Lopez wanted
most, When his secret was extorted
from him, as it finally was, and the
whole of its details surrendered, the
vexation ot the Spanish woman wasnot
so much because ot the events, as be
cause of his withholding them. It be
trayed a want of confidence in her, and
this was proof of deficient sympathy.
Upon this sympathy she had staked her
life had periled all that was feminine
in her nature ; and the apalling terror,
lest she should have periled all in vain,
might well justify the fearful aspect,
and the stern and keen reproaches, with
which she encountered him.
She was at last pacified. It washer
policy to be so. When the heart has
made its last investment, it is slow to
doubt its own securities, His declara
tions of attachment, when he had some
what recovered his confidence, began
to re-assure her. She yielded to his
persuasions—to his blandishments and
caresses —rather than to his reasons, or
such as he urged in his justification.—
It was in the midst of these endear
ments that a voice was heard, faintly
singing at the cabin entrance —a voice
which the “Maroon” but too painfully
remembered. The tones, though faint,
were distinct. The song was in the
dialect of the Caribbee, and it was one
of w hich a feeble translation has been
already given;—a ballad which the
poor Amaya had been wont to sing
him, when she would beguile him to
join her in her sports of ocean, it re
hearsed the delights and the treasures
of the deep—its cool chrystaline cham
bers, always secure from the shafts of
the sun—its couches of moss and sea
weed—and of the sweet devotion of
the sea maid who implored him to her
embraces. The pathetic tenderness of
her tone —the wild, but pleading earn
estness of her plaint —the solemn sweet
ness and mysterious force of that invo
cation with which the separate verses
were burdened—
“ Come, seek the ocean's depths with me!”—
startled the guilty “Maroon” with a
new and nameless terror, He started
to his feet, but remained stationary, in
capable of motion. But the angry spirit
of Maria de Pacheco, was aroused once :
more. She put him aside, and darted |
to the entrance of the cabin. As she I
threw it open, a white form flashed j
upon the darknes. It seemed as if a :
spirit had shot away from her grasp,
and darting high in air, had disappeared ;
in the black waste of sky and sea be-1
yond. A shriek, rather in exultation
than grief, was heard amid the roar of
wind and water. It was followed by
the human scream of Maria. “ Afadre
de Dios! the ship is moving. We
are at the mercy of the seas! Ho!
there,Lopez!—Linares! Awake! arouse j
ye —or we perish!”
Her cries were cut short by her ter
rors. The prow of the ship was lifted
—fearfully lifted, as if by some unseen j
power from below . The water surged \
awfully beneath, and a terrible roar j
followed, as if from a herd of wild ani-!
mals deep in the hollows of the sea.
“What is that, Lopez! What is’
this ?” \\ hispered the w oman to the
faint-hearted paramour who had crept
beside her. A terrible shock followed
—another and another!—and the whole
dreadful danger was apparent in an in
stant to bolh. They were among the
rocks. The ship had struck, —and the 1
ready memory of the “ Maroon,” well
conceived the fearful condition in which
they stood, borne by the irresistible
and treacherous currents upon those si
lent and terrible masses of rock, where,
in moments of the sea’s serene, he had j
so frequently shared in the wild sports
of his Caribbean beauty. Well might
he remember those rude and sullen
masses. Often had he remarked, with
a shudder, the dark and fearful abysses
which settled, still and gloomy, in their
dark mysterious chambers. But he
had now no time to reeal the periods
ot their grim repose. Another moment,
arid the ship, awfully plunging under
the constant impulsions of the sea, bu
ried her sharp bow, with a deep groan,
in the black and seething waters. The
breakers rushed over them with a fall
like that ot a cataract. Lora single
instant, the Dian de Burgos hung sus
pended as it were, upon a pinnacle.—
Then, even as the still besotted, and
only half awakened sailors, were rush
ing out on deck, she divided in the mid
dle, —one part falling over into the re
servoir among the rocks, the other tum
bling back upon the seas, to be driven
forward, by successive shocks, and in
smaller fragments, to a like destiny.
In this fearful moment. Maria de Pa
checo, was separated, by the numerous
waves, from the side of the “ Maroon.”
He heard her voice through the awful
roar.
“ Where are you, Lopez—O! let me
not lose you now!” But he could
make no answer. He heard no more.
Her cries ceased with that single one.
He had not strength to cry, for he was
smuggling himself with the seas, and
with another peril. While the fierce
currents bore him forward.—while the
wild billows tore him away from the
fragment of wreck which he had grasp
ed spasmodically, in the moment when
the ship went to pieces—he was con
scious of a sudden plunge beside him,
-of an arrn fondly wrapped about his
neck, and of a voice that sung in tones
the most mournful and pathetic in his
ears, even as he sank, and sinking with
him, that fond ballad of the Caribbean
damsel. It was a heart-broken chaunt,
which had some exultation in it. The
last human words of which the feeble
and perfidious “ Maroon” was con
scious, were those of the entreating sea
nymph,
“ Come, seek the ocean’s depths with me!”
(Driginnl ][^nrtrq.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
TUP: LOST FLOWER FOUND.
