Southern literary gazette. (Charleston, S.C.) 1850-1852, August 24, 1850, Image 1
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For tile Southern Literary Gazette.
LIFE.
by MRS. C. W. DU BOSE.
I saw an infant in a cradle laid,
A sunbeam on its placid features played ;
A smile was dimpling on its rosy face,
The while it strove that sunbeam to embrace,
lis little handsout-tretched to grasp the prize
Wlm h danced so lightly on its bright blue eyes.
1 miw again a bright and happy child,
With goideti tresses floating free and wild ;
||, r eye glanced brightly with a sunny gleam,
Her check glowed warmly with the rose’s beam;
Her gladsome laughter rang out light and free,
[n w,tehing tones of silvery melody.
Within a bower reclined a maiden sweet,
\ youth.with words of love, knelt at her feet;
And to Ins face she raised her deep blue eyes,
Warm with the glow that lights the Southern
skies,
And blushes gathered on her fair young face,
Imparting L> her smile a nameless grace.
A beauteoi s form before the altar knelt,
\ trusting smile upon her features dwelt;
She wore a wreath of orange blossoms fair,
\ veil of snow swept on her sunny hair ;
She whispered, with a low and faltering voice,
The vows which bound her to her young heart’s
choice.
A matron lair clasped fondly to her heart,
\ beauteous child, her tiny counterpart ;
Hi- little hands were clasped with infant glee,
Th,>-mile upon hi- mother’s face to see;
And with a gusli of joy she warmly pressed
Tim lovely prattler to her heaving breast!
years passed—a mourner sad knelt by the
grave,
Where slept the form of him, the loved, the
brave;
Her cheek was pale, her eye was dim and sad,
Her form in widow’s sombre garments clad ;
And from a heart bowed down with deep de
spair,
She raised to heaven the mourner’s fervent
prayer!
Again time passed, and now an aged form,
Bent down with years and trembling in life’s
storm,
Laid gladly down to sleep its last long sleep,
‘And find repose within the grave so deep—
And on that face there beamed a smile so meek,
Its 1 1 tro would have graced an angel’s cheek.
And thus I thought that babe with sunbeams
playing,
The happy child with sunny tresses straying,
That maiden fai —that young and lovely bride t
That matron fond, in all her joyous pride—
That mourner pale, and now that aged one
Make up of life’s sad numbers all the sum!
A little space, of hope, and love, and joy,
Os .sunny dreams, which time must soon de
stroy ;
A brief existence ending still in tears—
A youth of promise doomed to blighting years—
A summer's day of hope and beauty bright,
Ending, ere long, in death’s dark, dreamless
night!
Sparta, 1850.
fjje Itonj Crllrr.
THE WINTER ROBIN.
1 mean to say that the man or wo
man who can deny that the robin
which conducted Jane Foster over the
nmor, and saved her from perishing in
the snow last winter, was commissioned
by Heaven, is not a whit better than a
Pagan. 1 hold last to that; if 1 didn’t
I should be a Fagan myself. 1 don’t
—and 1 would wish this to be distinct
ly understood —1 don’t believe all that
is told about it. For instance, when
the neighbours assert that the robin
changed its shape after leading her to
the cottage door, and that she saw an
angel spread his wings and rise from
the ground, and that she watched him
in dumb awe till he disappeared in the
thick, vapoury atmosphere, or w as hid
den ly the blinding snow that came
feathering down —1 don’t believe that.
Neither do 1 much credit the tale which
her old grandmother repeats with an
ait, it is true, of great veracity, how r
that sitting by her fireside at the time
“hen Jane must have been crossing the
1111 >or, and fretting herself lest the child
should lose her way in the snow-storm,
s he heard songs floating in the air which
no earthly voice could have sung —
s weet holy songs about the love which
the Divine Friend bore towards little
children while he was on earth, and how
he loves and cherishes them now, look
ing down upon them from his far, high
home.
