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wounded bird,it seems still and motion
less, stunned by its own powerless
efforts. But again, recovering from its
bewilderment, its aspirations are heard
in questions like these: Are not those
worlds replete with life, beauty and
intelligence? And may we not yet
visit those distant orbs? Are there
more magnificent displays ot the Cre
ator’s power in those vast worlds than
on our earth? And are their inhabi
tants wiser and better ?
“Often,” said Professor A., “have I
asked of ‘the burning stars of night’
these very questions. Often, with an
earnest spirit, have I gazed on the firma
ment,
“ The breast-plate of the true High Priest.
Ardent with gems oracular.”
Sometimes 1 have thought that the loved
scenes of nature here —that our beauti
ful earth, with its majestic mountains,
its flowing rivers, its pearled and grot
toed oceans, its emerald isles, its peace
ful vales, its happy homes, are but
shadowy images of the exhibitions of
love and wisdom in those vast and
wondrous worlds. \\ e may hereafter
be permitted, when free from the ‘mor
tal coils’ which bind us here, and when
our intellectual and spiritual faculties
have gathered angelic power to com
prehend those glories in the l niverse,
which imagination now so faintly pic
tures.”
As in words of beauty Professor A.
painted the results of scientific investi
gation. Cora’s spirit glowed with en
thusiasm, and earnest were her aspira
tions after knowledge and wisdom.—
Hour after hour passed away. At last
Cora said:
“It is well for us that in our skies
there is no time-keeper, and that we
have no wise old friend, as had Paul
and Virginia; if so, long since we might
have heard, ‘‘llesttard; if est minuit.
Le crvix dv Slid est droit sur Vhorizon;
or rather, ‘lt is past midnight; the Cross
has waned.’”
“But,” said the Professor, “these
winged hours cast o’er the common
walks of life a halo of light and glory,
and prepare us to meet, without com
plaint, the real and rough with which
our pathway is beset. Thus is the
spirit harmonized and prepared for its
daily avocations and for life’s impera
tive duties. These winged hours tinge
many that follow, with a roseate hue.”
When Cora retired to rest, the whip
poor-will had awoke, and was pouring
forth In', plaintive notes, his nightly
serenade; and wearied by thought and
lulled by the monotonous repose, she
slumbered—
“ With a peace
Floating about her heart, which only comes
From high communion.”
Her sleep was dreamless, and with the
first Blush of Morning she awoke.—
The birds in sweet concert were carol
ing their morning hymns, and the gen
tle breezes were playing about the cur
tains. She arranged her repeater, and
while recalling recollections of the love
ly evening which had passed ‘in con
verse high,’ again she slept.
Not yet had Aurora, in ‘orient pur
ple dressed, unbarred the golden por
tals ot the roseate east, but wide open
were the crystal gates, and the winged
messengers passed those beautiful bar
riers which shut out Dream-land from
mortal ken.
A radiant being, with a lace of exqui
site beauty, touched the sleeper with a
magic wand.
“Come, Cora, away with me,” he
said, “even beyond the Land of Dreams.
The open gate invites you to the pro
toundest depths of the universe.”
Not a moment did she hesitate, but
trusting herself, with the confidence of
a true and earnest nature, to Aerial,
the stranger guide, she ascended into
the unique chariot. They approached
the “cristallina porta,” the gate of
crystal, where the winged dreams were
passing. One group arrested the atten
tion ot Cora, for among them some
were blight and beautiful, others wild
and fantastic—one wore the signet of
truth on his brow, while on another
was the impress of falsehood—some
were trifling and frivolous, and others
were thoughtful and of noble bearing.
“ That group are all on their way to
one sleeper, and each will whisper to
her, before returning.”
“No, wonder. ’ said Cora, who, like
all sleepers, supposed herself awake,
“No wonder that fancies so strange, so
contrad cto \, so true, and so false, are
blended in our dreams.”
And now the aerial travellers espy
Aurora s chariot, a transparent ruby of
richest hue, gracefully borne down the
azure way, by swans of resplendent
whiteness. Aurora reclined in the cha
riot, in a cloud-like robe of purple,
over which a net-work of golden gos
samer. in rich folds, was thrown. Her
luxuriant curls floated in the breeze,
and a rich blush gave brilliancy to her
perfect features. \\ ith her own beau
tiful hands she opened the gate, at the
approach of the Sun s royal chariot,
which was borne on by steeds of ma
jestic beauty, who were richly capari
soned. and were diamond-shod.
I he ear of Cora flew on rapid wings,
and soon rested on the mountains of
the moon, which rose from the “Sea of
Showers.”
( here, said Cora, “is the jewel
palace, thirty miles in circumference,
desciibed by the Italian poet?”
