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miiem MWMii am, TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. (Original |sortnj. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE APPROACH OF SUMMER. BV \V. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ. Now, glowing through green leaves, and bearing flowers, Fresh blooming, borrowed front a thousand bowers, Where Nature (ills her lap with fruits, and gleams, The carpet of the prairies, stars and streams, — ( oiiti forth, all wantoning in joyous dreams. With eye that laughs in beauty, golden hair, furling and floating o’er a neck as fair As the young moon, when in the dusky vale. She lifts her virgin crescent, soft and pale,— Tito flush’d and levelling Summer. At her glance, Sinks the old wizard. Winter, into trance, N o more the mighty potentate, who shook Ills icy sceptre over field and brook, But. tottering into apathy, that goes. Soulless and sad, to polar home of snows; The realm usurped made glad in his decline. Mad,- free to bourgeon in its flower and vine; The steel-bourn! waters rescued where he lay. And leaping, flashing, to the smiles of day. With all it-“ little billows out at play;— Birds gladsome singing round the cottage tree, Vn 1 hope and heart, for once, at liberty, Minging in joyous anthems which make air. All musical with love, that might he pray'r. Give the heart freedom ! Let the soul take wing With the soft promise of this golden Spring; From book and study, forth; —uplift the eye. To the blue beauties in the morning sky; Forget that Toil hath had his task decreed, The daily labour, for the daily need: (rive Hope new charm in respite front its chain, Thought fresher impulse in unlabouring brain; No duty rules that Drudgery shall not find, Some moments grateful to the unfetter’d mind ; The heart’s sweet Sabbath must not be denied, Now. when boon Nature smiles on all beside! Where the winds play,—whore great green branches wave, And lilies sweetly whisper to the wave, — Forth with the Sun. with heart that sings within, In sense of joy that hath no taint of sin; A song of Summer bom, that feels, instinct, How near with Earth the soul of man is link'd, And thus through earth with heaven, that still foreshows, In bright, sweet symbols, how the future glows, Huff IVeshly, gladsomely and purely, Bliss, May yet, in man’s true life, atone for this! Spirit-* of holiest gift have been at range, O'er stream and forest, to effect this change;— What potent spells, what breath of balm, they brought, By which the magic of this birth was wrought;— How did they whisper on this bankside, where Lurk’d all the hooded flowers, in shame and fear; Hush’d through long months of winter, while the sway Os that cold tyrant threaten’d still his prey, Till that warm whisper to the clod which hid. Brought each sweet virgin to unclose her lid, And won the nun-like daisy front her cell, In sweet obedience to the grateful spell,— Bio-sing the shrine that sheltered her so well! What legions of bright angels, far and wide, Have sped, that Earth should waken up in pride; A single breath, one short sweet night—the moon lit April only watching through its noon, — And, with tin’ dawn, how wondrous was the show, That hailed the sun t'roni thousand plains below; With song,—though faint how sweet. —and scents so rare, As if the flowers were wedded to the air, That nothing did but drink of the delight. With wings diffused in never-resting flight, As conscious, in the rapture of such taste, Os no fatigue, in all that world of w r aste. Oh ‘ with a range as wide as his, we speed To each fair empire of the newly freed; With hearts as free as any of the race, That glow and gladden in the sun's embrace. How spreads the various picture as we go, H Its greenly stretch aloft, and vales below; flii mountain wears no more the brow of age, Vnd Nature flies her gloomy hermitage. Now desolate no longer,—to abide, M .th bird-* and blossoms, by the brooklet's side; How prattle the glad w aters, as she brings, Her gayest buds to nurture at their springs: Pleased with the song of kindred which declares. Her joy in these, and all her beauties theirs. Banks, on each side, slope down with fringe of green, l ii kiss the silvery waves that sing between, Sing with lit chaunt to the cathedral trees. 1 hrough which,still sleepless,trolls the thought less breeze, With music most like that of swarming bees! I he song is still an echo to the toil, — The heart is tutor’d when the sinew’s moil; Mere song were something vicious,—hut the strain, That tells of solace for the limbs and brain, — Which call for respite for due service done. In fields of meet succession with the sun, — This brings a healthful nurture, and, if right file duty done, we look for the delight. The charm that still beguiles us at the close Ot the day labour, freshening its repose, Is the sweet nourishment for strength anew, The future toil, or conquest, to pursue. Thus sings the earth at seasons, —thus w’e hear, 1 ne bird and insect joyous far and near; A choral hymn the nation’s toil preludes, And the glad creature frolics ere it broods. Foil ot’ a sweet and w’ise intelligence, *ot simply fashioned for the idiot’s sense, T he voices that w’e hear from plain and grove, fhev speak in gladness, but they breathe of love, And love is the great duty which implies Toil for tiie drudge and study for the wise ; Both earnest ever in the fond pursuit, shat, in its very tillage, brings its fruit! I auh ha 9 a labour in her womb below!