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Nature seems happily to repose m the
embrace of Beauty. ;, l e ant i t*eld,
and river and cascade, and lonely peaks
of kindred granite, employ and per
suade the satisfied glance fiom side to
side. Your eye communes with the
Glassy and Hogback Mountains, in
Greenville; sweeping over Spartan
burgh, to the east, it rests on King’s
Mountain, famous for the defeat of Fer
guson, in the Revolution; next, in
quick succession, you range from the
Saluda Mountains, to the Panther,
Caesar’s Head, the Dismal, the Estato
and Oolenoe; and, with the eye thus
travelling west, you grasp the castella
ted heights of the Curahee, in Georgia.
Immediately in the rear of the
Table Rock is that of Estato, foolish
ly called the Sassafras. 1 his is a still
higher eminence than the former. —
From its bosom gushes forth the wa
ters of the Estato, which fertilize the
beautiful valley of the same name.—
From this peak, you gain other pros
pects of grandeur and beauty on the
west and north. The heights are fan
tastically called “the Chimney Stack,”
and “ the Devil’s Court.” The smaller
ranges, through which pour the numer
ous head-waters of Chatuga and Keo
wee, contain many other treasures. —
Farms and villages, and a boundless
stretch of country, inspire convictions
of vast and various beauties in rock
and valley, such as must need reward
taste and curiosity. The \ ale of Jo
cassee is among these treasures, which
the mountain barriers enshrine as in a
casket. It is worthy to compare with
any in Thessaly. The Vale of Tempe
was only superior in its arts and
statues. That may be allowed to
speak for the past; our valley declares
for the present and the future. Here,
Natuie is allowed to do every thing.—
Jocassee is still a damsel of the abo
rigines. The valley, not more than a
mile in breaJth, is yet several miles in
length. Through its centre, like a sil
ver ribbon trembling through a purple
sky, steals one of the most gentle and
most pellucid of waters. At a single
spot, the stream is spanned by a light
and graceful bridge; while, here and
there, and every where, indeed, its
banks are fringed, and its waters over
hung, by the most luxuriant shrubs,
vines and wild flowers. Here is the
bay, with its white and fragrant blos
soms ; the ivy, with its bright-embra
cing tendrils; the laurel, with its state
ly magnificence and green. Shadowy
copse and open lawn diversify the sur
face of the valley: intricate woodland
paths mystify pleasantly by circuitous
progresses, only to open upon waving
and highly cultivated fields. At proper
points, fitly placed to arrest the gaze
that would wander, peeps out the trim
white cottage from its little familiar
empire of shrubbery and garden ; and
the whole sweet and happy world in
little, thus described, is closely shel
tered from the intrusive world —save
at its southern entrance, which opens
to the always-welcome breezes from
that quarter —by a royal range of
shadow keeping mountains—steadfast
and silent guardians, that never leave
their places watch—immovable senti
nels, whose great green plumes you
behold, night and day, still waving upon
their brows in token of their solemn
watchfulness.
At the of the Jocassee are*two
cascades, of a beauty, harmonizing
sweetly with the general aspects of the
valley. The one belongs to the main
stem of the Jocasseee river, and ap
proaches the line of North-Carolina. —
The river precipitates itself from a
rocky ledge, which overhangs its base
so greatly that you have a cavernous
and dry pathway below, between the
waters and the rock. You look up,
from this situation, and you are seized
with fear and trembling. The illusion
presents you with the rock itself in
descent. It is not the waters, but the
mountain that seems rushing down
upon you ; and you retreat in safety,
but with a feeling that persuades you
still that you have narrowly escaped a
great danger. This insignificant cas
cade falls from a height greater than
that of Niagara. Were the mass of
falling water greater —did it empty
lakes instead of mountain streamlets
—the world would contain no greater
curiosity. As it is, the scene is one
of the most beautiful to be found in
the South.
The other fall is that of the White
Water, otherwise called the Charashi
lactay. Os this beautiful mountain
nymph, our painters have given us
several fine pictures. One hangs be
fore us now, from the pencil of a na
tive artist. Rushing forward eagerly
to join the Jocassee, near the northern
extremity of the valley, the Charashi
lactay, darts over a slope and continues
its headlong tumble for nearly three
hundred yards, in foamy and fearful
conflict, all the while, with the frac
tured masses and the great hollows
through which it has torn its way. But
we could crowd chapters with details,
and supply cabinets with endless sketch
es of the rare, the wonderful, the grand
and the beautiful, to be found within
the immediate precincts of this most
lovely valley. We must not forget to
allude to the Toxaway, a pellucid In
dian river, whose mournful murmur
seems evermore to lament the fate of
the primitive inhabitants. Here, in
these sweet retreats, guarded by these
mighty mountains, stood a happy vil
lage of the red men. Their restless
young warriors, in one of their wild
expeditions, gave provocation to the
white man, and brought his troops upon <
them. The only pass into the valley
was kept by a drowsy watchman who
perished while he slept. No alarm
was given; the village was surprised,
and the peaceful hamlet given to the
flames.