• That was a fiction of Ariosto’s,”
k said Aerial; “but see that opal castle,
in rainbow hues.” The fabric
by nature’s architect spun from the
volcanic crater, in wild but symmetri
eal proportions. Rainbows, passing
from the earth, mingled with the molten
lava to form the opal; crystalized
fire, and consolidated light, dancing in
sparkles of gold, purple and green, gave
to this unique stone a beauty surpass
ing that of the diamond. Cora’s winged
chariot entered a dome of the opal
palace. It was an immense globe, within
which the car floated. The convex sur
face was inlaid with Lapis Lazuli, ot the
rich blue seen only in that rare stone,
Golden stars gemmed the azure. The
heavens, as they appear through the
gigantic eye of a powerful telescope,
were exhibited. Our solar system and
stellar universe were there. The Milky
W ay, a gorgeous ring, a band of re
splendent pearl, extended round the
vast concave. The brilliant constella
tions so well known to Cora, as well as
those about the Southern pole, were
magnified into startling beauty. The
polar star, our cynosure, the Southern
Cross, Ursa Major, and the Centaur,
Scorpio and Orion—all were seen by
her, glittering amid nebulas and magel
lanic clouds. A vast number of the
nebulae were resolved. The Dumb
Bell —the ring-like Nebula in Lyre—
the Comet-like one, in the girdle of
Andromeda, and the most glorious of
the Nebulae—that in the girdle of Orion,
all claimed her admiration. Said Cora:
“ This view does not satisfy me, but
increases my desire for further observa
tion. Let us go among those wondrous
worlds.”
As she t hus spake, the winged ear left
the Opal Palace, and floated over the
Moon’s volcanic mountains and ravines.
It seemed that mountains tom from
their bases had left these huge excava
tions.
“1 remember,” said Cora, “that Ari
osto relates a story of the Paladin
Astolfo, who found at the Moon all lost
things —love’s sighs and tears, ladies’
charms, lost senses, and wasted hours.
Before we leave this lunar region, let
me search for some of my lost time.”
“Mourn not,” replied Aerial, “for
the departed day, or for the dying
hour, but let its knell remind you of
the future.”
The Sun had vanished, and the Earth,
like a giant moon, met the gaze of Cora.
“ See,” she exultingly exclaimed,
“see our magnificent Earth—like a
silver-robed sea. It is larger than half a
score of moons.”
“This is the only point in the Uni
verse from which the earth appears
magnificent,” replied Aerial. The cha
riot pursued its winged course, and
soon hovered over Venus. The aerial
car floated above the magnificent lunar
| scenery. The lofty mountains of Ve
nus. towering twenty miles above its
; surface, were rich in gems of beauty.
| The travellers rested in a grotto, formed
i of precious stones, and of sea-shells,
where the air was redolent with the
perfume of lunar flowers, where winged
creatures, of exquisite plumage, sported
amid the foliage, while limpid streams
flowed down golden sands, and fount
ains danced, as if to hidden music.
“And,” said Cora, “is this beautiful
Venus, on whose silvery orb I have so
often gazed, and, while I watched it,
following the sun like a page, how have
1 longed to know its history! Ah !it
is indeed as lovely as I had imagined
it—but tell me, are its inhabitants of
correspondent beauty? Do they love,
and hope, and fear? Is there here
cherub infancy, and blooming youth,
and wise maturity, and venerable age?
Do the inhabitants of this fair planet
fade and die? Is sorrow here, and
does the heart well nigh break with
grief, and is the blight of sin east over
all this lovely region? And Mercury
so near the sun—are not all its inhabi
tants consumed by oppressive rays,
and do not those of Tlersehel shiver
with cold ?”
“Be assured,” answered Aerial, “that
the same great Designer who created
your earth, has fitted all beings for
their own planet.”
“But, continued the excited Cora, “I
have heard that in Sirius, and in other
vast worlds, the inhabitants are en
dowed with many more senses than
those of ours, and their mental gifts are
superior! Why may 1 not visit a
planet inhabited by beings so highly
gifted ?”
“Because,” said Aerial, “you, with
your capacities limited, as they now
are, could have no intercourse with
them. The inhabitants of earth are of a
very low order of intelligence, but are
susceptable of high improvement. I
cannot now bring you to the compan
ionship of the beings of other globes.
I have the power only to give you a
glimpse of the Universe, but that will
convince you of the impossibility of a
finite being comprehending the works
of creation.”
Leaving Venus,the ring-shaped moun
tains, stationed like watch-towers about
the ruddy planet of Mars, soon became
visible. The polar snows
into glaciers of fantastic form, glittered
with ice-castles, crowned with turrets
and minarets. Now the car hovered
over one of Jupiter's satelites, from
which Jupiter, full-orbed, appeared of
unrivalled magnitude.
“ A thousand times larger than our
moon,” said Cora, “does that splendid
planet appear, and this the astronomers
have told us. J upiter’s moons revolve
with incredible swiftness, or the great
attractive power of the planet would
soon draw them to its surface.”
Now Cora approaches Saturn—that
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
glory of our solar system, which she
had so often seen with her mind’s eye,
its splendid rainbow arch, and its re
tinue of moons, reflecting light on each
other, and producing a magical effect.