AN ALLEGORY.
Dedicated to “P.,” Carolina’s sweetest Lt/ric Poet.
BY A CAROLINIAN.
‘Twas on a night, when every star
Its mild light showered from afar;
The full orbed moon mild radiance beamed
On lands where wit and beauty dreamed.
When down an Angel bent her flight,
Commissioned from the realms of light,
And winged Iter way with happy smiles
Along the shores of spicy isles—
Through shadowy grove, and balmy bower,
Seeking a sweet and long-lost flower:
The flower once to the Peri given,
Which, Peri dropped from gate of heaven.*
Nor fairest plant which Eve did nurse
In Eden, ere the primal curse,
Nor gem of Flora’s constant care,
Could with this Heaven-lost flower compare.
Elysian fields, Arcadian groves,f
Where Genii sighed their tender loves—
O’er all, the Angel viewless wound
Her noiseless flight, hut nowhere found
The flower, that first in heaven bloomed,
But since some cove of earth perfumed.
She now her bright winged course doth bend,
Where “ Westward still doth Empire tend,”:}:
And soaring on ’hove earth afar,
Saw gleaming like the morning star;
That flower upon Catawba's “ lea,”
Where Fairies held their revelry.
“ ! Tis found! ’tis found! but may remain ”
The Angel sang in a soft refrain,
“ It has the beauty yet, once given
When erst it bloomed midst those in Heaven;
On earth awhile it still may stay,
Ere I shall pluck it hence a wav
Away, away—the Angel’s flown ;
The flower perfumes the “lea” alone.
A poet who perchance was nigh,
Moved hv a smile, as by a sigh,
Caught up his lyre, commenced the strain
Which echoed far o'er hill and plain.
“ P,” witli the muse’s mystic power.
Sang of the sweet “ Catawba's flower.”
His fingers tremble o’er the strings,
As of that flower he sweetly sings. I|
Heaven caught the echo—hack again.
Sent pealing, the rich, votive strain.
Charlotte, N. C., March 31, 1850.
* .See Lalla Rookh.
t The Old World, t The New.
II in allusion to his lyric, the “Flower of the Catawba,”
previously given in this paper, and much admired.
(Original ißssntjs.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE READER.
A Series of Letters. No. B.
GILFILLAN’S LITERARY PORTRAITS.
Messrs. Editors: I have just been
reading George Gilfillan’s “ Modern
Literature and Literary Men.” Seve
rn 1 years since, when I had more en
thusiasm than judgement, I read with
much pleasure the first volume issued
by tliis author, then, as now aspiring to
give us portraits of Literary Men. If
I recollect aright, he says in the pre
face to that volume that there are three
ages in the life of every intelligent
reader. The first is the age of admira
tion ; the second of discrimination; the
third of criticism.
\\ hen Mr. Gilfillan wrote his first
book, although he attempted criticism
in it, his sketches were more properly
eulogies; they were sadly deficient
even in discrimination, and their author
was evidently no farther advanced than
the age of enthusiastic admiration. But
under the cloaking of superfluous epi
thet and metaphor, which encumbered
his style, and the too evident disposi
tion to give to all of whom he spoke
the most indiscriminate and boundless
praise,was to be discerned a genuine love
for the good—the true and the beauti
ful.
After an interval of five or more
years, we have this second volume.—
During this time Mr. Gilfillan has been
a contributor to various magazines in
Scotland, and England. Some of the
papers thus published have been col
lected and re-written, and, in addition
to some that are entirely new, form the
prest at publication. The style of the
sketches composing this volume is much
superior to that of his former essays.
These are characterized, indeed, by
some enthusiasm, but it is tempered
by judgement, subdued by a purer
taste, and finds vent with less bluster
and rhodomontade. His criticisms
often exhibit an amount of shrewdness
and penetration, for which few gave him
credit in his former work. His pre
diction, for example, of the faults and
the excellencies which would charac
terize Macaulay’s History, has much
truth in it, and shows how clear an in
sight he possessed into the capacities
and tendencies of Macaulay’s intellect.
I know nothing of Mr. Gilfillan ex
cxcept that he is a resident of Dun
fries, a city in the north of Scotland,
and is the son of the Rev. Samuel Gil
fillan, a dissenting minister of Comrie. 1
should think him still young —certainly
not more than thirty-five or seven.—
He has much literary taste, possessing
that faculty of appreciation which some
one says “is a rare talent in itself” he
is one of those who
—“are made
Rather to wonder at the things they hear
Than to work any.”
There are two papers in this book
which I read with uncommon interest.