(Concluded in our next.)
| , , •
How to Enlarge Vegetables. —
A vast increase of food may be obtain
ed by managing judiciously, systemati
eally carrying out for a time the prin
ciple of increase. Take for instance a
pea. Plant it in very rich ground. —
Allow it to bear the first year, say half
a dozen pods. Remove all others. —
Save the largest single pea of theke.
ow it in the next year, and retain of
the product three pods only. Sow the
largest one the following year, and re
tain one pod. Again select the largest,
and the next year the pod will by this
time have trebled its size and weight.
Ever afterwards sow the largest seed.
Ry these means you will get peas, (or
any thing else,) of a bulk of which we
at present have no conception.
[Scientific American.
(Original portnj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
TUB MAIDEN’S CHOICE.
BY JENNIE ELDER
Saw ye the inaitl of the golden tress,
With the cht-ek of rose and the brow of snow,
With a form of sylph-like airiness,
And the graceful step of the mountain doe?
She hath wandered forth by the river side—
She hath entered the shade of the verdant
grove;
She hath merged all her dreams of state and
pride
In the first wild, wildering dream of love.
See, in the distance her father’s hall,
Rising so proudly in turret and tower ;
Hateful its pride was, its grandeur did pall—
She was happier far in the forest bower.
Her childhood’s training was still’ with pride,
And the trammels of state chilled the joy of.
her youth ;
The fetters were broken by the mountain side,
And the heart leaped free at the touch of
Truth.
Her lovers were nobles of high degree,
And their pride was bent to her wayward
will,
But their vows were heard in mockery,
And the heart they sought unmoved and still.
Diamonds gleamed in her sunny hair,
And her robes were gorgeously fashioned by
art,
Yet the fair brow bowed ’neath the gems so rare,
And the rich robe lay like a pall on the heart.
And she pined and sighed all restlessly,
Like a fair young bird in a golden cage,
And she pined to be roaming, untrammeled and
free—
The heart is Nature’s at an early age.
And wearied and lone she wandered where
Strange beauty was spread before her sight:
The biid’s song thrilled through the mountain
air,
And the green leaves quivered in free delight.
And she met a form that had never graced
Those halls in their sumptuous revelrie,
And she found a heart where was not effaced
The stamp of Nature’s true nobility.
Her heart, with all its wilful pride,
Quailed low beneath his earnest gaze,
And affection’s chilled and pent up tide
Gushed freely when they those happy
days.
And she hath forsaken her father’s hall—
Hath cast aside her queen-like lot,
To dwell by yon merry water-fall,
With peace and love in an humble cot.
Lunenburg, Va.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
TO A STRICKEN HEART.
Look not so sad, for Nature is smiling
In each infant bud, that is clothing the tree,
The zephyr’s soft sigh, like a love-dream be
guiling,
Steals viewless along with its perfume to thee.
Sit not and weep, for Nature is dancing
With paragon grace in each ray of light,
While Sol’s kindling warmth the day is en
trancing,
And the moon with her train giveth joy to the
night.
Speak not in grief, for Nature is singing
Her wild woodland notes on every green
spray; •
Mountains and glens and valleys are ringing
With silver-toned echoes, all the long day.
Adieu bid to sorrow—all Nature is gay—
Summer is wreathing her garland front
Spring—
Dance with her, smile with her, join in her lay,
Joy to the “stricken heart” Nature doth
bring. T. S. S.
Charleston, 1850.
(Driginnl (fengn.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
EGERIA:
Or, Voices from the Woods and Wayside.
NEW SERIES.
LXXXII.
Teaching and Training. Events,
however small, in the lives of children,
are things of more vast importance to
the race, than those leading occurrences
which make the nations anxious. The
occurrences of childhood, more or less
involve principles, and these are never
insignificant matters, though they take
place in trifles and relate to sports and
toys. A principle is never a small
matter. A principle may be regarded
as the parent of a thousand dependen
cies, which, like other subordinates,
would beunruly, werenot the governing
power there to keep them in order. A
fixed principle guides the subordinate
thoughts of the mind, or they rob it of
all sanity. Thus, the power which
propels the steamboat and the stage —
which provides a ci y with bread, or
consumes it—is a single power, and
only works in these different ways, and
for these different objects, however dis
tinct, in obedience to the solitary agency
to which they are subject. A princi
ple impressed upon the eflild, through
the medium of those trifling events of
which his early life is commonly made
up, becomes a habit—as much so as
the washing his face and hands of a
morning, it forms for his government,
what we call, a standard of the mind.