The travellers passing Herschel, flow
among the steliar worlds. Said Cora,
“Are these worlds inhabited?” “All”
answered Aerial, “or in a state <f;
preparation for inhabitants” —and im
mediately they approached near to or.
so near, that Cora saw vampires hov
ering over the plains —huge serpents
creeping in the jungles, and forests,
and amphibious animals of strength,
sufficient to destroy a navy, floating
their giant trunks on the waters. So
strange was this, that Cora looked en
quiringly at Aerial. “You have read”
he answered of the Basilosaurus, and
of other gigantic creatures, who inhab
ited the earth, before it was fitted for
the residence of man —this world is
yet in a state of preparation, for a
higher order of beings.” And now the
chariot flew swifter than lightning, and
scenes more glorious than Cora had
ever imagined burst on her vision.—
‘ The great telescope at Cambridge,
does not present so wondrous a view
Not Herschel at the Cape of Goo,
Hope, not Lord Ross, nor Tycho, in
his sea-girt isle, witnessed revealings
equal to these,” said Cora.” Constella
tions, with which she was acquainted,
vanished, and others more glorious,
some of them forming in starry light,
her own name, and those of her chosen
friends appeared. Comets, like flam
ing swords, or fiery balls, were darting
through the heavens. Nebulas, which
in the distance seemed but fleecy clouds
or specks of haze, on a near approach,
assumed the most fantastic shapes, re
presenting in silvery light, flowers and
shells, and all the loveliest things of
earth. Then again as the travellers
flew with lightning speed towards them,
their capricious shapes were lost, for
myriads of worlds, sun upon sun, in
meridian light appeared, where only a
minute nebula had glimmered. The
car darted among suns of every colour,
their satelites, lost in their glory, till
Cora, overpowered by the dazzling
light, and overwhelmed by this incon
ceivable glory, said, “Let me return to
earth.” And then, the chariot, in its
course to earth, seemed suspended amid
the great Nebulae of the solar system,
our own milky way, and while the
circling orbs, with their eternal har
mony, the music of the spheres, moved
on, and while the young enthusiast
listened to this unearthly music, amid
that heavenly melody, she heard a
voice, soft and clear, which had for
years been silent on earth. It was the
voice of her mother. “ Cora,” it said,
‘•'•the true and pure Jove of earth lives
even amid these brighter glories , and
the voices of earthly love mingle with
the music of the Spheres'’ Cora sprang
forward, as if to leave the car, and at
that moment, her repeater, ringing out
the hour for her to arise, awoke her.
At the table she said to her indulgent
Father, and Professor A., “May 1 tell
you of my strange morning fancies?”
and after repeating the dream, still so
vivid, she said, “I know my dream is
tinged by my thoughts during the day,
and I half fear that fiction and mytho
logical fancies, mingle in my mind too
much with solemn truth,and astronomi
cal fact. Some, 1 know, call me fanci
ful, and ideal, and deem me unfit for
sober duty.”
“No doubt, my daughter, there are
some, who have no thoughts of their
own, and will frown on yours, and will
accuse you of wasting time in an ideal
world, while they spend theirs in re
peating gossip, and in arranging the
affairs of others, who are little benefited
by their interference. You are inde
pendent of those busy people, having
your own thoughts ever for company.
I acknowledge that our speculations
may lead us to neglect duty, but 1 have
often believed that great thoughts as
sist us, even in minor affairs, and my
little Cora, your father will not censure
you for your aspirations, or your en
quiring fancies, while you perform so
conscientiously your duties here, while
your father’s happiness is so near your
heart, while you perform a maternal
part to your little motherless brothers,
ever schooling your rapid mind down
to their infantile capacities, and while
you are willing to lay aside your favour
ite pursuits, to care for a sick servant.”
“Neither can I find fault,” said Pro
fessor A., “while you so faithfully pur
sue the dry, abtruse details of science,
never satisfying your conscience, except
by perfect recitations.”
Cora gratefully acknowledged these
pleasing approvals, which to her sensi
tive nature, were necessary, and her
father added “ 1 am not afraid of fiction
for those who love truth —truth ever
mingles with fiction and I recognize in
some of your fancies high authority.
Your aerial guide told you, that the in
habitants of earth were not fitted yet
fur the companionship of higher intel
ligeneies. In one of your lessons in
Butler’s Analogy, you recollect lie says:
“ VYe are an inferior part of the crea
tion of God. There are natural ap
pearances of our being in a state of
degradation.” And again your nebulae
changinglike the phantasma of a magic
lanthorn had its origin, doubtless, in a
conversation, to which you listened,
between Professor A. and myself re
specting the revelations of Lord Ross’
powerful telescope which converts a
hazy speck, as in Lyra, to a splendid
solid ring, a mighty galaxy; and changes
an obscure ellipse, as the I rab Nebula,
to a cone, like a pine appie, richly
studded with stars; and transforms a
cluster, to the magnificent Spiral Ne
bular which resembles “a scroll gradu
ally unwinding or the evolutions of a
mighty shell.
“ But,” said Cora, “as I tell you all
my thoughts, 1 must acknowledge, that
I am not quite happy this morning.—
When 1 think of our world, with the
solar system moving three times faster
about some central orb, than about its
own sun, when I think of its whirling
| into space and when 1 consider the vast
ness of the Universe, 1 sometimes think
that I, that we shall be forgotten, amid
the myriads of worlds that claim the
Creator’s care.”
“ Fear not Cora,” said Pofessor A.