— 1 he watchful ear may catch the murmuring flow, ‘'! mingling strifes and sounds, —the strifes of toil, y* ’hose who sing and serve, for those who moil. * he mighty mother, with mysterious art, Hath fashion’d well each agent in her mart; ’ ar *ous in product, as in office, still, Haeh, without murmur, follows at her will; \° void unfilled beneath her searching eye, • N ’° fialiri unwatched, of water, earth, or sky;— ‘ here runs the lizard o’er the freshest flowers, As death gives shadow to our sunniest hours; — 1 tiere, the gay butterfly, on varied wing, Pursues the insect that it cannot sting;— There goes the coiling serpent, with raised crest, a moult mm ml mmm m mmmm a j m Am in mmm. Am m mm al nm mmu. And warning rattle, to his slimy nest, — Vex’d by pursuit, he slowly wins his way, Nor seems unwilling to prolong his stay,— Too closely press’d, he would not shun the strife, And he who takes, must battle for. his life. Turn where the dove, —meet contrast!—with his mate Just won, delighted with his new estate, Lingers beside the p ith, a fearless thing. Nor claims the succor of his idle wing. Nature endows him with the season's sense, Where all is breathing hope and confidence, — And, heedful of her interests, man decrees His safety front the fowler. Thu;- we seize Our sweetest lessons of preserving good, From the dumb nature and unthinking mood.— For it were base to wrong the faith implied, Which seeks our steps nor hurries once aside. Though life is dearer now, so full of love. And fear is the fir.-t instinct of the dove! (Original (T’nJcs. For the Southern Literary Gazette. EGBERT AND IDA: OR, THE LOVE TESTS. UY T. ADDISON RICHARDS. PRELUDE. “Methinks, Sir Knight, that yon silver orh looks smilingly upon us, this lair night. Note how she seemeth to precede us in our path, yet ever shed deth her softest radiance upon the grey turrets of you aged towers. Iler grateful guidance augereth a kindly welcome, reminding me of the joyful watch-dog. who. scenting in the keen air the approaching steps of returning friends, dasheth forth, with gladsome bound, to lead the wearied wanderer home.” ‘ Thy words, fair youth, spring from a heart replete with the buoyancy and unstained gladness of early years; that golden age, when the pure soul, fresh from the hands of the Great Architect, yet unsoiled with the false world’s sear ing wear, and still glittering in its pris tine lustre,frankly and gladly receiveth and cherisheth the glowing reflections of all the specious pictures which gay fancy painteth. As thy days speed on amidst the sad experiences of a bitter life, treachery, disappointment and sor row will set their dark impress upon the bright enamel of the heart, and ever leave upon the once pure canvass, dark shadows, which speak through all the glittering, but treacherous visions, which the imagination may ever after draw. After all the mighty tomes which sages and philosophers have penned, touching the mystic sources of human happiness, methinks that they have yet overlooked its simple name. Ask the most untutored heart the name of the; marvellous fountain, will not the answer be—Hope? This is the magi cal wand which maketh the pure stream to gush forth; but, alas! like the charm ed rods in the wondrous tales of the Genii, every stroke upon the rugged rock of life reduceth its length and de creaseth its force, until at last it is spent, itinl Hope thus vanished, where then is happiness ? In the “rasp of the. more ardent and confident, those best fitted to enjoy its gifts, it ever shrinketh the fastest; but, sooner or later, every one awaketh to the cruel knowledge that his wand is spent and that his fee ble hand closeth only upon empty air.” “ Nay, noble sir! check not my spir its with such chilly forebodings. Trust rather that,even with thyself, the bright sun will soon dispel the darksome sha dows. Dost thou not see life through a false medium ? with wilfully distorted vision, suffering a mere drop of acid to embitter the vast ocean of sweets, gaz ing as through the stained glass, which obscureth the brilliancy of the mighty sun. and which, though ever so insigni ficant in its own proportions, yet, when held too near the eye, completely hideth the day-god’s gorgeous beams, and over all the immense field of fair nature, eastetli its false and sombre hue! Cher ish, Sir Knight, a more liberal and more manly philosophy. Banish not fair Truth from the earth, because forsooth foul Falsehood lurketh there! Hast thou been deceived? Are there not others who will not betray thee? Thou hast, but now, escaped from death upon the cold battle-field, from which hosts of thy noble companions in arms may never more arise! Dost thou not trust me , and do I not love thee as brother loveth brother, noble Sir ?” “Heaven grant, Sir Page, that thou mayest, as now, be ever hopeful, ever confident ? Think not, though, to win me from my wo! Thou wouldest rea son well wert thou speaking to the mind; but Reason never was the heart’s vernacular. The soul comprehendeth not the cold and philosophic idioms of her speech. Canst thou replace upon the rose petal, the dew-drop too hastily brushed away ? the soft down upon the luscious fruit, too rudely handled?