By this standard of the mind, which,
as a habit, is familiar, and at his fingers’
end at all times, he is enabled to deter
mine upon his proper conduct, and
what he should do, however novel or
unusual may be his situation. If, for
example, his father has made it a point
with him to speak the truth at all
times, and under every circumstance —
as every father should and he has
tutored him to look upon falsehood as
odious and mean, and upon every form
of evasion as not only immoral, but
unbecoming to manhood—the boy so
taught, in after life may be trusted
safely. I care not in what situation
you place him, he will never go aside
from the standards of mind which have
been given, however far he may be re
moved from the eye of the parent, and
however far beyond the reach of pa
rental favour or reproof. Solomon, a
very respectable authority In ancient
times, was never more correct than
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
when he said, “ train up the child in the
way he should go and when he is old
he will not depart therefrom.” Mark
me: he does not say teach , but train.
There is a world-wide difference in the
meaning of these two words. The
world now teaches all and trains none
at all.
L XXXIII.
Springs of the Heart. The heart,
like some exhaustless reservoir, is so
happily supplied by secret springs, that
its fullness keeps even pace with the
draughts which are made upon it. It
always possesses in due proportion as it
imparts. It is one of the most won
derful qualities in Nature, that she be
stows nothing where it is not needed,
and so jealous docs she show herself,
in the midst of all her bounty, of all
unbecoming waste, that the faculty left
unexercised, is soon withdrawn from
the improvident possessor. Not to
lose, therefore, we must be prompt to
use.
LXXXIV.
Politicians and People. Politicians
are apt to think that the best argument
for the people is not that which is true,
or that which should be taught, but
that only which they are most anxiou ,
to believe.
LXXXV.
Occasion and Principle. He shall
go wrong who goes not with the occa
sion, and steer at random who steers
not by the polar star of truth and prin
ciple.
LXXXVI.
Pity. Punishment is by no means
inconsistent with pity. They know
not what they do, is no reason why
they should not be made to know.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE READER.
A Series of Letters. No. 4.
MY FRIEND’S HOME.
Messrs. Editors: Will you suffer me
to turn aside, for once, from books and
their virtues and speak of those who
read books, and who have had taste
enough to provide for such honoured
friends a fitting resting place. 1 have
been for some time, and still am, the
guest of an old school friend, now a
married woman and residing in a de
lightful section of the Southern coun
try. lam so charmed with my friend’s
library, that 1 have begged permission
to give you a description of it and her
somewhat unique mansion. It almost
answers to my beau ideal of a country
residence. I could quite find it in my
heart to envy the possessor of such a
domain, did I not hope some day to
find myself established in a similar
home. But this hope is one of my day
dreams, which, though long cherished,
may be fated to vanish in air.
I am not about to give you a disser
tation on architecture. Os that and all
other arts and sciences I am most bles
sedly ignorant. 1 have a few techni
calities in my head, but I cannot tell
where I gathered them, or to what sci
ence they belong. It is only from per
versity of memory that I have them in
my mind at all, for 1 long since set
my mind deliberately against all hard
names and long words. If they creep
into what I write, it is because they are
becoming so much the fashion—they
are so continually in the mouths of
those about me, that I am betrayed
into a recognition of an acquaintance
with them.
My friend —whom 1 will call Allo
dia —has a fine taste, and her husband
has allowed her to exercise it in plan
ning their residence. I fear it defies all
rules of architecture, though if it does
so, I should regard those rules as use
less things when a spirit of grace and
elegance can preside.
The name of the place is “ Guy’s
Cliff,” a name derived from the roman
tic situation of the house, and from the
name of the husband of Allodia. It is
a singularly constructed stone cottage,
half buried in vines and hidden among
trees. In front on one side is a lawn,
whose greenness is relieved by clumps
of flowing shrubs; on the third side is
a flower garden, in which I remark,
principally, gracefully trained vines,
arbours overgrown with yellow jessa
mine and Chinese honeysuckle, and a
great variety of rare and odoriferous
shrubs: few gaudy flowers find place
there; a fountain refreshes the atmos
phere, and a hundred birds make it
redolent with song. The front of the
house has some elaborate carving on it,
which I could have spared. A broad
flight of steps leads to a square en
trance-hall ; from this a staircase as
cends to a gallery running around the
hall over the great door, and leading to
the various apartments above. This
gallery opens upon the belcony, which
extends across the front of the house.
There is no “drawing-room”—there
is not a “ parlour ” in the house save
one, which is used as a breakfast par
lour. The principal room is entered
from the hall, and is called the Library.
It is truly a magnificent apartment —
the pride of the house. Here the united
tastes of Guy and Allodia have pro
duced an admirable result. The room
is very lofty, being the height of the
whole house, and it is lighted from
above. spaces usually occupied
by windows are, with one exception,
filled by the rarest and finest paintings
1 have ever seen. The pictures, statues
and busts which adorn this and other
rooms, form a most choice collection of
gems of art. Guy has inherited a
large library from his father, to which
he has made additions, till now he has
a collection of more than twenty thous
and volumes. These are ensconced on
shelves, in richly carved black walnut
cases. The carpet is a thick velvet
Wilton, a dark green ground, relieved
by a little crimson; the chairs are co
vered with a dark green velvet, and
above the book cases, the walls, not
covered by pictures, have hangings of
the same colour. A table of fine inlaid
wood occupies the centre of the apart
ment, and heaped upon it are exqui
sitely bound and rare hooks of engrav
ings. The books, pictures and busts
are the only ornaments of this room,
which, nevertheless, wears a most, com
fortable as well as stately; a most luxu
rious as well as magnificent aspect.