It was avery 7 cold morning, and
they had eaten little on the previous
day ; and for many days past the cloth
had been spread upon the cottage ta
ble for potatoes alone. Fuel they pos
sessed, the windfalls of the woods,
gleaned before the severe weather set
in; but only one crust of bread on
that cold morning, and no money to
purchase any, w hile alack, alack ! the
baker refused further credit—having
since shillings and fourpence already
scored against them. So Jane, pre
luding that the crust was larger than
it really w as. and that she had satisfied
her appetite, soaked it in some warm
milk for her grandmother, and carried
II to the old woman’s bedside.
“Grandmam,” said the child, “I want
’° go to Rookfield to day.”
1” Rookfield !” exclaimed the old
W( /mau. “j s t h e gi r i ma d—to think
flt going to Rookfield this weather ?”
Put grandnn.ni, what are we to do?
’’ e have no bread, and no potatoes.’
U it to get bread and potatoes you
“"Uit] trudge sixteen miles afoot on a
l,|le common with snow-drifts higher
Aun the hedges ? No, no, Jane, stay
at home, and- .”
“Ynd starve, grandmam ?”
‘DVhy should we starve —isn’t there
a Bod above us all ?”
es, grandmam.”
Did does he not feed the young ra
■'ens that call upon Him?”
D es, grandmam.”
“And do not we say our prayers morn
ail <l night? Why then should you go
| Rookfield ?”
a mem mm m. mwm to w amb mam. mb tb nmy&iM,
“Because, dear grand ntam, God only
helps those who help themselves. If
j we wait both at home, bread won’t fall
into our laps. I must go out and seek
I it.”
“And how will you seek bread ?”
“Iwill beg, grandmam.”
“ Beg r
“Yes; 1 will tell the gentlefolks, as
they pass by, that 1 have a grandmother
at home who is very old and ailing,
and that we have no food to eat. Oh,
they are very generous—are the rich
people, for they are Christians, you
know, grandmam ; and does not Scrip
ture say, ‘He that giveth to the poor,
lendeth to the Lord ?’ ”
“My poor, poor child! my poor
Jane!”
The girl was very simple—so sim- ‘
pie indeed as to imagine that she had 1
but to utter, in sincere and appealing
tones, a true and moving tale to gain I
compassion; and, what was of more j
consequence to her, relief. The old
woman, though simple enough in her
way, was wiser on that point than her
grand-daughter. She had seen a little
of the world, and knew that the Chris
tianity of the rich is too often like the
working-man’s best garment, worn only
on Sundays.
“My poor Jane, do you suppose
that the gentlefolks will listen to you?”
“ Yes, grandmam ; why not? I shall
tell them that you are old and hungry.”
“ Does it snow’ now, Jenny, bird?”
“ No, grandmam: it is quite fine,
and 1 shan’t feel the cold, l walk so fast,
you know.”
“You shall go to Rookfield. God
will protect my darling. Fetch me
that box, and give me the key from my
pocket.”
“Yes grandmam. Oh, how good you
are to let me go.”
“Not to beg, my child; you shan’t
beg yet. I’ve something left in this
box that will keep the wolf from the
door a little longer, and who knows
but what —but there,” added the old
woman, checking herself and speaking
below her breath, “best to say nothing
of him. Poor Richard, we shall see
you no more till we meet in Heaven.”
She drew forth a chain from the box
—a gold wedding ring, which, if we
may judge from the interest with which
she surveyed it, she prized highly. The
girl had hastily attired herself in shawl
and bonnet—both greatly the worse
for wear, as the saying is, and offering
but slight protection from the severity
of the season.
“Take that to the pawn-shop at
Rookfield, and ask them to lend you
ten shillings upon it. Mind you don’t
lose it, and see that you bring the tick
et and money safe home,” said the old
woman, placing the chain, carefully
wrapped in paper, into the girl’s hand.