“ for our earth has been the theatre of
| a sacrifice of love, and mercy never ex
ceeded. The Creator is sufficient to all
the created, but other minds than yours,
i have trembled in view of His Majes
ty,”—and taking up a work of one of
the most sublime and gifted writers of
the age, he read. “ Beneath such maj
esties, feeling as in faintness, that sure
; ly 1 must be lone and forlorn, I turn
over, with a cheering delight to that
: sweet-home-picture of Luther’s, where
he speaks of a little bird, that in sum
mer’s evenings, came to his pear-tree
at sunset, and sang ever so melodious
ly, and without one note of misgiving,
because, though dread Eternity was
above, below, and around it, God was
there.” M. B.
(Driginol jAirtrij.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LIFE.
“ To know
That which before us lies in daily life.
Is the prime wisdom.”
Life, they say, is like a streamlet.
Bubbling on its devious way—
Murm’ring now amid the darkness,
Now again where sunbeams p,ay.
Or they tell us ’tis a desert ,
Where no pleasant waters are.
t inly trod by pilgrim footsteps—
Pilgrims bow’d by want and care.
i
Or they tell us ’tis a battle,
Where the bravest fall the first—
Where the smitten pray, all vainly.
For a cup to quench their thirst.
Or they tell us ’tis a vision
Os a glorious summer day ;
Green and gold, in brilliant fret-work,
Mingle—dazzle—fade away.
Or they tell us, ’tis a landscape,
All made up of hill and dale,
Over which our hopes are wafted,
By the zephyr or the gale.
Or they tell us,’tis an ocean,
Over which the tempests roam,
Till they lash the waves to madness,
Tossing high the frost-like form.
Or they tell us, ’tis a vapour,
Glittering in the morning light,
Fading, fleeing back to heaven.
While it woos the gazer’s sight
Or they tell us, ’tis a fable,
Such as Eastern Magi tell.
And they say it hath its moral,
[n the solemn-sounding knell.
But to me life all is real,
As I labour day by day,
Treading down the thorns and thistles.
Which spring up about my way.
While I labour, oft I wonder
If it be as Nature saith ;
And I strive to learn the lesson :
Death is life and life is death.
RUSTICUS.
Jioswell , Ga.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LINES TO .
BY ALBERT R. ALEXANDER.
Oh! give me back my heart,
Yes, give it back to me,
Oh! give me back my heart,
And I’ll give thine to thee.
Twere better we’d not met,
Than e’er to disagree;
I could with ease give back thy heart,
But can’t get mine from thee.
Then give me back my heart,
And set thy bondman free :
Oh ! give me back my heart,
Or else give thine to me.
Wakulla, Fla,, June 10,1850.
dDriginal Cssatja.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
EGERIA:
Or, Voices from the Woods and Wayside.
NEW SERIES.
LV.
Conversation. The high and proper
signification of the word ‘conversation,’
seems now to be lost from society. A
fine strain of dilation, such as came
from that old man eloquent, Coleridge,
is voted declamation and impertinence,
by that vulgar vanity . which, in its
own perpetual hunger to be heard, is
angry, though a God should speak.—
Instead of conversation, now-a-days,
what have we? The ‘wishy-washy
everlasting flood of drivel—an idiot’s
tale —signifying nothing, not even sound
and fury.
LVI.
Consolations of Beggary. I sup
pose that the Beggar finds some conso
lation in the thought that he shall one
day cease to starve.
LVII.
Death. After all, how great is the
certainty of death! What a world of
consolation is contained in the assur
ance of the Scriptures, that there shall
come a season, and be a place of refuge,
when and where the wicked shall cease
from troubling and the weary’ shall find
rest. True virtue consists in the strug
gle, 1 admit; but it does not cease to be
virtue, that we should seek repose after
the victory is won.
LVIII.
Enthusiasm. Enthusiasm is unques
tionably a virtue, the wing and impulse
to all other virtues. But in the ab-
sence of virtue itself, the most sover
eign impertinence. Habitual enthusi
asm is a child of the blood and not of
the principles. But it is not the less to
be entertained or valued on this ac
count; since the blood is the life of the
passions, and where there are no pas
sions, there can be no virtues. Enthu
siasm, in the young, coupled with re
verence and faith, proves all right.
But, lacking the latter, it makes a
tyranny of the mind which feels its
impulses, and in the diseased growth of
self-esteem, which it occasions, it de
feats all usefulness.
TAX.
Habitual Impulse. Habitually en
thusiastic people are never so happy as
when they are endeavouring to save
you from yourself. It is, however, for
tunate that the passion which reforms
such persons, is one of peculiar insta
bility and caprice. Their ambition is
to be doing, no matter what, so that
the blood be exercised; and uninformed
by principle, and without any special
object in the ministry, they so divide
their industry among the many, as to
render endurable the sufferings of each.
A firm show of resistance soon ban
ishes the tormentor, who does not feel
any defeat or disappointment in being
compelled to tranfer his dispensations
from Jack to Jonathan.
LX.
Sincerity. Our loves are but the
mirrors of our Jives. Our affections
go with our virtues. We do not truly
honour the beauty which we do not
seek. No one acknowledges the Deity
to whom he does not somewhere con
struct an altar.
LXI.