Various doors open in all directions.
On the side next to the garden are two
doors, which lead into Guy’s private
study and Allodia’s sitting room —
boudoir as the phrase is. The former
is a cheerful apartment, with two
French windows opening on a terrace,
leading down into the garden and over
looking the surrounding country, as the
house stands on a slight eminence. It
is litted up with book shelves, an ele
gant desk and writing apparatus, com
fortable arm and writing chairs, and
lighted by a superb and well-shaded
lamp, which sheds its light directly
over the table. A door leads into
Allodia’s room. I omitted to mention
that, in the study, the prevailing colour
is a rich maroon; in the boudoir, a de
licate blue and huff; the soft carpets,
the gracefully arranged curtains, the
chaise longue , and hell-pulls, are all in
keeping. Near a window correspond
ing to that in Guy’s room, is a work
table, for my friend has a truly femi
nine love for her needle; opposite
to this a writing table; and this room
also has its book-shelves. Here I find
my own favourite writers; here the
works of every female author of spirit
and worth. The lower portion of
the book-case is exclusively allotted
to children’s books; rare, illustrated
editions of all those charming works
for young minds which have become j
‘he classics of childhood. There are
no elaborate specimens of needle-work
in the room. Allodia said, laughingly,
“ I never find time for such things, nor
do I consider this gaudy work always
in good taste.” And out of place truly
it would lie in her house.
In a recess is a rich, soft-toned piano,
and the music stand, close by, is well
supplied with the songs a pure, high- j
musical woman loves. Here, too, her j
husband’s flute, for Guy delights in ac
companying Allodia’s music with his
flute or his rich, manly voice. Here,
too, are pictures such as suit the lady,
and the chamber they adorn. The
children’s room communicates by a
short hall with “mamma’s room.” The
sleeping apartment is just above, and
opens into the nursery—my friend is
the happy mother of a boy eight years
old, and two girls, twinned in birth and
beauty, are counting four summers.
On the opposite side of the library
is the music room, where are to he
found a grand piano forte, a guitar and
various other musical instruments. —
This room is lofty like the library.
The dining room, breakfast parlour,
etc., are on this side of the house,
whence extends a wing containing the
housekeeper’s room and servants of
fices. I have said there was one win
dow in the library. It is a lofty oriel
of richly stained glass, at the extremity
of the room, and the lower part of it
allows you to pass out upon a terrace
apparently. But there is no lawn—no
parterre here. The terrace terminated
abruptly on the brink of a high cliff,
which gives name to the residence.—
Far down in depths beneath, purls and
murmurs a sparkling stream; a “ river”
it would be called in the “low coun
try,” if indeed they would dare to give
to its chrystal waters the name borne
by the muddy streams they taunt as
rivers. In the distance, over an ex
panse of valley and swelling upland,
are blue, sky-piercing mountains, from
whose summits comes a fresh breeze,
removing the tendency to languor,
against which all who live in the South
must contend.
Such is the dwelling I entered a week
since, a cherished guest-—such the
scenes which greet me on all sides.
“ But Allodia, said I, after my friend
had shown me her house, “where do
you receive your ordinary visitors?”
“ My dear, we have few formal visit
ors; we are at least ten miles from any
large town, and have at present too few
neighbours in this section of the coun
try to be much troubled by society.”
“But families will soon be moving
in from the low country; the scenery
and the climate are most attractive. —
You cannot hope always for this, l was
about to say, isolation.”
•
“Nor do I wish for isolation. It is
true I find most enjoyment in society
as we now have it; for at least six
months out of the year we have guests
staying with us. There,” said she,
pointing to the view from the library
window, “there is a scene which em
ploys the pencil and charms the soul of
the artist. See yonder room, the lover
of music can gratify his tastes and en
hance our pleasures by his harmonies.
We have well-trained horses, and light
carriages for excursions in the surround
ing country. Domestic bodies sit be
side me in my own little room, and
sew and discuss family affairs. The
young ladies frolic with my children or
read aloud to the matrons; the gentle
men go out hunting or fishing, or dis
cuss law, politics, or planting, in the
study, with Guy.”
“By and by, Allodia, you may have
to entertain morning visitors.”