I refer to those on Mrs. Hemans and
Mrs. Browning, whom I know better
as Elizabeth Barrett. Mr. Gilfillan
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
feels compelled, now that there are so
many women wielding their pens, to
include a few in his sketches of “Mo
dern Literature.” He speaks very
kindly and condescendingly of the “blue
stocking” ladies, and 1 doubt not that
Marv Somerville and Harriet Marti
neau, Mrs. Jameson and Mrs. Brown
ing, are much obliged to him for his
complaisance. I must quote a para
graph on the subject:
“One principal characteristic of fe
male writing in our age, is its Stirling
sense. It is told of Coleridge, that he
was accustomed, on imperative emer
gencies, to consult a female friend,
placing implicit confidence in her first
intuitive suggestions. If she pro
ceeded to add her reasons, he check
ed her immediately. “Leave these,
Madam, to me to find out.” We find
this rare and valuable sense —this short
hand reasoning—exemplified in our
lady authors, producing, even in the
absence of original genius, or of pro
found penetration, or of wide experience,
a sense of perfect security, as we fol
low their gentler guidance. Indeed, on
all questions affecting proprieties, de
corums, what we may call the ethics of
sentimentalism, minor as well as major
morals, their verdict may be considered
oracular and without appeal.” In de
fault of profound principles, they are
helped out by that fine instinctive sense
which partakes of the genial nature
and verges upon genius itself.”
I am not one of those. Heaven for
bid I ever should be, who would blow
a trumpet in the world proclaiming
“ Woman’s Rights —the Equality of the
Sexes,” &c. 1 have said elsewhere, that
I am quite content our sex should be
considered inferior to man in strength
of mind and daring of intellect, while
it is so universally acknowledged that
we surpass him in grace of mind and
loveliness of character, and often in
goodness of heart! 1 cannot very well
say anything of humility and modesty
after this. But 1 must say that Mr.
Gilfillan really does violence to his su
serior nature, to his high standard of
excellence in literature, when he stoops
to commend Felicia Hemans and Mrs.
Browning.
lie selects Mrs. Hemans as essenti
ally the most feminine, as Mrs. Brown
in” is the most masculine of our lady
O v
writers, lie is often just in his strict
ures on the writings of Mrs. Hemans,
contending, with truth, that her genius
is not of the highest order, that it is
not creative. But he proceeds to say,
rather contemptuously, “A bee wreath
ing around you, in a warm summer
morn, her singing circle, gives you as
much insight into the universe, as do
the sweetest strains that ever issued
from this “ Voice of Spring.” Because
Mrs. Hemans does not babble, in half
unintelligible phrase, of the mysterious
connection which exists between man
and the inanimate creation around him,
he would say, “the higher teachings of
Nature never reached her.” Because
she adopts the religion of ihe Bible in
its most obvious and simple form, and
brings with it none of the Platonic
absurdities which here lead Emerson
astray; no German mysticisms, which
proved a stumbling block to Coleridge’s
faith; no skeptical notions, metamor
phosing vice into virtue and throwing
over crime the veil of innocence, as do
some of Mr. Gilfillan’s favourites. Be
cause she is pure and lofty in spirit and
profound in affection ; because she com
prehends herself, and loves and wor
ships God, manifest in nature, with her
whole soul; because there is nothing
mysterious, “oracular,” as he says—
holy nonsense, and holy obscured sense
in what she has written—“she is not a
poet in its highest sense!” Well, I
suppose, I, who have not yet awakened
to a true reverence of Milton’s sublimi
ty, or an idolatrous admiration of By
ron’s melancholy phrenzy, should not
be allowed to pronounce in such a mat
ter, but just between you and myself,
/believe Mrs. Hemans a poet in the
truest and noblest sense cf the word.
The precious sympathy in all wo
manly affections and sorrows, first en
deared her to me ; her exquisite per
ception of the beautiful and her rever
ence for the noble and lofty awakened
my admiration; and through a constant
reading of her poetry I sought to attune
my nature to sympathy with hers.
This was ten years ago, when I was an
ardent girl, and I found my love for
Felicia Hemans my safeguard against
less worthy favourites. For a time
she gave character to my mind, and I
trust modified a coarser and more world
ly spirit to a genial love for her teach
ings. Yet that she never powerfully
impressed my profounder feelings 1
must grant, and that in those deeper
moods which enwrapt the soul 1 have
sought in vain for companionship with
her ; there has been times when to the
aroused and troubled spirit Mrs. He
mans has not spoken. Then she has
seemed feeble, and lacking in depth,
in intensity, in power. But at such
moments what human intellect can en
tirely satisfy the cravings of the im
mortal nature? Not Byron in his pro
found, dark recklessness, and more than
all, his unbelief which rendered it im
possible for him to be heard at such a
moment —not even Milton, sublime
and lofty, but cold and hard; nor Shaks
peare with his wonderful world-wide
genius, nor Wordsworth losing himself
among the mists of his mountains; nor
Shelley bewildered amid the conflicts
of a loving nature and a hating creed—
no creation of a painter’s pencil, or a
musician’s inspirations can satisfy them,
The soul is still restless and disturbed,
and feels its capacity for higher enjoy
ments, which the creations of man’s in
tellect can never supply—God in Na-
ture, God in His Word of Life alone
gives oracles to the spirit then.