Zeal. Zeal too frequently commits
I the error of cupidity, in its eagerness
ito realize its fruits. The History of
| the Jesuits would furnish the most ad
mirable example for the training of the
I zealot, so that his hand shall never
close upon his bird a moment before
; the time. To plant the seed and wait
patiently for the growth, is one of the
| loveliest studies of religion. It is faith
! alone that is ever suffered to behold the
! dead staff blossom full of leaves.
LXIL
Crude Virtues. What we call vice
in our neighbour, is nothing less than
a crude virtue. To him who knows
nothing more of precious stones than
j he can learn from a daily’ contemplation
of his breast-pin, a diamond in the
mine must be a very unpromising sort
of stone.
LXIII.
Verse. It is thought strange that
poets should write verse before prose;
| but verse is the natural language of the
poet. His freedom, spirit and grace of
expression come to him in metrical
• compositions, much sooner than in the
ordinary forms of speech. Rhythm is
his vernacula, and it requires some
effort and much practice, even when he
would write prose, to avoid running
into the regular cadences of verse.
j
(folimpHra nf 3Qrui ®nnks.
GLIMPSES OF THE SOUTH.
From Bryants “ Letters of a Traveller.”
THE INTERIOR OF SOUTH CAROLINA.—A
CORN SHUCKING.
Since I last wrote, l have passed
three weeks in the interior of South
Carolina ; visited Columbia, the capi
tal of the the state, a pretty town;
i roamed over a considerable part of
Barnwell district, with some part of the
, neighbouring one of Orangeburg ; en
joyed the hospitality of the planters—
very agreeable and intelligent men;
been out in a racoon hunt; been pre
sent at a corn-shucking ; listened to ne
j gro ballads, negro jokes and the banjo;
| witnessed negro dances ; seen two alli
gators at least, and eaten bushels of
hominy.
Whoever comes out on the railroad
to this district, a distance of seventy
miles or more, if he were to judge on
ly by what he sees in his passage, might
naturally take South Carolina for a vast
pine-forrest with here and there a clearing
made by some enterprising settler, and
would wonder where the cotton which
clothes so many millions of the human
race, is produced. The railway keeps
on a tract of sterile sand, overgrown
with pines; passing, here and there,
| along the edge of a morass, or crossing
a stream of yellow water. A lonely
log-house under these old trees, is a
sight for sore eyes ; and only two or
tin ee plantations, properly so called,
meet the eye in the whole distance.—
The cultivated and more productive
lands lie apart from this tract, near
streams, and interspersed with more
frequent ponds and marshes. Here
you find plantations comprising several
thousands of acres, a considerable part
of which always lies in forest; cotton
and corn fields of vast extent, and a
negro village on every plantation, at a
respectful distance from the habitation
of the proprietor. Evergreen trees of
the oak family and others, which I
mentioned in my last letter, are gener
ally planted about the mansions. Some
of them are surrounded with dreary
clearings, full of the standing trunks of
dead pines ; others are pleasantly situ
ated in the edge of woods, interspersed
by winding paths. A ramble, or a ride
—a ride on a hand-gallop it should be—
in these pine woods, on a fine March
day, when the weather has all the spirit
of our March days without its severi
ty, is one of the most delightful recre
ations in the world. The paths are
upon a white sand, which, when not
frequently travelled, is very firm under
foot; on all sides you are surrounded
by noble stems of trees, towering to
an immense height, from whose sum
mits, far above you, the wind is draw
ing deep and grand harmonies; and
often your way is beside a marsh, ver
dant with magnolias, where the yellow
iessamine, now in flower, fills the air
with fragrance, and the bamboo-briar,
an evergreen creeper, twines itself with
various other plants, which never shed
their leaves in winter. These woods
1 abound in game, which, you will be
lieve me when 1 say, l had rather start
than shoot, —flocks of turtle doves, rab
bits rising and scudding before you;
bevies of quails, partridges they call
them here, chirping almost under your
horse’s feet; wild ducks swimming in
the pools, and wild turkeys, which are
frequently shot by the practised sports
man.
But you must hear of the corn-shuck
ing. The one at which I was present
was given on purpose that I might wit
ness the humours of the Carolina ne
groes. A huge fire of light-wood was
made near the corn-house. Light-wood
is the wood of the long-leaved pine,
and is so called, not because it is light,
for it is almost the heaviest wood in the
world, but because it gives more light
than any other fuel, in cleared land,
the pines are girdled and suffered to
stand; the outer portion of the wood
decays and falls off; the inner part,
which is saturated with turpentine, re
mains upright for years, and constitutes
the planter’s provision of fuel. When
a supply is wanted, one of these dead
trunks is felled by the axe. The abun
dance of light-wood is one of the boasts
of South Carolina. Wherever you are,
if you happen to be chilly, you may
have a fire extempore ; a bit of light
wood and a coal give you a bright blaze
and a strong heat in an instant. The ne
groes makefiles of it in the fields where
they work; and, when the mornings
are wet and chilly, in the pens where
they are milking the cows. Ataplan
i tation, where 1 passed a frosty night, 1
! saw fires in a small inclosure, and was
I told by the lady of the house that she
had ordered them to be made to warm
the cattle.
The light wood fire was made, and
the negroes dropped in from the neigh
bouring platations, singing as they came.