“Ah, you want to know what I shall
do without a drawing room. Well,
my friend, I quite detest the modern
houses which our friends in every city,
and even every village now-a-days, with
their invariable arrangement of front
and back parlours: rooms crowded
with elegant furniture, looking half the
time as if their occupants wished to
show how much money they could af
ford to lavish in that way. The visitor
meets with the same kinds of furni
ture, disposed about the apartments in
the same manner; the same fashiona
ble curtains, with precisely the same ar
rangement; the same style of orna
ments on the mantel piece or tables in
every room she enters in a series of
morning visits.”
“ Yes, and you may add the same
style of dress whether becoming or
not; and the same strain of conversa
tion in the lady who receives her visit.
The monotony of such an existence,
where the racy individuality which
gives zest to society is banished by con
ventionalities, disgusted me years ago.
How much more is your plan of seeing
society to be preferred.”
“ And here,” continued Allodia,
“ when I receive a visitor, if it is a lady
for whom 1 have a sincere friendly re
gard, I open to her my own little room.
1 could make her more comfortable
there than I could in a stately drawing
room: there is every thing to suggest
topics of conversation—books, flowers,
music, paintings, work, or the hum of
the voices of my children.
“ If my guest is too much of a stran
ger, or is too uncongenial for such fa
miliarity, J receive her here, and the I
library does duty as a drawing-room.
Guy sees his visitors in the study, and
when they are gone and we are alone,
we open the door between our rooms,
and are the best society in the world
for each other. We have similar tastes
in most things, that congeniality of
spirit which J consider so truly assen
tial to love , though of course he reads
many hooks which I have neither time
nor inclination to read. Really enjoy
able books, where the vivid thought
quickens our nature, and makes us de
sire sympathy, we always read togeth
er ; he usually reading aloud while I
sew. Thus we pass much time when
we have no company ; and thus during
the past winter have we read Dana,
Emerson, Hawthorne, Melville and
many others. Papers and magazines
reach us front all sections of the coun
try, and keep us apprized of all exter
nal movements. Twice since we came
here to reside, have 1 visited the north,
and both times I have returned hither
with a keener relish for the charms of
my own home. 1 have no fondness for
the details of house-keeping. I over
look my household so far as the com
fort and the spiritual and general phys
ical welfare of my servants is concern
ed ; but I have decided that I have no
genius for preserving and pickling, and
I prefer giving Maltha Johnson a quiet
home and a comfortable income, to
taking upon me such troubles. Now
there is a confession all should not hear;
you will pardon me, for you have a
similar distaste to house-keeping. My
genius , if I have any, displays itself
chiefly in the creations of my needle—
not in worsted flowers or faces, —but
in goodly garments, in tasteful apparel
for my children; and for them I have
learned the embroiderer’s art. When
my little Guy was growing to his first
jacket, with what pride and pleasure I
embroidered for him a green velvet
doublet and fancied when he put it on
that 1 was already the mother of a man!
I remember his father was reading
“ Kavanagh” to me at the time, and
Tenyson’s “Princess” also, and as the
flowers and leaves grew beneath my
fingers, I embroidered into them, the
beauties of those creations of mind.—
Now the little doublet always suggests
to me recollections of Blanche and Ida,
and of Alice. If L. E. L. found her
paradise in a rocking-chair, with a friend
near by to chat with, I could find mine
by my work-table fabricating agarment
for my children, and listening to an
agiejable book, read to me by the be
loved voice of my husband.”
“ Allodia, what a paradise you have
created here. I rejoice in your happi
ness. I know you have even higher
sources of happiness than any now
mentioned, for you arc training with
prayerful assiduity, your household
treasures of darling children, to be
pure-hearted and true-souled as are
your husband and yourself. I have
seen the well-read Bible in the study,
from which you and Guy draw food
from the immortal natures within you,
which even such rare happiness cannot
satisfy. In the indulgence of such
tastes iis yours, you find a degree of
happiness mere pleasure-seekers never
have dreamed of. 1 have Miss Mcln
tosh’s new book, addressed to the
Women of America, which 1 want to
read with you and hear your opinions
on the various thoughts she unfolds. I
wish more women of America who
have wealth at their command were as
rational in their enjoyment of it as you
are. Os how few mothers and wives
can it be said —‘ her children rise up
and call her blessed, her husband also,
he praiseth her,’ ”
If you are not tired of this theme, 1
will give you in my next letter our
opinions of “ Women in America.” Till
then adieu.
C. H. B.
iDor i'rttrrs.
Correspondence of the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW YORK, July 27, 1850.
In speaking of the ravages of tne
storm, when I wrote you last. I lit le
thought that we were so sour: to hear
of the satl event which has tilled so
many hearts with sorrow and all with
sympathy. The ill-fated ship Eliza
beth went ashore about four o’clock in
the morning of Friday, and in about
six hours afterward was a total wreel.
The news did not reach New York till
Monday morning, and it was not until
after the agents of the, underwriters and
of one of the daily papers returned
from Fire Island the next day, that we
learned the full particulars of the heart
rending catastrophe.