But to this God Mrs. Hemans points
us; there she tells the soul to seek
peace, and let a chord strike the heart
and awaken softer emotions—let the
rustle of the leaves—or the whizzing
of a bird, or the voice of one beloved,
recall us to a consciousness of our pres
ent existence, with its human hopes
and tears, and affletions and sufferings,
and to every heart, particularly to ev
ery woman’s heart and woman’s spirit,
can Felicia Hemans pour out the balm
of sympathy. Were 1 training a young
girl to virtuous and dignified, to beau
tiful love-inspiring, love-rendering, de
voted womanhood 1 would teach her
to love the verse of Mrs. Hemans.
Nothing that is frivolous, or puerile, or
false or vicious in character, can exist
with a genuine appreciation of what her
poetry teaches. I know no book of
human lore which exerts a better or a
more ennobling influence on her sex, es
pecially in youth, when the tastes are
forming and the character acquiring
tone. Since we owe her so much, can
we prize her too highly ?
\\ hen Mr. Gilfillan comes to speak
of Mrs. Browning, he prefaces in a dif
ferent spirit. A mind like hers com
pels respect, and he becomes very libe
ral <n his allowances. “To argue mere
ly that because the mind of woman has
never hitherto produced a ‘ Paradise
Lost or a ‘ Principia,’ it is therefore
incapable of producing similar master
pieces—seems to us unfair for various
reasons,’ which he goes on to ('nume
rate, and says farther:
“Is there nothing in Madame de Stael
—in Rahel the Germaness, in Mary
Somerville and even in Mary Woll
stonecraft, to suggest the idea of heights
fronting the very peaks of the Principia
and the Paradise to which women may
yet attain.”
Good, Mr. Gilfillan ! And to know
what he thinks of “ Paradise Lost” hear
him:
“Some books may survive the last
burning and be preserved in celestial
archives, as specimens and memori
als of extinguished worlds, and if such
there he, surely one must be ‘Paradise
Lost!”’
“ Our admirable friend Mr. De Quin
cy has, we think, conceded even more
than we require, in granting that woman
can die more nobly than man. For
whether is the writing or the doing of
great tragedy the greater achievment?”
“If to die nobly demands the highest
concentration of the moral, intellectual
and even artistic powers, and if woman
has par excellence exemplified such a
concentration, then follows a conclu
sion, to which we should be irresistibly
led, were it not that we question the
minor proposition in the argument: we
hold that man has, as often as woman,
risen to the dignity of death, and met
him, not as a vassal, but as a superior.”
So fearful is this gentleman that wo
man should receive more than her
share of commendation!
Mrs. Browning’s longest poem, en
titled the “ Drama of Exile,” is not her
best. It abounds in fine passages where
beauty and power are most evident;
but the fault of obscurity is more per
vading here than elsewhere in her writ
ings. The conception of the poem is
not always pleasing or just, and its
rythm is frequently defective, a very
common fault with her. Yet with all
its imperfections, 1 venture to say, no
other female writer of our day could
have written the Drama of Exile; the
genius of no other poetess is equal to
its conception or execution.
In, a fine poem entitled “The Vision
of the Poets,” Mrs. Browning has
shown much skill in the concentration
of depiction into a single line, or at
most a few lines, and we are surprized
by the vividness with which she paints,
in a few words, the genius of a world
known name. I wish I had poems
by me to quote some examples of this
intellectual ingenuity. Gilfillan quotes
only this of Lucretius:
“ Who cast hDplumet down the broad,
Deep Universe, and said, No God ;
Finding no bottom, he denied
Divinely the divine, and died
Chief poet upon Tiber side.”
Os Milton’s blindness she says:
“ The shapes of suns and stars did swim
Like clouds from them, and granted him
God for sole vision.”
In two poems of great power, “ The
Cry of the Human,” and “The Cry of
the Factory Children,” there is a music
which echoes over the surges of life
with a grand effect. “ Cowper’s Grave”
is another noble strain. Then in “ Little
Ella and the Swan’s Nest,” she sings
the uncertainty of life and its hopes,
the strength of our delusions and the
futility of our plans for the future. It
is a beautiful bit of verse and picture
of childhood’s cl reamings.
Occasionally a noble sonnet devel
opes a peculiar and profound thought.
There are two to George Sand, wiitten
some years ago, and before the subject
of them was as worthy as now of such
a tribute. She certainly saw the wo
man she eulogizes stripped of the veil
of error she has wrapped around her
high nature. How can she, the pure,
sing the genius of that hold, bad-teach
ing woman!
Lady Geraldine’s “Courtship,” which
is admired, 1 fmd, by Mr. Gilfillan, has
long been a particular favourite of mine,
and I have wondered that never before
has it been noticed in any critiques
upon her writings. It is a poem of
rare beauty and finish—the finest love
story ever told in verse. There is no
where such a concentrated and powerful
out-pouring of a proud, fond heart,
stung to the quick, as here in Bertram’s
address to the lovely Lady Geraldine;
and there is a pretty finale wherein the
lady’s love is declared or rather reveal
ed as it should be—and the humble
poet is blest beyond his boldest hopes.
The poem is full of an exquisite heart
music—of the noblest tones of the
spirit, giving utterance to itslofty creed.