— Canst thou restore to their original rest, the light sands which the conflicting waves have cast abroad o’er land and sea ? Canst thou re-unite the scattered waters when exhaled in air? Canst thou bring back the winged soul to its fleshly home! Then canst thou heal the diseased mind, the stricken soul, and to the heart betrayed, restore its hope and faith!” “Deep-seated must thy sorrow be, Sir Knight; for ever since the happy day, our paths by chance together lay; some changeful months from now —it has not ceased to cloud thy brow : ail grief from all respect must claim, but woe like thine from friend like me, demands the truest sympathy! But despair not. noble Knight; as with the new-born day springs light —so the griefs to-day we feel, to-morrow’s sun will surely heal! But thy pardon, no ble Sir! So light a heart have 1 to night,that spite my thought ‘twill break forth in gladsome song and vent itself in numbers. In the interest, too, of our converse, we have quickened our pace too rudely for thy feeble powers, already overtasked by the journey of the day. I see thou art wearied; and our gallant steeds, too, claim our gen tlest indulgence. The night is yet young, and yonder banks, shaded by those thickly interwoven cypresses, in viteth us to repose.” “ Most kindly thought, Sir Page. This slight engratinure hath stolen from me much good blood and strength A little rest will perhaps give me new force. I would too, ere we reach yon frowning battlements, confide to thee the sad talc, which, in repaval of thy goodness, I have often promised. It will relieve my mind to speak, and my heart to feel, thy truthful sympathy; and should 1 never reach those castle halls, where live my heirs, thou wilt be my hand and my heart executor.” “Thy confidence is most welcome, noble Sir; and yet 1 would not thou should’st at this time over-task thyself. See! here’s the bank! And pleasant too it is! A fitting spot, methinks, for confidence! It seemeth to have a voice, that could it speak, would whis per many sad and joyous tales! Thy hand, Sir—the other on my shoulder— gently —now —ah! Sit thee there, Sir Knight,where the gentle moon may kiss thy too, too pallid brow.” “Thanks, young Sir: more thanks than thy service may seem to ask. As thou, but now, appearedst to think, this fairy hillock hath its associations — bright memories that thou dreamedst not of. Most strange is it that thou shouldst, of all spots, have chosen this! And now thou seathest thyself thus by my side, leaning thus upon thv hand. 1 seem to dream of other days and other scenes. Thy very words, too, and thy voice—at least so my fancy whispereth —but aid the sweet illusion; only thy hand is gloved, as thy person is clad in stem mail: and thy face—never have 1 seen it! And yet, now that lam about to bestow upon thee a confidence to which I never deemed that living soul would listen, and which 1 fain would have veiled from my own heart, ’t would seem that disguise should not live between us!” “My vow, Sir Knight! my vow! This very evening will absolve me—a few short hours—and wouldst thou, to save such brief patience, have it I broken!” “Ah! yes! thy vow! Nay, keep it, though more sacred ones have been less lightly held! What mattereth it in what mould thy features have been cast ? 1 have seen thy soul, and there, alone, are truthful pictures to be found. Now call thy best patience forth, young Sir. My tale doth not boast in length or interest. Tis one of the heart, and not of stirring incident. This soft night air hath given me new life, while all around inviteth to the trust thou hast so kindly consented to receive. But let me tell my tale.” STORY. “Although my care-worn brow might hint of riper years, yet hath it been fan ned by the zephyrs of but twenty-five fair springs, or perhaps more fitting would be my speech, should 1 say, chilled with the icy frosts of but five and twenty winters, for with that som bre season my years may best claim kindred. I was born in obscurity, and, during my childish days, nurtured un der the humblest roof, and in the man ner of the poorest serf, upon the land. This quiet life might have been happy, but that, being by nature of a proud and aspiring temperament, my spirit soon learned to chafe against the iron bands which held me down—a slave. 