The wife of the late Captain, Mrs.
Hasty, arrived in town soon after the
disaster, and at the invitation of the
family of Mr. Prosper M. Wetmore,
became a guest in his house. From a
friend of young Sumner, who was one
of the victims, 1 have received a full
account of the statements made to him
by Mrs. Hasty, although I do not know
that l can communicate to you many
interesting particulars that have not
been already published in the papers
of the day.
The voyage seems to have been a
series of misfortunes, from the com
mencement. Soon after leaving Leg
horn, the Captain was seized with the
small-pox, and after several days of
the most intense suffering, died just as
the vessel was reaching Gibralter.—
During this time, Mrs. Hasty scarcely
left the pillow of her husband, and be
came greatly exhausted by fatigue, and
the confinement of a ship’s cabin, though
fortunately she did not take the disease.
After sailing from Gibralter, where
they w ere detained a few r days at quar
antine, the mate, now chief in com
mand, was prostrated with the small
pox. This was a fearful interval. Only
one other, the second mate, was calla
ble of navigating the vessel, and should
he too fall a victim to the pestilence,
the passengers would be placed in a
perilous condition. of
this event caused a great anxiety. It
lead them to speak to each other on the
perils of the deep, and the possibility
that they might not reach their destined
port. The idea of death by sea was
not shrunk from, but made the subject
of familiar and earnest consideration.
Happily, the mate recovered, and the
pestilence extended no further among
the crew. Madame Ossnli's child, a
boy about two years old and of uncom
mon beauty, was attacked with it, and
suffered dreadfully. His mother did
not leave him for a moment, night or
day, and at length had the satisfaction
to witness his recovery.
After making slow progress, on ac
count of contrary winds, they came in
sight of the American shore. The mate
in command took the last sounding at
half-past two, and believing that all was
safe till day-light, retired to his berth,
without suspicion of danger. It seems
that the vessel was so constructed as to
make uncommon headway in a storm.
The mate was either not aware of the
fact, or did not make the necessary
allowance for it. In about an hour, the
passengers were awoke by the shock.
They ran half-dressed to the forecastle,
which was a small house erected on the
deck. Here they were protected from
the water which swept through the
cabin. They were soon made conscious
of their awfull situation. They had
no hope of saving their lives. Some
time was spent in repeating the Catho
lic prayers, in their own language, by
Count d’Ossoli and Celesta Pardena.
They all spoke freely to each other of
their impending fate. They were en
abled to look on death without terror.
They even expressed surprise at their
own calmness, inquiring if it could be
a natural state or the apathy caused by
despair.
The sailors began to leave the ves
sel. The mate wished the ladies to
lash themselves to spars and trust to
the mercy of the sea. Mrs. Ilasty
consented. Madame Ossoli would not
be persuaded to leave her husband and
child. Under the charge of the second
nryite, Mrs. Hasty threw herself Into
the raging deep. She was soon over
whelmed. The spar to which she was
secured came to the top. But the
faithful mate, more intent on saving
her life than his own, rendered her
every aid. Supporting himself with
one hand, he guided the spar with the
other. Mrs. Hasty was at last thrown
on shore, though wholly exhausted and
unconscious. She had gone through
the bitterness of death without dying.
She soon revived, and after reposing for
a few days, was able to come to the city.
According to the statement of the
seamen who were last on the wreck,
Count d’Ossoli was washed from the
foremast to which he was clinging, the
child had before been swept over from
the arms of a sailor, and Madame
d’Ossoli, without having been made
aware of their loss, was engulfed by a
mighty wave, as she was about to leave
her hopeless refuge on the deck.—
Celesta Pardena had been drowned
previously. Thus closes the, story of
this dismal voyage.
Mrs. Hasty is a native of an interior
town near Portland, in the State of
Maine. By all who have seen
the disaster, she is spoken of as a well
educated and highly intelligent lady,
of attractive manners and every wav
interesting.
Celesta Parder.a was a young Italian
girl, of excellent character and many
3c<*t,:nplishments, though in humble
•ii;i She had formerly re
l aided as- governess with a very re
spectable 5 j'.iy in this city, and was
desirous of making this country her
persminent abode. Madame d’Ossoli
had engaged her services &■- a compan
ion for the voyage, during which they
had formed a sincere attachment to
each other.
Horace Sumner was a younger bro
ther of the well-know n Charles Sum
ner, of Boston, and of George Sumner,
who has lived in Paris for some time
past, and taken an active interest in
French politics. Horace had been an
habitual invalid for several years, and
his visit to Lurone was for the recovery
of his heal u, He was a young man
of a modest and retiring disposition, of
more than coi m. c intellectual pow
ers, although tfc .-.fate of his health
had kept him a good deal in the back
ground, and of remarkable disinterest
edness of character. He was greatly
endeared to tnose who knew him inti
mately, and his untimely death has
caused as sincere grief, though within
a smaller sphere, as that of the Countess
d’Ossoli.
