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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-