But 1 cannot do justice to this poem
or any other. I speak of them only
from memory. I have not my own
copy of Miss Barrett with me here,
and so little is she known, that not a
copy of the “ Drama of Exile is to be
had in the city, where there are thous
ands of people, some aspiring to literary
tastes and information. A gentleman
of considerable reading, and who is at
home among books, asked me when I
enquired for her poems, “ If she were
an American poetess'?”
This leads me to say that Mrs.
Browning is not, and never will be,
probably, a popular writer. She writes
few lyrics—none one would wish to set
to music; save the low music of the
heart, or the deep organ tones of suffer
ing humanity. There is too much ob
scurity in her diction; her verse is often
rough, though often too of a rare and
exquisite harmony. She lacks simpli
city, perspicuity, and a sympathy in
the ordinary emotions stirred by life’s
coarser events, which would awaken
the popular appreciation. She does not
sing “Love not” to the disappointed and
desponding, though she sings “Loved
Once” loud even to the strong in heart.
Ah, that is to the few! She cannot
sing “The old arm-chair” with such
simple pathos as Eliza Cook. She has
not the “ musk, gems and roses ” of L.
E. L. She gives no “ Records of the
Affections” like those of Mrs. Ilemans;
nor does she win mother and child as
does gentle Mary llovvitt. She writes
serious, often deep verse, which appeals
to the intellect rather than to the heart,
to our highest nature; she meets the
starting aspiration and leads it upward.
She idealizes nobly, and teaches
“ That knowledge by suffering entereth.
And Love is perfected in Death.”
1 have overstepped my limits and per
haps wearied you, but I have scarcely
touched upon the genius of Mrs. Brown
ing. Yours, C. H. B.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
EGERIA:
Or, Voices from the Woods and Wayside.
NEW SERIES.
LX.
Books for the People. Something
more may be said in regard to the bulk
of books intended for the uses of man
kind. The subject is really of far more
importance than one would imagine,
and to be rated with correctness only
by a recognition of the inevitable pro
gress of democracy. No doubt that,
in big books there is much philoso
phy —perhaps, much philosophy could
not well be put into a smaller com
pass. But, for the people —for man as
he is—a creature of continual hurry —
stricken with hidden necessities—hast
ily and perpetually called off by the
exigencies of life— much philosophy
would be mostly evil. For these your
philosophy must he in broken doses.
Your books must be small, your sen
tences short, your doctrines in a nut
shell. The labouring man, who is
yet equally a reading and a think
ing man, must have books that will
lie snugly in his pocket, that he can
draw forth, as he does his tobacco, and
chew upon as he traverses the high
ways to his tasks. The man who de
pends for his daily dinner upon his
daily toil, cannot lug a monstrous vol
ume where he goes, yet we must not
leave him without the sort of aliment
which big books profess to bestow. —
To whom are the lessons of a true
philosophy and a pure morality more
vitally important? For whom, indeed,
are they written, if not for him. It is
he who has fewest friends to teach
and to forewarn—fewest resources of
wealth, fewest attractions in society,
fewest means of consolation and com
fort in the hours of exhaustion and suf
fering. He is most open to tempta
tions, particularly those which more
certainly follow upon the footsteps of
want and destitution, than in the wake
of luxury and dissipation. It is he who
is most exposed to the presence of low
vices, to the evils of situation and con
taminating associations. These are the
dangers which, coming with humble
pursuits and degrading necessities, are
well calculated, by insensible degrees,
to divest him of the necessary restraints
of and respect for society. Society
must be at some pains to prevent this,
if she values her own safety. She
must let him see that she considers
him her son quite as legitimate as any
of his better brothers. She must open
his eyes upon all the attractions and
rewards which belong to that better
condition in which virtue is nothing
more than habit. She must persuade
him that to this condition there is really
no reason why he should not aspire
with the rest. There must be books
made for him, with a due regard to his
ignorance, his wants, his poverty, and
his daily exigencies. It appears to us
the most monstrous absurdity to put
forth great volumes at great prices and
to call upon poverty and labour not
only to read but to pay for them; and
as they fail to do so, then denounce
them for their ignorance and to turn
away with loathing from the inferior
humanity to which we offer a stone in
place of bread. We must do things
differently if we hope to do any thing.
We must put up our philosophies in
small parcels, at small prices, and mark
them for the people, only taking care
that Error does not continue, disguising
herself like Truth to find her way into
the parcel, and thus defeat our charity.
The errors of small books would be of
more pernicious effect than those of
large ones. In the latter case, they
would sleep in immemorial dust upon
the shelves of the library; in the former,
they would glide every where into the
heart of living man.
(fur i'rttrrs.
LETTER FROM A WATERING PLACE.