1 grew moody and dissatisfied with my humble position in life. Existence be came a burden to me. Whole days and weeks were passed in solitary rambles in the dense wild-woods, where 1 mused upon my lot with a feeling of disdain and disgust, and in the flights of my exuberant fancy, pictured a hun dred wild ways of breaking the cursed spell of conventionalism, and tyrant custom which chained me to the base earth.” “As the days of boyhood sped on, circumstances attracted towards me the favourable notice of the Lord of yon proud castle—the noble Earl of Egerton. His attention was first drawn by a circumstance, even then, strangely indicative of the haughty feelings which have ever so greatly ruled my actions. A quickness of thought, a redundance CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, JUNE 15, 1850. and grace of fancy, and a precocious maturity of demeanour and judgment, rapidly increased the noble Earl’s es teem for the poor boy, and induced him, ere long, generously to place him in his household, with the character and appointments of a page.” “Thus situated, more in harmony with my natural tastes and my trea sured services, my young brow lost its heavy clouds, and during the passage of several glad years, l was again a happy, light hearted boy. At that plea sant period, 1 enjoyed, with a keen and ever ready appetite, all the merry pas times and pleasures befitting the spring time of life. With a mind deeply avaricious of knowledge, 1 made won derful progress in every subject which came within the grasp of my mental arm; while in all the prized physical accomplishments of the time, 1 soon rivalled even the gentry and the youth ful nobles of the land. My pride, which was ever more of the defensive than offensive, while it did not lead me arrogantly to forget my humble origin and my lowly mates, yet taught me the full merit of my attainments and my gifts, in my association with those by birth and position above me; and who might, very naturally, be disposed to look upon me slightingly or scorn fully. Thus I was ever ready and able as proudly to give back the proud glance of the young patricians, and as bitterly to retort their bitter jests. 1 could tune the lyre to the delight of the gav damsels of the castle, or break a liince with the veteran Knight from the Holy Land. My j: trogress increased the regard, indeed, 1 may say, the love, of my noble patron; for his protection and care of me were almost paternal. “ The world regarded me as the hap piest and most favoured of youth, as indeed 1 ought to have thought myself; but my unhappy ambition ever made me see a great and impassable gulf be tween my condition and what 1 regard ed as happiness. This terrible gulf— this canker gnawing at my peace—was the bitter consciousness of depen dance. I recollected, amidst my haughtiest tri umphs, that 1 was but the base-born son of a serf, and that everything of which I could boast must be laid to the bounty ot another. If I ever sought to banish these memories, there were always envious and ignoble lips to whisper in my ear the damning truths. “in these dark hours 1 had one. and but one, certain source of solace ; one nevsr-faiiing fount of gladness—the tearful sympathy of my young com panion, the only and idolized daughter of my generous lord. * * * * Pardon my emotion, young Sir—many bitter hours and days and months have lied—darkly fled—since 1 last breathed the gentle name of Ida, even to my own sad heart. Although she was some years my junior, her mind and heart were ripe companions for my own. With a woman’s intuitive per ception, she quickly probed the secret of my sorrow, and without seeming to possess the knowledge, sought, in a thousand ways, to make me forget it. In society, she treated none with more frank and respectful courtesy than she bestowed upon myself. She ever seem ed as pleased with my homage as that of the noblest of her numerous wor shippers. In all topics of discussion, she made a final appeal to my judg ment. When alone with her, I was treated as a brother, and often did she sacrifice her pleasures, that she might not leave me with myself and my own gloomy thoughts. We strolled to gether in the soft moonlight ; she sang with me as I tuned my lyre to the gay melodies of the Troubadours. Face to face we conned the same page, and mused in sympathy upon the heroic feats of our chivalrous age. Can you wonder, young sir, how all this danger ous companionship would end! The soft pressure of the hand, when meet ing and parting, insensibly became a pressure of the lips. Love was oftener the theme of converse, until, in due course of time, and without any formal interchange of vows, Ida Egerton was my plighted bride! “Now, indeed, the days flew swiftly and joyously. My cup of bliss was full, even to the forgetfulness of my hereditary causes of gloom! Alas! fatal Lethe! Ida had now sprung into the full bloom and freshness of woman hood. Suitors, the noblest of the land, thronged her father’s halls. It was time, by the custom of the country, that her hand should be bestow ed in marriage. Our youthful loves were unknown or wofully unrecognized. It was during one of our happy- ram bles, at this period, that Ida tremblingly revealed to me that her father had ap prized her of his desire to wed her to the young Lord of Wharton, the only son of the noble head of that haughty house. The old Earl had in youth been the sworn friend and associate of my Ida's father, and a union of the families had been long before mutually pledged. At this period the Earl of Wharton was in exile under the stern displeasure of the King; but efforts, which it was hoped would prove successful, were making by his friends to reinstate him in the royal favour. This desired issue was alone awaited before the fearful ceremony, which would forever tear from me the only joy my heart cher ished. ••It was then that my fatal pride re turned. 