Cheerily, cheerily, Jane departed on
her mission. Blithe as the summer
lark—light and agile as the skipping
saw her glossy curls as she
ran —her cheeks glowing with the exer
cise. JShe sang like a delighted bird
pouring forth rich notes, all the richer
for that they were wild and lacked the
culture that would have fitted them for
the ear of refinement. <lnward and on
ward. Eight miles were accomplished.
She was at Rookfield.
She entered the pawnbroker’s shop
boldly, for she was not ashamed of
honest poverty, and felt, perhaps, like
many others who have sought, under
temporary 7 need, the same accommoda
tion, that it is better to borrow money
of a tradesman —not an usurer —in the
way of business, than to ask a loan of
a friend. The showman, after many
questions, and much impertinence —for
he saw the girl was poor, and, in his
own opinion, he was an individual of
great importance —consented to take
the ring, but would only lend half the
sum demanded.
“Five shillings, and if you don't re
deem it 1 shall lose by it,” said the man,
with as much apparent sincerity as if he
spoke the truth.
“ Well, then, five shillings,” sighed
Jane.
The ticket was made out. The mo
ney was paid, and Jane left the shop.
It was a great disappointment to have
got only five shillings for the ring. It
would not last long husband it as they
might. She was strongly tempted to
beg. Would her grandmother be an
gry ? It was market-day at Rookfield,
and there were many well-dressed peo
ple walking in the streets —ladies with
smiling, happy faces —some of them
leading by the hand little girls, younger
than herself, who were snugly wrapped
up in furs and pelisses. Then these la
dies were buying at the shops—not
mere necessaries, but luxuries and dain
ties —toys for their children, ornaments
for their houses, fruits and preserves for
family enjoyment.
“Ah,” thought Jane, “those ladies
who have so much money to spend will
not refuse to help me. I won’t show
them the five shillings but, no —;”
and she hastily corrected herself: “I
have five shillings—and that, as grand
mam says —will keep the wolt from
the door. There are poor folks here,
who, perhaps, have not a penny; let
them get alms from those who are dis
posed to give. If 1 were to beg, I should
only wrong such as have neither money
nor food.”
Thoughts akin to these passed rapid
ly through the girl’s mind, and she de
termined to return home without delay,
lest her grandmother should grow un
easy at her long absence. And, in the
act of increasing her pace, she felt for
her money, which, folded in paper, she
had thrust into her bosom, to assure
herself that it was safe. Alas, alas!
it was gone! The ticket was also gone!
They were gone ! With ashy face
and palpitating heart, she felt and felt
again. They were gone! Overpower
ed by her misfortune, she sat down
upon a door step and wept in agony.
The house to which the door-step be
longed was evidently the habitation of
a wealthy individual. It was situated
in the aristocratic quarter of Rookfield.
Moreover, it was exactly fronting the
Church, whose taper spire pointed, like
the clergyman’s Sabbath finger,upward;
and which, being thus set, even on week
days, I efore the eyes of those who
dwelt in this and the adjoining houses,
could not but revive in their minds
each morning, and every hour of the
days of labor, those lessons which had
; sunk so deep into their hearts therein,
| on the preceding day of rest and wor
! ship. Not that the owner of the house
in question could be supposed to need
such admonition —for he—the proprie
tor of the door-step, upon which poor
Jenny sat and wept —was the clergy
man. Opportunely, or otherwise, it
happened that at this critical time
the reverend gentleman, who had been
summoned half an hour before to at
tend the bedside cf a dying man, re
turned home, accompanied by a friend,
who had joined him on his way.
“What—what—what is this?” ex
claimed the clergyman, pointing with !
his gold-headed cane to the weeping !
girl. “ A child crying on my door-1
step. Really, how inattentive the ser
vants are! ihe old cry 7 , I dare say.
Eh, Fisher? Want, hunger—that’s it,
eh?”
“ 1 shouldn’t wonder,” replied the
reverend gentleman’s companion, with
a shrug.