The driver of the plantation, a colour
ed man, brought out baskets of corn
in the husk, and piled it in a heap ; and
the negroes began to strip the husks
from the ears, singing with great glee
as they worked, keeping time to the
music, and now and then throwing in a
joke and an extravagant burst of laugh
ter. The songs were generally of a
comic character; but one of them was
set to a singularly wild and plaintive
air, which some of our musicians would
do well to reduce to notation. These
are the words :
Johnny comedown de hollow.
Oh hollow ‘
Johnny come down de hollow.
Oh hollow ‘
De nigger-trader got me.
Oh hollow!
De speculator bought me.
Oh hollow ‘
I’m sold for silver dollars.
Oh hollow .’
Boys, go catch de pony.
Oh hollow 1
Bring him round de cornei
Oh hollow !
I’m goin’ away to Georgia.
Oh hollow !
Boys, good-bye forever .’
Oh hollow !
The song of “Jenny gone away,”
was also given, and another, called the
monkey-song, probably of African ori
gin, in which the principal singer per
sonated a monkey, with all sorts of
odd gesticulations, and the other ne
groes bore part in the chorus, “ Dan,
dan, who’s de dandy 1” One of the
songs, commonly sung on these occa
sions, represents the various animals of
the woods as belonging to some pro
fession or trade, tor example —
De eooter is de boatman—
The eooter is the terrapin, and a very
expert boatman he is.
De eooter is de boatman.
John John Crow.
De red-bird de soger.
John John Crow.
De mocking-bird de lawyer.
John John Crow
De alligator sawyer.
John John Crow.
The alligator’s back is furnished with
a toothed ridge, like the edge of a saw,
which explains the last line.
When the work of the evening was
over the negroes adjourned to a spa
cious kitchen. One of them took his
place as musician, whistling and beat
time with two sticks upon the floor. —
Several of the men came forward and
executed various dances, capering, pran
cing, and drumming with heel and toe
upon the floor, with astonishing agility
and perseverance, though all of them
had performed their daily tasks and
had worked all the evening, and some
had walked from four to seven miles
to attend the corn-shucking. From the
dances a transition was made to a mock
military parade, a sort of burlesque of
our militia trainings, in which the words
of command and the evolutions were
extremely ludicrous. It became ne
cessary for the commander to make a
speech, and confessing his incapacity
for public speaking, he called upon a
huge black man named Toby to ad
dress the company in his stead. Toby,
a man of powerful frame, six feet high,
his face ornamented with a beard of
fashionable cut, had hitherto stood lean
ing against the wall, looking upon the
frolic with an air of superiority. He
consented, came forward, demanded a
bit of paper to hold in his hand, and
harangued the soldiery. It was evi
dent that Toby had listened to stump
speeches in his day. He spoke of “de
majority of de Sous Carolina,” “ de in
terest of de state,” “de honor of ole
Ba’nwell district,” and these phrases
he connected by various expletives, and
sounds of which we could make no
thing. At length he began to falter,
when the captain with admirable pre
sence of mind came to his relief, and
interrupted and closed the harangue
with an hurrah from the company. —
Toby was allowed by all the spectators,
black and white, to have made an excel
lent speech.
ST. AUGUSTINE.
At length we emerged upon a shrub
by plain, and finally came in sight of
this oldest city of the United States,
seated among its trees on a sandy swell
of land where it has stood for three
hundred years. 1 was struck with its
ancient and homely aspect, even at a
distance, and could not help likening it
to pictures which 1 had seen of Dutch
towns, though it wanted a windmill or
two, to make the resemblance perfect.
We drove into a green square, in the
midst of which was a monument erect
ed to commemorate the Spanish con
stitution of 1812, and thence through
the narrow streets of the city to our
hotel.
I have called the streets narrow*. In
few places are they wide enough to al
low two carriages to pass abreast. I
was told that they were not originally
intended for carriages, and that in the
time when the town belonged to Spain,
many of them were floored with an ar
tificial stone, composed of shells and
mortar, which in this climate takes and
keeps the hardness of rock, and that
no other vehicle than a hand barrow
was allowed to pass over them. In
some places you see remnants of this
ancient pavement, but for the most
part it has bean ground into dust un
der the wheels of the carts and car
riages, introduced by the new inhabi
tants. The old houses, built of a kind
of stone which is seemingly a pure con
cretion of small shells, overhang the
streets with their wooden balconies,
and the gardens between the houses are
fenced on the side of the street with
high walls of stone. Peeping over
these walls you see branches of the
pomegranate and of the. orange-tree,
now fragrant with flowers, and, rising
vet higher, the leaning boughs of ihe
fig, with its broad luxuriant leaves.—
Occasionally you pass the ruins of
houses—walls of stone, with arches and
staircases of the same material, which
once belonged to stately dwellings.—
You meet in the streets with men of
swarthy complexions and foreign physi
ognomy, and you hear them speaking
to each other in a strange language.—
o o “
j ou are told that these are the remains
of those who inhabited the country un
der the Spanish dominion, and that, the
dialect you have heard is that of the
island of Minorca.
“Twelve years ago,” said an ac
quaintance of mine, “when I first visit
ed St. Augustine, it was a fine old
Spanish town. A large proportion of
the houses, which you now see roofed
like barns, were then flat-roofed, they
were all of shell-rock, and these mo
dem wooden buildings were not yet
erected. That old fort, which they are
now repairing, to fit it for receiving a
garrison, was a sort of ruin, for the
outworks had partly fallen, and it stood
unoccupied by the military, a venera
ble monument of the Spanish dominion.