1 could not drag my idol from her exalted pedestal. I could not wed her to ignominy; for l felt that 1 could he happy but in contributing to her joy. I resolved, therefore, to sacrifice my hopes and bend to the stern decrees of Fate. I declared iny purpose to her. 1 told her that I was unworthy of her love; that to unite her destiny to mine, would be to embrace poverty, contempt and shame. 1 told her that my heart should ever remain true to my vows, while l gave her back her own and left her free! The poor girl wept and would not be thus rudely cast away. She vowed to love me forever, as then, despite my cruel desertion. Then was it, that amidst the ever in truding dreams which 1 cherished of winning a brilliant renown and yet re claiming her love, the thought of test ing the strength of her passion seized my brain and fixed my resolution to resign my claim upon her heart. I made this dangerous sacrifice the more readily, from the assurance which my egotism gave me, that Ida would await the brilliant future towards which my own ambition pointed. “It was a bold venture, an unreasonable exaction,” thou wilt say, my young friend! True: but I had deep faith in Ida's truth and constancy, and my love craved much — very much! ‘Where,’ thou wilt ask, ‘is the woman to be found who will conquer in such a trial ? Who is the paragon V She alone, l answer, whose love 1 would stoop to take! Ah ! thou callest me ‘dreamer! Be it so—but let that pass! “The only field, of course, upon which 1 could hope to win fame and fortune, was the battle-tield. Alas! then and still, in the bloody conflicts which desolate our fatal country, the opportunities for the display of prowess in arms, were and are, but too abund ant. With the aid, still, of the Lord of Egerton. I prepared to join the royal forces at the head of a small body of i the retainers of the castle. Some time was necessarily lost in my preparations for the camp. I was thrown, as usual, j into the society of the Lad v Ida. We met still as brother and sister. Al though 1 st rove to keep my resolution, the heart of each still spoke in a thous and ways. ()ur interviews became as frequent as ever. Both were tacitly recommitted. No renewal though, of vows was made and Ida still was free. “The day of my departure arrived. I bade a kind adieu to mv friends—to 1 - Ida, as to the rest. My last duty was \ * a visit to the lowly abode of my poor ; widowed mother. In all my change of fortune, I had never failed in my duty and love towards her. She had evi dently been once a woman of remark able beauty, and her manners were far above her station. Her heart was gen tle and loving as the dove’s. She had never spoken to me of her past life, yet 1 felt that it could not all have been j spent in the quiet and monotony of a peasant’s home. All I knew was, that she was unhappy, and that save her love for me, nothing bound her feeble spirit to the world. Alas! I found her on her dying bed! “ -My child,’ said she, as 1 bent over to kiss her pale lips, ‘1 have very little more to do here. Death is upon me, but my changeful life has been so bit ter, that to me the messenger from the tomb is most welcome. My only earthly anxiety is for thee, my son. But God has been graciously pleased to bless thee, and to his all-wise protection I must still leave thee. My only legacy is, the memory of my love and a secret hitherto withheld from thee, which may aid in the struggle so dear to thee, for name and honour. May God pardon me if 1 have erred in withholding it so long, or if I sin in now committing it to thy care. “So saying, she directed me to open a closet and bring therefrom a sealed pacquet; which, after kissing, she de livered into my hands, with the injunc tion not to open it until after her death. ‘“Thou hast doubtless surmised,’she continued, ‘that some mystery hath enveloped the story of thy birth. In these papers thou canst read the secret and the name of thy father! Nay — frown not, my son! Thou hast no cause to blush for thy mother —she is the wife of thy father, by the laws of God and man! Thou resemblest him in person; but oh! my boy, mayest thou prove unlike him in heart! In all thy actions, let honour and truth be thy motto. Be frank and sincere, and tamper not with the trusting soul, lest the heavy guilt of the traitor rest upon thy head and his bitter remorse be thine. I have hitherto withheld from thee the knowledge of the existence of these papers, lest they might have vainly raised hopes which never could be realized. For though every possi blecircumstantial proof of thy mother's marriage is contained in that pacquet, yet the all-important, the only legal document, is wanting! At our last parting, many long years ago, thy father bore away with him. the certificate of our union! Without this precious pa per, thy claims upon him would have been and yet may he idle, unless it might he his pleasure to grant them. That such would be the case, never has been, nor is now probable, since he has other family interests at heart. But my strength fails me —the papers will teach thee all! Only, m\ son, act slowly and cautiously, for by such means *****.’ Here her voice failed, her speech grew inaudible, and soon after, the only parent whom I had ever known, slept her dread sleep within my arms! “After the performance of the unob trusive obsequies of my loved mother, l bethought me, for the first time, of the papers which, in the fullness of my grief, I had hitherto forgotten. Her dying words had, in some measure, prepared me for the disclosures, which I read, nevertheless, with surprise, and with a quickly beating and exulting heart, I learned that my mother, in early youth had been wooed and won and privately wedded to a man of the highest station in life. It was, upon both sides, one of those mad follies of inexperienced youth, for which after years present so fearful an account. That my father loved his bride, and that with no ordinary passion, was very evident, from the tone of the long and tender correspondence which she had preserved. The fear of his father’s wrath constrained him to keep his hum ble marriage secret, and led, soon after, to the sacrifice of his honour, in desert ing his trusting wife, for a union with another. A common history, but never less sad, for its victims, because tliov do not suffer alone. If mv mother had possessed either the will or the power, to redress the wrongs, the cruel blow less her, for a long time, utterly unable to act; and when the first terrible bit terness was passed, she still loved the deserter too well, to do aught that would give him pain. So it would doubtless have ever been, but for her love and duty to her cherished son. Thy participation, young Sir, in later events in my career, has taught thee, that the man who thus abandoned his wife and child, was none other than the father of my rival, in the Jove of the Lady Ida—the noble Earl of Wharton! Strange perverseness of fate,which thus denied me the very hand which had, from childhood been destined for me, both by my father and the parents of Ida! Thou hast not forgotten the be trothal of the heirs of the two houses; and was 1 not one of those heirs! u ln this novel position, I meditated long and painfully upon the course which 1 should pursue. At one mo ment I thought to reveal all to my generous patron, and boldly claim of him the fulfilment, in my person of the promise lie had exchanged with the Lord of Wharton. This idea was aban doned upon recollecting my inability to prove my rights. My musings at length terminated in a resolution to follow my original purpose and seek the camp, where I hoped to meet my father, and place my claims first at his feet. I departed then, at the head of my brave men. Among my followers was an old and favourite servant of my Lord’s. The poor fellow, who loved me much, besought me to take him with me, and 1 could not deny his prayer. Perhaps I was influenced a little by the link which I felt to exist in his presence, between myself and Ida, for he had always been her espe cial attendant. He was the same faith ful fellow who has followed me in all the dangers through which I have pass ed, and who, at this moment, is be stowing, yonder, such jealous care upon our jaded steeds. But I need not speak of Ploughton, thou hast so well made his acquaintance, that 1 fear me he loves thee even more than he does his master. “It was soon after my arrival in the camp, that fortune, more gracious to me than usual, my young friend, hap pily threw thee in my way, and laid the foundations of the friendship which 1 trust may ever last.’’ “Doubt it not, my Lord!” responded the page, who, until now, had been so absorbed in the story of his companion, that he had not interrupted it, by a sin gle word. “Thou already knowest,” resumed the elder, “my successes in arms.— Thou hast seen me receive my spurs from his Majesty’s own royal hand. (Concluded in our next.) “Why does the cook make more noise than the bell?” “Because one makes a din, but the other a dinner .” No. 1 Fastman —“You consider your self a fine blade , I dare say, but I cut you, sir.” No. 2 Ditto. —“l always considered you a sharper, sir.” THIRD VOLUME-NO. T AVHOLE NO. 107, (glimjuaa of Mm ®uka. CUSTOM HOUSE PORTRAITS. From “ Hawthorn's Scarlet letter.” just published h> Tickuor, Reetl &: Fields. THE INsFeCTOR. The lather of the Custom House— the patriarch, not only of this little j squad of ollicials, but, 1 am bold, to say, of the respectable body of tide waiters all over the United States—was a certain permanent Inspector. He might truly be termed a legitimate son of the revenue system, dyed in the \ wool, or rather, born in the purple ; since his sire, a Revolutionary colonel, and formerly collector of the port, had created an office for him, and appointed him to fill it. at a period of the early ages which few living men can now re member. This Inspector, when 1 first i knew him, was a man of fourscore years, or thereabouts, and certainly one of the most wonderful specimens of winter-green that you would be likely to discover in a lifetime's search. With his tlorid cheek, his compact iigure, smartly arrayed in a bright-buttoned blue coat, his brisk and vigorous step, and his hale and hearty aspect, alto gether, he seemed—not young, indeed —but a kind of new contrivance of Mother Nature in the shape of man, whom age and infirmity had no busi ness to touch. His voice and laugh, which perpetually reechoed through the Custom-House, had nothing of the tremulous quaver and cackle of an old mans utterance; they came strutting out of his lungs, like the crow of a cock, or