“ Come—come—speak out, child,”
cried the pastor. “ Didn’t, you hear
me ask you what was the matter ? Do
you know who 1 am—eh ? lam acler
gyman and a magistrate! Do you
hear that ? 1 allow no beggar in Rook
field. I send them all to prison. What,
you an’t frightened—an’t you ?”
Certainly Jane Foster, although she
had risen hastily and was wiping her
eyes, was not in the least alarmed. She
curtseyed to the gentlemen, and was in
the act of moving away.
“ Stop—stop—not so fast. I asked
you what was the matter: She does
look faint, does she not, Fisher?” said
the clergyman.
“ Y-e-s, 1 think she does, a lit —tie,”
replied Fisher.
And if she did, there was nothing
extraordinary in the circumstance, for
she had walked a long distance, and
had not broken her fast since the pre
vious day, and then she had dined off’
potatoes.
“ I feel confident that this is a case
of imposition,” whispered the clergy
man to his companion, with a singular
inattention to his forgone remark ; “I’ll
unmask it, Now, my little maid,” he
added aloud, “what is your name, and
whence do you come from ?”
The girl replied to each of his queries.
“ And what—l ask you for the third
time—what do you on my door-step?”
“As if she were following the Hindoo
method of sitting in dharna,” said Fish
er, who had been a traveller.
“ I—l didn’t mean any harm, sir,”
replied Jane, bursting afresh into tears.
“1 have lost five shillings ;* my grand
mother sent me to pawn a ring, and 1
have lost the money.”
The clergyman looked his friend sol
emnly in the face. “To pawn, to
pawn!” he exclaimed, giving to each
syllable its due impressive enunciation.
“ The vice of the lower classes is abom
inable—to pawn !”
The shock was too immense for the
reverend gentleman to contend against.
He waved his hand, saying, “There, get
away child, get away ;” and walked
into the house, followed by his friend.
Jane hurriedly left that neighbour
hood. No good, she thought, could
come from such a vicinity. But what
was she to do ? She must beg now,
and haply she might meet with those
who imputed to the lower orders some
thin” which was not “ vice.’ It was
O
with a heavy heart that, turning out of
the street in which the clergyman lived,
she stood where the ladies passed home
from the market, and looked in their
faces with eager, hungry eyes. It be
gan to snow just at this time. Timid
and ashamed, she watched an opportu
nity to make her first appeal. But
every one was in such haste to get home,
now that snow was falling, that her sup
plicating attitude, and pale, attenuated
face were scarcely noticed, or gained
only a cold, unsympathizing stare. Ah,
it was sad for the poor girl to see so
many fellow-Christians,notone of whom
was disposed to lend to their Maker
an unstateable fraction of the wealth
He had bestowed upon them. It is true
that she had not yet petitioned with
her tongue —but her eyes, her cheeks,
her pinched limbs and bare attire, what
eloquent tongues they had ! How im
pressive their oratory ! But it was a
week-day, and Charity was a theme for
Sundays. Once in seven days, the rich
folks of Rookfield condescended to call
the poor their brethren.
Faster fell the snow. The girl’s bon
not and shawl were white as the roofs
of the houses. She shivered and her
teeth chattered. The marrow of her
bones was chilled. She had addressed
live or six individuals, none of whom
deigned a reply, or recognized her exis
tence by so much as a shake of the
head, or other mute rejection of her
suit. “ Only a penny—’tis for my
grandmother; 1 have lost five shillings,
and we have nothing to eat at home.”
Faster fell the snow, and those who
were thus entreated walked faster on
their way.
“ He that giveth to the poor, lendeth
to the Lord. Inasmuch as ye did it
not to one of the least of these my
brethren, ye did it not to me.” Holy
words, accredited by those who turned
a deaf year to the petition of the shiver
ing beggar girl.
Upwardsof two hours did Jane stand,
exposed to the thickly-falling snow, and
suffering the severest privation from
the combined effects of cold and hunger.