This lady, under the name of Marga
ret Fuller, has long been one of the
cherished idols of the literary Pantheon
of Boston and Cambridge. She was a
rare specimen of juvenile intellectual
precocity. Distinguished for her learn
ing and her wit from a child, her career
at a more mature age was a series of
new triumphs. She has often been
compared with Madame de Stack (as
we Americans do not like to acknowl
edge any thing of native growth, until
we can find its prototype or parallel in
Europe,) but in truth, she had few
points of resemblance to her, except
her brilliant conversational powers.—
She had neither the admirable disposi
tion of De Stael, w hich almost shielded
her from envy, even among those who
acknowledged her pre-eminence, nor
her singular power of vivid and elo
quent writing, while in depth of com
prehension and religious earnestness of
mind, she was greatly her superior.— i
But she never attained the gift of facile
and elegant expression, except in con
versation. She will be remembered
chiefly as a brilliant improvi-atrioe in
prose, on subjects that are usually re
garded as wide of the natural sphere of
the feminine intellect. I have never
found any thing in her writings that
would give a stranger an idea of the
star-like beauty of her language in mo
ments of inspiration.
It is known that she had completed
an elaborate work on the Italian Revo
lution. No traces of the manuscripts
have yet been found. It is feared that
they are irrecoverably lost. Other
manuscripts, journals, letters, &c\, have
been taken from the trunks that washed
ashore. Mrs. Hasty’s impression is,
that this work was left in a desk that
was not taken from the cabin. The
bodies have not yet been recovered.
It is almost too late to hope for that.
Every attempt has been made to
secure the statue of Calhoun. Mr.
Kellogg, the friend and agent of Pow
ers in this country, has been on the
spot for several days. He took with
him all the apparatus for an effectual
search. It was at first thought that
there could be no doubt of its recovery.
It was supposed to lie in about twelve
feet of water. But, it is now thought,
that it is'under the marble with which
the deck was loaded. In that case, the
prospect of raising it is but faint. 1
hope it is not so bad as it now seems.
The loss of that admirable piece of
statuary would be a public calamity—
an affliction not only to the State of
South Carolina, but to the country *at
large.
An interesting ceremony took place
yesterday at the Convent of the Sisters
of Mercy in this city. This was the
reception of the Black V eil by a daugh
ter of Robert \\ alsh, Esq., our well
known Consul at Paiis. The service,
which was performed by Bishop Hughes,
in the presence of a large company of
spectators, was highly impressive.—
Every thing was adapted to produce a
scenic effect. A profusion of flowers,
rich strains of music, and the theatrical
pomp of worship, gave a festive air to
the w hole ceremony, which is said to
accord with the Catholic idea of the occa
sion, as the espousals of the professed
with the. Head of the Church. T.
Currant Bushes. —Having noticed
that current hushes may as well be
made trees as shrubs, 1 conclude to tell
you how I have seen it done. In the
spring of 1831 my father commenced
a garden, and among other things, set
cuttings for current hushes. I deter
mined to make an experiment on one
of these cuttings, and as soon as it
grew, 1 pinched off all the leaves except
the top tuft, which l let grow. The
cutting was about fourteen inches high,
and during the summer the sprout from
the top of this grew perhaps ten inches.
The next spring I pinched off all the
leaves to about half way up to the first
year’s growth, so as to leave the lowest
limbs about two feet from the ground.
It branched well and became a nice lit
tle dwarf tree. When it came to bear
fruit, it was more productive than any
other bush in the garden, and the fruit
larger; it was less infected with spi
ders and other insects ; hens could not
pick off the fruit, and grass and weeds
were more easily kept from about the
roots, and it was an ornament instead
of a blemish. Now, I wmuld propose
that current cuttings be set in rows
about five feet apart each way, let them
be long {fod straight ones, and trained
into trees. —Michigan Farmer .
T!jf j>acrrif alter.
Freni the Pittsburgh Christian Advocate
EARTH NOT OUR HERITAGE
Earth seems 10 youth an Edtii land,
St mr jh of beauty he
Upon m features, as might tempt
An angel from the skies ;
And then its joys, its ,ies of love.
And all art’s glorious things
Appear almost like types of heaven
To bind the spirit’s wings.
Yet, all t’nst seems bright below,
Will faue ami pass away ,
In every bud there lurks unseen
The gerrn of sure decay!
Earth’s brightest hopes, its purest love.
Not long shall cheer the heart:
Its most enduring joys, alas!
Like summer flowers depart.
The days of youth are on the wing
Their sun.-hine and their mirth, “
Swift as the shadows of a cloud.
Are vanishing from earth:
And disappointment wrings the heart
Till Hope with drooping wing,
Drawn downward from her heavenly flight
Forgets to soar or sing.
Thanks! Earth is not our Heritage,
Our Home is in the sky,
Where fadeless flowers already bloom
Before the Christian's eve.