the blast of a clarion. Looking at him merely as an animal, —and there was very little else to look at, —he was a most satisfactory object, from the thorough healthfulness and wholesome ness of his system, and his capacity, at that extreme age, to enjoy all, or near ly all, the delights which he had ever aimed at, or conceived of. The care less security of his life in the Custom- House, on a regular income, and with but slight and infrequent apprehen sions of removal, had no doubt con tributed to make time pass lightly over him. The original and more potent causes, however, lay in the rare perfec tion of his animal nature, the moderate proportion of intellect, and the very trifling admixture of moral and spiritu al ingredients : these latter qualities, in deed, being in barely enough measure to keep the old gentleman from walk ing on all-fours, lie possessed no pow er of thought, no depth of feeling, no troublesome sensibilities; nothing, in short, but a few commonplace instincts, which, aided by the cheerful temper that grew inevitably out of his physi cal well-being, did duty very respecta bly', and to general acceptance, in lieu of a heart. He bad been the husband of three wives, all long since dead ; the fatherof twenty children, most of whom, at every age of childhood or maturity, had likewise returned to dust. Here, one would suppose, might have been sorrow enough to imbue the sunniest disposition, through and through, with a j sable tinge. Not so with our old In- j speetor ! One brief sigh sufficed to car- j ry r off the entire burden of these dis- ! mal reminiscences. The next moment, | he was as ready for sport as any 1111- breeehed infant; far readier than the i Collector’s junior clerk, who, at nineteen years, was much the elder and graver man of the two. I used to watch and study this pa triarchal personage with, I think, live lier curiosity than any other form of j humanity’ there presented to my no tice. He was, in truth, a rare phenom enon; so perfect in one point of view; so shallow, so delusive, so impalpable, sueli an absolute nonenity, in every other. My conclusion was that he had no soul, no heart, no mind ; nothing, as I have already said, but instincts; and yet, withal, so cunningly had the few materials of his character been put to gether, that there was no painful per ception of deficiency , but, on my part, an entire contentment with what I found in him. It might be difficult —and it was so —to conceive how he should ex ist hereafter, so earthly and sensuous did he seem; but surelv his existence here, admitting that it was to termi nate with his last breath, had been not unkindly given ; with no higher moral responsibilities than the beasts of the field, but with a larger scope of enjoy ment than theirs, and with all theirbless ed immunity from the dreariness and duskiness of age. One point, in which he had vastly theadvantage over his four-footed breth ren, was his ability to recollect the good dinners which it had made no small portion of the happiness of his life to eat. His gourmandism was a highly agreeable trait; and to hear | him talk of roast-meat was as appetiz | ing as a pickle or an oyster. As he ; possessed no higher attribute, and nei ther sacrificed nor vitiated any spiritual ! endowment by devoting all his energies ; and ingenuities to subserve the delight and profit of his maw, it always pleasd and satisfied me to hear him expatiate i on fish, poultry, and butcher's meat, and the most eligible methods of pre ! paring them for the table. His reini- I niscences of good cheer, however an , cient the date of the actual banquet, ; seemed to bring the savor of pig or | turkey under one's very nostrils. — There were flavours on his palate, that * had lingered there not less than sixty i or seventy years, and were still appa rently as fresh as that of the mutton chop which he had just devoured for his breakfast. I have heard him smack his j lips over dinners, every guest at which, j except himself, had long been food for worms. It was marvellous to observe ’ how the ghosts of bygone meals were j continually rising up before him ; not in anger or retribution, but as if grate ful for his former appreciation, and seeking to repudiate an endless series of enjoyment, at once shadowy and sen sual. A tender-loin of beef, a hind quarter of veal, a spare-rib of pork, a particular chicken, or a remarkably praiseworthy turkey, which had per haps adorned his board in the days of I the elder Adams, would be remember- !ed ; while all the subsequent experi i enee of our race, and aU the events that brightened or darkened his indi vidual career, had gone over him with j as little permanent effect as the passing ! breeze. Hie chief tragic event of the I old man’s life, so far as I could judge, was his mishap with a certain goose. | which lived and died some twenty or forty years ago ; a goose of most prom ising ligure,but which, at talde.provedso inveterately tough that the carving-knife would make no impression on its car ! cass; and it could only be divided with an axe and handsaw. THE COLLECTOR There is one likenesss. without which inv gallerv of Custom-House portraits would be strangely incomplete ; but which my comparatively few opportu nities for