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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.”