Faith sweetly whispers, when the soul
With grief and pain is riven,
“ Afflictions are but angels wine's,
To waft thee home to Heaven.”
Lesson for Sunday, August 4.
THE EVERLASTING C< >\ EN A NT.
“ He hath made with me an everlasting covenant, order
ed in all things, and sure ; tor this is all my salvation, and
all my desire. —2 Sam. xxiii. 5.
Though David's house was “not s<>
with God, ’ as he could have wished,
and his domestic trials w ere numerous
and severe, yet he rejoiced in the per
sonal interest he possessed in the Di
vine favour. The subject for our con
templation in this exercise is God’s ev
erlasting covenant. Note
Its contents. What does God
promiseand engage to do for his people?
To protect them by his power. In
the midst of dangers, cares, anxieties,
and changing scenes, how cheering and
delightful the fact of a special and over
ruling Providence?
To supply them with his yrace. —
There is a constant communication kept
up between the believer and God. He
impartsgracefor duty,trials and tempta
tions ; for living and dying.
To admit them to glory. Divine
choice, effectual calling, grace and glory,
are four links of a golden chain, which
can never be broken, because they are
united by an omnipotent band.
Its properties. Three things are
stated concering it. Its duration. An
“ everlasting covenant.” It was drawn
up, its arrangements made, and its bles
sings inserted, from eternity ; and it is
everlasting in its continuance. Its com
pleteness. “ Ordered in all things.’’—
In agreements between man and man,
the greatest care must be taken to in
sert every necessary particular. In
this covenant every blessing is included,
from the first glimmer of hope before
the cross, to the full blaze of glory be
fore the throne. Its security. “Sure.”
It is sure in the principles on which it.
is founded, the blessings it contains, the
promises it gives, and in its conveyance
toall believers. It is secured by the oath
of God, the blood of (’hrist, and the
seal of the Spirit.
Its value. This will appear because
It is the ground of all our hopes. —
“ All my salvation.” The law will
serve as a rule of life, but not as a cov
enant for salvation. The blood of Christ
alone cah speak peace to the troubled
conscience.
It is the consummation of all our
wishes. “ All my desire.” It is to the
covenant God has made with us, we
refer, as that which is connected with
our highest ambition, and w hich forms
the source of our comfort under even
trial. Is this secret of the Lord with
you,and has he shown you his covenant?
Mistake of Neff. — One day as Fe
lix Neff was walking in a street in the
city of Lausanne, he saw at a distance
a man whom he took for one of his
friends. He ran behind him. tapped
him on the shoulder, before looking
him in his face, and asked him, “V hat
is the state of your soul, my friend ?”
The stranger turned ; Neff perceived
his error, apologized, and went his wa\.
About three or four years afterwards,
a person came to Neff, and accosted,
him, saying, he was indebted to him
for his inestimable kindness. Neff did
not recognize the man, and begged he
would explain. The stranger replied,
’ “ Have you forgotten an unknown per
son, whose shoulder you touched in the
I street in Lausanne, asking him, ‘How
do you find your soul?’ It w. sI; your
question led me to serious reflections,
and now I jind it is we/i with my son!.
This proves what apparently small
means may be blessed of Cod for the
conversion of sinners, and how many
opportunities for doing good we are
continually letting slip, and which thus
pass irrevocably beyond our reach.—
(Jne of the questions which every Chris- j
tian should propose to himself, on set
ting out on a journey, is, “What oppor
| tunities shall I have to do good l
! And one of the points on which he
should examine himself, on his return,
Qfy I
is, “What opportunities have 1 lost.
The three Criminals. — !t is per
fectly natural to suppose that those I
who have little or no know ledge ot a I
future state, should be careless ot that
life which God has given, during which j
to prepare for another world. A crim
inal among the Hindoos being c^ n ‘
demned to be hanged on the following j
day, made a salaam, or bow. to the |
jugde, and coolly replied, Buhostatcha.
! “ Very good.” Another, when askc 1
| if there was anything which he parties |
larly wished before leaving the won • I
answered, “Yes ; 1 never saw a g ll ' 1
heap of rupees together; and, ot a. J
things, I should like to have that p “
sure before 1 die.” A third, when t
same question was addressed ‘"j* j
longed for something moresubstant’* 1 -
He said, “Your food is much K
than mine; now, before you hang n” I
pray give me such a good dinner a
have. The indulgence was V 1
and he ate with no small appetite-
What should be the gratitude of 1 ,
who have been taught the true em j
life, and what zeal should* iM j , j
manifest in conveying
to others !
Preaching Almost Ever'’ ■
The Abbe preached a
mon before Louis the Sixteent i, 1
contained a great deal ot P° j
finance, and government, and \ ei) . |
of the gospel. “It is a pity, si * ic l.
king, as he came out of the cm', \
“if the Abbe had only touched an .j
on religion, he would have told s
every thing.”