But the orange-groves, were the orna
ment and wealth of St. Augustine, and
their produce maintained the inhabi
tants in comfort. Orange-trees, of the
size and height of the pear-tree, often
rising higher than the roofs of the
houses, embowered the town in per
petual verdure. They stood so close
in the groves that t.he\ excluded the
sun, and the atmosphere was at all
times aromatic with their leaves and
fruit, and in spring the fragrance us the
flowers was almost oppressive.”
These groves have now lost their
beauty. A few years since, a severe
frost killed the trees to the ground, and
when they sprouted again from the
roots, anew enemy made its appear- !
anee —an insect of the coccus family,
with a kind of shell on its back, which i
enables it to withstand all the common
applications for destroying insects, and
the ravages of which are shown by the
leaves becoming black and sere, and
the twigs perishing. In October last,
a gale drove in the spray from the
ocean, stripping the trees, except in
sheltered situations, of their leaves,
and destroying the upper branches.—
j The trunks are now putting out new
sprouts and new leaves, but there is no I
hope of fruit for this year at least.
The old fort of St. Mark, now called
Fort Marion, a foolish change of name,
is a noble work, frowning over the Ma
tanzas, which flows between St. Auguss
tine and the island of St. Anastasia,
and it is worth making a long journey
to see. No record remains of its orig
inal construction, hut it is supposed to
have been erected about a hundred
and fifty years since, and the si.ell
rock of which it is built is dark with
time. W e saw where it had been
struck with cannon-balls, which, instead
of splitting the rock, became imbedded
and clogged among the loosened frag
ments ot shell. This rock is, therefore,
one of the best materials for a fortifi
cation in the world. We were taken j
into the ancient prisons of the fort—
dungeons, one of which was dimly
lighted by a grated window, and another
entirely without light; and by the
; flame of a torch we were shown the
half-obliterated inscriptions scrawled
on the walls long ago by prisoners.—
But in another corner of the fort, we
were taken to look at two secret cells,
which were discovered a few years
since, in consequence of the sinking of
the earth over a narrow apartment be
tween them. These cells are deep under
ground, vaulted overhead, and without
windows. In one of them a wooden
machine was found, which some sup
| posed might have been a rack, and in
the other a quantity of human bones.
Ihe doors of these cells had been
walled up and concealed with stucco,
before the fort passed into the hands of
the Americans.
“ If the Inquisition,” said the gentle
man who accompanied us, “was esta
blished in Florida, as it was in the
other American colonies of Spain, these
were its secret chambers.”
Yesterday was Palm Sunday, and in
the morning 1 attended the services in
the Catholic church. One of the cere
monies was that of pronouncing the
benediction over a large pile of leaves
of the cabbage-palm, or palmetto, gath
ered in the woods. After the blessing
had been pronounced, the priest called
upon the congregation to come and re
ceive them. The men came forward
first, in the order of their age, and then
the women; and as the congregation
consisted mostly of the descendants of
Minorcans, Greeks, and Spaniards, 1
had a good opportunity of observing
their personal appearance. The younger
portion of the congregation had, in gen
eral, expressive countenances. Their
forms, it appeared to me, were generally
slighter than those of our people; and
it the cheeks of the young women were
dark, they had regular features and bril
liont eyes, and finely formed hands.
There is spirit, also, in this class, for
one of them has since been pointed out
to mein the streets, as having drawn a
dirk upon a young officer who presumed
upon some improper freedoms of beha
viour.
The services were closed by a plain
and sensible discourse in English, from
the priest, Mr. Rarnpon, a worthy and
useful French ecclesiastic, on the obli
gation of temperance; for the temper
ance reform has penetrated even hither,
and cold water is all the rage. I went
again, the other evening, into the same
church, and heard a person declaiming,
in a language which, at first, I took to
be Minorcan, for I could make nothing
else of it. After listening f or a f ev
minutes, I found that it was a French
man preaching in Spanish, with a French
mode of pronunciation, which was odd
enough. I asked one of the old Span
ish inhabitants how he was edified
this discourse, and he acknowledg'd
that he understood about an eiahn,
part of it. ‘ “ 1
_ €jje ?orrrii Hltnr.
from Sattain’* Magazine
THE CROWN OF THORNS
BY CAROLINE MAY.
, “ And {*>* Platted a crown of thorns and out it ™ l
head, and they put on him a purple robi, amffi u
,he Jew s = and they smote him with the'irha.o*
-JoT,N e x,x a ™ e o ’ U9 Weari, ‘” thecrow not thorns. ’’
row. S "-f 9A uH a wi. b 4 roeonrfrfeft ’ an<l ean ' e{ l our ioi
Wh ' V tujT munnurin£ Ptil b fad. faithless
Hast thou been’ tortured by a bitter taunt I
Have the dark evil days thy comfort v !o le?
