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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.