White Sulphur Springs, \
Near Gainesville, Ga. i
My Dear Rich arils :
It is somewhat of a task for an invalid
to gather up the crumbs of thought
and arrange them, secundum artern, in
regular order, into a feast of good
things. Nor have 1 any hopes of tick
ling the. intellectual palates of your in
tellectual readers, for ill health has so
curbed iny fancy, that whether 1 will or
no, it wags along in the same old “jog
trot.” My object is to call attention
to the healing waters in this delightful
region. I have been an invalid since
last July, and the urgency of my ease
induced me to take “ time by the fore
lock.’’ and see what relaxation from the
wear and tear of professional life would
do towards restoring lost health, and
verily I am in a fair way, among these
hills, of changing the whole complex
ion of my system. The air is enough,
per se, to disperse the “green and yel
low melancholy ” that has hung upon
my countenance; and I have sufficient
exercise to transform spermaceti mus
cles into something like youthful and
elastic fibre. Let me tell your readers
who spend a great deal of time and
money, swallowing large quantities of
peptic precepts and blue pill under Drs.
A, B and C, that they wijl be far bet
ter ofi if they will spend a couple of
months in the highlands of Georgia,
where they may find out how much
better is corn-cake than colomel, and
sulphur water than senna draughts.
Having my sell arrived at this sage
conclusion, not by any process of in
ductive reasoning, but in the energy of
despair, I am anxious to let your read
ers know how profitably they may
spend the approaching summer months
away from “pleasure’s path or passion’s
mad career.” I speak, not only to those
who are already invalids, but to those
who have been handled roughly in the
care and turmoil, the business and plea
sure of life. Let me ask,
What’s rank or title, station, state or wealth,
To that far greater worldly blessing, health?
\\ hat’s house, or land, or dress, or wine, or
meat,
If one can’t rest for pain, nor sleep, nor eat,
Nor go about in comfort ? Here’s the question:
\\ hat’s all the world without a good digestion? j
How many of your readers, think
you, could grow eloquent in reply. I
should say some thousands—and why?
Because diseases have been multiplied
ad in finitum —some maladies have be
come fashionable—some have their ori
gin in the excitement attending the
great movements of the dav.
Diseases are the creatures or rather |
the. creations of circumstances. Nu
merous maladies of antiquity have dis
appeared from the nosological tablet, j
and others have taken their places.—
Diseases of the heart were so little at
tended to before the former French re
volution, as to be scarcely noticed by
medical writers, but that eventful pe- j
riod called forth so many examples of
this fatal malady, that a volume was
soon written on the subject by Crovi- i
sart. So, also, dyspepsia is a compar
atively new disease. It has its origin
in the fashions of the world—in the ex
citements and anxieties which, in popu
lous cities, make life a kind of instinc
tive struggle for existence. Os it. Dr.
James Johnson says:
“The great evil—the root of innu
merable evils —the proteiform malady,
Dyspepsia—the hydra-headed monster
of countless brood and Medusa mien,
is the progeny of civilization, and is
much more indebted for its existence
and diffusion to intellectual refinement
than to bodily intemperance—in other
words, its causes, multifarious as they
are, may be traced, far more frequently,
to anxieties, cares, tribulations of min'd,
than to improper indulgcncies of the :
palate.”
So much for this Nova Pestis, and
now of the White Sulphur Spring. It
is situated in Hall county, Georgia, six
miles east from Gainesville, in a most
delightful region of country, where the
landscape is made up of hill and dale, i
and where the wavy outline of the far
off mountains add a stirring and pecu- j
liar beauty to the scenery. The prin
cipal mode of access is by way of,
Athens, or Stone Mountain, in stages, j
which run regularly to and from Clarks
ville throughout the travelling season,
stopping at the Spring. So the seeker
after health and enjoyment can, at tri
fling expense, visit the falls of Tallu
lah and Toceoa.
The Sulphur Spring is discovered at
some yards distance by the sulphurious j
odour with which it impregnates the
atmosphere. The water is perfectly
clear and sparkling. It deposites a
white sediment, which marks its pas
sage to a brook, whose waters rumble
and tumble and bubble, as they steal
away to unite with the Oconee. Its
temperature is about 53®, and when
taken into a stomach, it imparts a cool
ing sensation, followed by a glow and
increase of appetite. 1 regret that I have
no agents with which to make an analy
sis. It probably contains Soda, Lime
and Iron, and perhaps Magnesia. It is
powerfully diarrhetic,and acts with some
vigour on the liver. From my own
knowledge, I should think it quite equal,
if not superior to the sulphur waters of
Saratoga and Ballston. lam informed
by the venerable Dr. Branham, who
has had every opportunity of judging,
that he considers the waters of this
Spring superior to those of the Indian
Springs. Considering the great ad
vantage in location, in climate, &c.,
which the \\ hite Sulphur possesses
over almost all other Springs in Geor
gia, we can, without hesitation, recom
mend them to all seekers after the
great mundane pearl—health. Here,
too, one may get “all the luxuries of
the season, and have them served up
in a style not only to “tickle the pal
ate, but to please the fancy and invi
gorate the body. Mine host, McAfee,
is one of the most obliging and attentive
j of obliging and attentive landlords;
: but, pshaw! why should I speak of him
after what George White has had
printed concerning him in that incom
prehensible book, the “Statistics of
Georgia ” —a book sui generis —a kind
jof intellectual friccasee. The best re
| commendation of the White Sulphur
j Spring is the host of invalids and visit
-1 ors who have, indeed, found it a heal
ing fountain. There are hut few board
ers here at present, but as soon as the
season is a little more advanced, they
will undoubtedly pour in; and they
; will find McAfee ready to give them a
hearty welcome. More anon.