Do vain remembrances thy bosom haunt 1
( “hill dr ° P th> ’ griefd ‘ n Pilate ’ s judgment
And meditate the mighty woes Ove bore
tor all. c
Behold the busy priesis and soldier bands
What deeds of matchless oraelt dare ’
Behold! they smite Him with their coward
hands,
With heavy thongs His sacred flesh they tear
Even as a murderer they hunt him down.
Yet mock Him as a king, with sceptre
robe and crown.
Behold He comes, wearing the crown of thorns
Whose points inverted pierce his pallid brow
1 he purple robe in mockery adorns
The fainting form that stooped to suffer uou
Meekly He moves, mid scourge, and shout,
and jeer.
lothe last agony ot cross, and nails, and
spear.
Behold Him there ! Th’ atoning work is done
His raging enemies can do no more.
He felt the pangs of many deaths in one,
The throbs of many broken heaits He bore.
Despised, rejected, and wounded, see
Was ever sorrow like to this* on Calvary ?
Then surely He hath borne thy sad soul;
So, while thou watkest through life’s brier>,
path,
While o’er thy head thick clouds of trouble roll,
Tiike frowning messengers of God’s just
wrath,
The death of friends, tin- pains, the change
the loss—
Beneath each cloud of care—go cling unto
the cross.
And lifting up thine eyes to that dear head
Circled by thorns upon the accursed tree,
Think, that as for thy sins His blood was shed
Bo—to show forth His pitying sympathy
To teach thee that in all thy griefs He
mournst—
He wore that platted type of wo—The
Crown of Thorns.
* “ Behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto my
sorrow, which is done nnto me, wherewith the Lord hath
afflicted me in the day of his fierce anger.”—Lamest*
tions i. Li.
+ “In all their afflictions He has afflicted.”—lsaUh
xliii. 9.
Lesson for Sunday, June 7.
SPIRITUAL DESERTION.
‘ ’ Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obey
eth the voice ot’ his servant, that walketh in darkness, and
hath no light? Let him trust in the name of the Lord
and stay upon his God.”—lsa. 1. 10.
What mysteries are there connected
with the life of a Christian ! He enjoys
: peace, and yet he is engaged in a con
i tinual conflict: he is quickened, and yet
Ihe often complains of his dulness; he
has spiritual light, and yet sometimes
| walks in darkness. Note
A Christian’s character described.
Two things with regard to him are here
stated.
The principle he possesses. Fear
Religion is called the fear of the Lord.
It is divinely implanted in the heart,
and exerts its influence in the life.
The practice he pursues. Obedience.
Christ as Mediator, is the Father’s ser
vant, and our Lord, whose we are, and
whom we serve. Our obedience must
be sincere, cheerful, and constant in its
exercise.
A case of trial sitpposed. “Walk
ing in darkness.” This is the case
When the presence of God is with
drawn. Sometimes he hides himself,
but it is only for a small moment. Job.
David, and others, felt this.
When the operations of the Spirit
I are withheld. Sometimes, like Pilgrim,
the Christian loses his scroll, and goes
on mourning; or, like Saul, slumbers,
and loses his spear and cruse.
When his prospects for eternity are
I dartened,
“ He wants to read his title clear
To mansions in the saies
but he cannot, and cries, O for a beam
of celestial light to dart upon my be
nighted soul, to guide me in my path!
A SOURCE OF COMFORT OPENED. —
Observe
The interest he may claim. “ His
God.” The certainty of our interest
in him does not depend on frames and
feelings. He is our God as really in
the storm and tempest, as when our
sky is bright. The firmament may be
overhung with clouds, so as to obstruct
from our view the glorious luminary
! of day ; so the clouds of our guilt, im
i perfections, and doubts, may for a time
intercept the bright beams of the Sun
of righteousness, but still he shines.
The con fidence he may repose. Let
him trust and stay upon his God.—
! Nothing for a moment must induce us
i to give up our hold of his promise.—
i Ultimately he will scatter every invste
ry. I he will scatter even
cloud, quell every fear, resolve every
doubt, and explain every mystery.
HOLINESS OF HEAVEN
How vain must be our hope of en
; tering into heaven, if we have no pre
sent delight in what are said to be its
joys. A Christian finds his happiness
jin holiness. When he looks forward
to heaven, it is the holiness of the scene
and association on which he fastens, as
affording its happiness. He is not in
j love with an Arcardian paradise, with
I the green pastures, the flowing waters,
and the minstrelsy of many harps. —
He is not dreaming of a bright island,
where he shall meet with buried kin
died, renew domestic charities, and
again live human life, in all but its
cares, and tears and partings. “Be ye
holy, for I am holy”—this is the pre
cept attempted conformity to which is
the business of a Christian’s life on
earth —perfect conformity to which
shall be the blessedness of heaven. Let
us take heed that we deceive not our
selves. The apostle speaks of “tasting
the powers of the world to come,” as
though heaven were to commence on
this side of the grave. We may be
enamoured of heaven, because we think
that “there the wicked cease from trou
bling, and the weary are at rest.’ M e
may be enchanted with the poetry of
its description, and fascinated by the
brilliancy of its colouring, as the Evan
gelist John relates his visions, and
sketches the scenery on which he was
privileged to gaze. But all this does
not prove us on the high road to heaven.
If it be heaven tow ard which we jour
ney, it will be holiness in which we de-