observation enable me to sketch only in the merest out line. It is that of the Collector, our gallant old j General, who, after his brilliant milita r\ service, subsequently to which he i had ruled over a wild \\ esteri territo ry. had come hither, twenty years be fore. to spend the decline of his varied and honourable life. The brave sol dier had already numbered, nearly or quite, his threescore years and ten. and was pursuing the remainder of his earthly march, burdened with infirmi ties which even the martial music of his own spirit-stirring recollect ions could do little towards lightening. The step was palsied now, that had been fore most in the charge. It was only with the assistance of a servant, and by lean ing his hand heavily on the iron balus trade, that be could slowly and pain fully ascend the Custom-House steps, and, with a toilsome progress across the floor, attain bis customary chair be side the fireplace. There he used to sit, gazing witn a somewhat dim seren ity of aspect at the figures that came and went; amid the rustle of papers, the administering of oaths, the discus sion of business, and the casual talk of the office; all which sounds and cir cumstances seemed but indi itinetly to impress his senses, and hardly to make their way into his inner sphere of con templation. Ilis countenance, in this repose, was mild and kindly. If his notice w as sought, an expresion of cour tesy and interest gleamed out upon his features ; proving tnat there was light within him. and that it was only the outward medium of the intellect) al lamp that obstructed the ray s in th>ir passage. The closer you penetrated to the substance of his mind, the sounder it appeared. When no longer called upon to speak, or listen, either of which operations cost him an evident effort, his face would briefly subside into its former not uncheerful quietude, it was | not painful to behold this look ; for, though dim, it had not the imbecility of decaying age. The framework of bis nature, originally strong and mas sive, was not yet crumbled into ruin. To observe and define his character, however, under such disadvantages, was as difficult a task as to trace out | and build up anew, in imagination, an j old fortress, like Ticonderoga, from a i view of its gray and broken ruins.— ; Here and there,perchance,the walls may i remain almostcomplete; butelsewhere may be only a shapeless mound, cum brous with its very strength, and over grown, through long years of peace | and neglect, with grass and alien weeds. Nevertheless, looking at the old war rior with affection, —for, slight as was the communication between us, mv feeling toward him, like that of all bi peds and quadrupeds who knew him. might not improperly be termed so, — 1 could discern the main points of his portrait. It was marked with the no ble and heroic qualities which showed it to be not by a mere accident, but of good right, that he had won a distin guished name, i! is spirit could never, I conceive, have beeu characterized by ; an uneasy activity : it must, at any pe riod of his life, have required an im pulse to set him in motion; but, once , stirred up, with obstacles to overcome. ; and an adequate object to be attained, it was not in the man to give out or | fail. Ihe heat that bad formerly per vaded his nature, and which was not 1 yet extinct, was never of the kind that ! flashes and flickers in a blaze, but, ra ther, a deep, red glow, as of iron in a furnace. \\ eight, solidity , firmness ; this was the expression of his repose, even in such decay as had crept untime j ly over him. at the period of which 1 speak. I>ut 1 could imagine, even then, that, under some excitement which should go deeply into his conscious ness, —roused by a trumpet-peal, loud enough to awaken all of his energies 1 that were not dead, but on]\ slumber -1 ing,—he was yet capable of‘flinging off ! his infirmities like a sick man's gown. | dropping the staff of age to seize a bat tle-sword, and starting up once more a ! warrior. And, in so intense a moment, bis demeanor would have still been calm. Such an exhibition, however, was but to be pictured in fancy ; not to be anticipated, nor desired. What I saw in him—as evidently as the in destructible ramparts of Old Ticondro ga, already cited as ihe most appropri ate simile—were the features of stub born and ponderous endurance, w hich might well have amounted to obstina cy in his earlier days; of integrity, that, like most of his other endow ments, lay in a somewhat heavy mass, and was just as unmalleable and un manageable as a ton of iron Me; and jof benevolence, which, fiercely a- lie I led the bayonets on at Chippewa or Fort Trie, l take to be of quite as gen uine a stamp as what actuates anv or all the polemical philanthropists of the age. He had slain men with his own j hand, for aught 1 know ; —certainF, | they had fallen, like blades, of grass at i the sweep of the scythe, before the charge, to which his spirit imparted its triumphant energy ;—but, be that as ii might, there was never in his heart so much cruelty as would have brushed the down off’ a butterfly’s wing. 1 have not known the man, to w hose innate kindliness 1 w r ould more confidently make an appeal. Many characteristics—and those, too.