Yours, truly, MEDICI'S.
Mitral ifrlrrfir.
A mummy!
The ceremony of unveiling the
daughter of a Priest and Scribe of The
bes, in the shape of an imperial mummy
brought to that place by Professor
Gliddon is to take place in Boston
shortly. A body of “learned The
; bans of that city are to make scientific
examinations and explanations during
the enquiry. Speaking of the affair
; the Advertiser says:
The name of the person buried was
ANCPI —ph ? daughter of a
; priest and scribe of Thebes, GOT
TIIROTH—e ?; and from the style
of the hieroglyphics and tashion of the
embalment, there are strong reasons,
which, however, cannot be settled until
the mummy is opened, why this lady
lived between XYlllth and XlXth dy
nasty —say between the 12th and 15th
j centuries B. C.—that is within a hun
dred years of Moses; whom, for aught
we can assert to the contrary, she may
have known.
On the front of the outer case, the de
j ceased, resuscitated in the flesh, isintro
duced, after death, into the Judgment
| Hall of Osiris, where her heart and
brains are mystically weighed in the
i balance of truth. It is the 125th chap
ter of the “Book of the Dead,” to be
detailed hereafter, reminding us of Job.
xxxi, 0 —“ Let me be weighed in an
even balance, that God may know mine
integrity ” —and Daniel, v, 27, “weigh
ed in the balances.'’'’
Beneath, in vertical columns, the de
ceased addresses the 42 assessors, or
grand jury-men of the nether world;
to each of whom she makes her attes
tations of innocence , 42 in number;
which, under another form, contain
much of the morality enjoined in the
Mosaic Decalogue , thus, “I have not
committed perjury,” says the deceased
lady, “ I have not slandered—l have
not committed adultery—l have not
grieved the spirits of the Gods.” &c.
It appears then that
“ Perhaps this very hand now pinioned flat.
Has liob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh glass to glass.”
But it is quite certain that it never
“ Dropped a half penny in Homer’s hat,
Or doffed her own to let Queen Dido pass.” j
Because Anch— ph* * was buried and
her hand pinioned flat, before Homer
sung or Dido was born.
Every being which died in Egypt,
from the meanest upwards was em
balmed, in accordance with a happy
knowledge of the Physiology which
saved the world from the plague until
monkish ignorance broke up the cus
tom, and left decaying bodies, beneath
annual inundation, to breed terrible
pestilence of which Egypt is the home.
Such millions of mummies were there,
therefore, that common ones are easily
obtained and often seen,
RESIDENCE OF EUGENE SUE.
It is impossible to convey an idea of
the luxury, of the sumptuousness of
these caprices, of these whims of all
kinds; here a dining-room, where the I
sideboards display plate, porcelain, and
crystal, with pictures and flowers, to
add to the pleasures of the table all the
pleasures of the eyes; then an inner |
gallery, where pictures, statuettes,draw
ings and engravings, reproduce sub
jects the most calculated to excite the
imagination. Here is a library full of
antiquities, where book eases contain
works bound with unheard of luxury,
where objects of art are multiplied with
an absence of calculated affectation,
which appears as wishing to say that
they came there naturally.
A daylight, shaded by the painted
glass windows and curtains of the
richest stuff, gives to this place an air
of mystery, invites to silence and to
study, and produces those eccentric in
spirations which M. Sue gives to the
public. A desk, richly carved, receives
sundry manuscripts of the romance
writer, the numerous homages sent to
monsieur, as the valet expresses him
self, from all the corners of the globe,
and which the faithful servant enume
rates with the most scrupulous care.
Everywhere may be seen gold, silver,
silk, velvet, and soft carpets. Every
where taste and art tax their ingenuity
in a thousand ways to produce effect,
ornament, and domestic enjoyment.
A vast drawing room, furnished and
decorated with all imaginable care, ex
actly reproduces that of one of the he
roines of romance of M. Eugene Sue;
and there have been carved on the
woodwork of a Gothic mantlepieee
medallions representing the Madeleine
falling at the feet of our Saviour, who
tells her that her sins will be forgiven
her, because her love has been strong.
An immense looking glass connects
this saloon with a green house, filled
with exotic shrubs and trees, and it is
lighted at night with magnificent lus
tres. The walls are richly decorated,
and gold and silver fish are seen swim
ming in marble basins. In addition
to the lustres, there are branches for
lougies , mixed with the foliage of the
trees and plants, to increase the effect
when the place is lighted up.
A small gallery, lined with odorifer
ous plants, leads to a circular walk,
which surrounds a garden cultivated in
the most expensive manner; and there
is a fine piece of water, with numerous
swans on it. The walk is a chefcTceuvre
of comfort, for it is alike protected
from the wind and the rain, being co
vered with a dome. It is enclosed
with balustrades covered with creeping
plants of the choicest nature. It is a
sort of terrestial paradise in the bosom
of the Sologne, and beyond it is a park
admirably laid out w ith kiosques, rustic
cottages, elegant bridges, and a pre
serve for pheasanls. which supply my
riads ot birds for the shooting excur
sions of the illustrious communist
whose keepers exercise a severe look
out to prevent any person from touch
ing the game.
A Rare Bird.—\Ye learn that a line
specimen of the Glossy Ibis was slim
near French Pond, in Cambridge, on
Wednesday. Os this bird Audubon
says:—“ lhe Glossy Ibis is of exceed
ingly rare occurrence in the United
States, where it appears only at long
and irregular intervals, like the wan
derer who has lost his way. It exists
in Mexico, however, in vast numbers.”
[Boston Traveller.
iT'ljr katrdi lltar.
W ISM.
BY CHARLES MACKAY.
Tell me, ye winged winds,
That round my pathway roar.
Do ye not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more ?
Some lone and pleasant dell,
Some valley in the west,
Where, free from toil and pain.
The weary soul may rest?
1 he loud wind softened to a whisper low,
And sighed for pity as it answered—No!
Tell me, thou mighty deep,
W here billows round me play,
Knowest thou some favoured spot.
Some island far away,
Where weary man may find
The bliss for which he sighs.
Where sorrow never lives.
And friendship never dies i
The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow,
Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer—No!
And thou serenest moon.
That with such holy face
Dost look upon the earth,
Asleep in night's embrace.
Tell me, in all thy round
Hast thou not seen some spot,
W here miserable man
Might find a happier lot ?
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew iu wo,
And a voice sweet, hut sad, responded—No!
Tell me, my secret soul,
Oh. tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting place
From sorrow, sin and death;
Is there no happy spot,
\\ here mortals may lie blessed,
Where grief may find a balm.
And weariness a” rest l
I ait h. Hope and Love—best boon to mortal*
given—
Wav’d their bright wings, and whisper’d— Yes !
in Heaven.
Lesson for Sunday, June 9.
EXALTING GOD.
“ Thou an ray God, 1 will exalt thee.’’-Psalm cxviii. £B.
Believers are similar in their views
and feelings, pleasures and pursuits,
hopes and fears, and in their language;
they all speak the same thing. The
sentiment before us expresses the
feeling of every believer’s heart.—
Here is
A SOLEMN DECLARATION. “ TIIOU art
my God. So says the miser to his
gold, so the epicure to his luxurious
delicacies, the drunkard to the intoxica
ting draught, the voluptuary to his
pleasures. So says the Christian to his
Maker. This is the language of strong
taith, deep humility, great wonder, and
unspeakable joy. It has been well re
marked, if we would not have the ivy
to creep on the ground, we must erect
an object which it can embrace, and by
embracing, ascend ; and if we would
detach the heart from embracing the
dust, we must give to it another and a
nobler object. Such an one is the Chris
tian’s.
A NOBLE RESOLUTION. “1 will exalt
thee. \\ e cannot make God more
glorious than he is, for he is exalted
above all blessing and praise.
Exalt him in the heart, by yielding to
him your powers and faculties. He is
to be exalted in the thoughts, affections,
desires and purposes of the heart.
Exalt him with your tongue , by show
ing forth his praise. All his works
praise him ; and shall man alone be si
lent ? The planetary system, in order,
majesty, and glory, the cattle upon a
thousand hills, the myriads of fish in
the mighty ocean, the winged tribes
that are found in the wide expanse of
the aerial regions, cherubim and se
raphim, that bow before the throne, and
all the angelic hosts and glorified spir
its in the heaven of heavens, utter one
voice, and it is the sound of praise.—
Exalt himby speaking to him in prayer,
of him in praise, and for him in a way
of recommendation.
Exalt him in your conduct, by living
to his glory. Thus you are to hold
forth the word of life, by a becoming
spirit, a holy carriage, and a consistent
course. Be this rny daily, hourly work;
and may my heart, like a well-tuned
instrument, resound his praise.
“ O may I breathe no longer than I breathe
My soul in praise to Him who gave my soul.”
i
News for a Dying Minister. —In
the latter part of the last century, a
Christian minister at Shrewsbury was
brought to the closing scenes of life.
He had long grieved over his apparent
uselessness in the church of Christ, and
when seized with his last illness, this
regret was considerably increased. The
thought planted thorns in his pillow,
and embittered his dying moments. At
this very period, two persons, entirely
unacquainted with the feelings ot the
departing minister, applied for com
munion with the church he had long
served, and attributed their conversion
to God to his labours. A friend imme
diately hastened to communicate the
intelligence to the venerable man, who
listened to the statement with holy j O .?
beaming in his countenance ; and then
gathering up his feet into the heu,
adopted the language of Simeon,
Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart
in peace, for mine eyes have seen thv
salvation,” and closed his eyes forevei
on earthly objects.
The Law of Pittacus. — By one oi
the laws of Pittacus, one of the seven
wise men of Greece, every fault com
mitted by a person when intoxß’ ate '-‘’
was deemed worthy of a double pun
ishment.