And during all that time she got angry
and even abusive words, deprecating
looks, and threats of Bridew r ell, but not
one half-penny, not one.
And now the day was so far advanc
ed that the night would soon close in.
It still snowed fast —fast. The cold
was extreme. As she hurried along
the pavement, she caught frequent sights
of rousing fires in grates, and happy
people warming themselves thereby.
The cold was in her limbs, and in her
heart. She must hasten home, lest her
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, AUG. 24, 1850.
poorgrandmother should die with fright
because of her long absence. Yet
once more she would beg —yet once
more, for her aged relation’s sake, she
would beg.
A sailor, rather an uncommon per
sonage in Rookfield. approached. She
raised her hands in supplication ; her
pale face, streaming with tears, and
her supplicating attitude, attracted the
worthy tar’s atteniflon. She told her
story, and the humane seaman drew
from his pocket a leathern purse, and
placed five shillings in her hand, saying
that he gave it to her for the sake of
his mother, who was also an old woman,
and whom he was hurrying to meet,
after a long —long absence —if she were
still alive—if she were still alive, lie
should have a child too, he said, but
he thought she was dead—he didn’t
know.
Oh joy—oh, light-hearted joy !
Heaping uncounted blessing upon the
head of the generous son of Neptune,
our happy Jane set her face homeward
in good earnest. She was on the moor
now; but soaked to the skin by the
penetrating snow, and chilled almost
beyond tlie power of her slight, enfee
bled frame to bear. At every step she
took, her strength grew less and less,
l’he snow fell now so fast and thick,
that objects at a trifling distance were
obscured, and her little feet sank deep
er every instant.
Oh—to die upon that lonely moor —
how 7 horrible ! To sit frantically down,
and—as she remembered to have heard
it told that people so had perished—to
heap the snow wildly around her, and
build heself a frightful tomb therewth!
Was such to be her end, through the
long hours of that bitter winter’s night,
how would her old grandmother rave
in mad despair, and call vainly upon
heaven to aid her darling child !
Thicker and faster—thickerand faster
yet. No sky, no horizon, no object on
which to rest the eye, but all one waste
ot snow, that made the eye-balls ache
to look upon. Faster and faster yet,
and feebler and feebler grew her steps.
A dizziness came over her—a strange
sensation spread around her heart. She
could not hold out much longer. She
telt herself sinking vet one more
struggle for her young life.
A chirp, as of a little bird, sounding
in her ear. It was close beside her—
a robin—a winter robin.
The moor w as, in summer, particu- ;
larly barren, even for a moor. There,
was not a tree for a bird to perch upon.
Only a few 7 shrubs, and they were now
hidden by the snow.
Chirp—chirp.
It was only a simple robin—but God
alone knows how greatly its presence
cheered our little maiden, battling
against the storm on that shelterless
and dreary moor. What trifling cir
cumstances infuse new life into the de
sponding breast! The Scotch warrior
gleaned new vigour from watching the
efforts of a spider. Mungo Park, when
resigned to die in the African desert,
beheld a tiny weed lifting its obscure
head to the Heaven that encloseth all
the world, aid felt that God, who plant
ed that humble vegetation there, and
did not withdraw from it His sustain
ing hand, but sent the breeze to fan it, !
and the rain to water it—would suc
cour the child of his own likeness also;
and from that consoling Thought, there !
grew 7 such energy, that his limbs re
ceived new strength thereby, and he
prosecuted his path anew, and arrived
safely at the villiage he had despaired
to reach. And this little robin —this
humble robin, dearly beloved, by tale
and fable, and homely rhyme—of the
music of its speech, of its chirp , chirp ,
chirp —were begotten such resolution
and courage in the heart of the sinking
child, that there was no longer any
question of her drooping and dying;
but a certainty that she would behold
her grandmother again, and live, please
God, to ble s Him in after years for
preserving her amidst the dangers of
that afternoon.
The robin, too, became her guide.—
Not that she could have missed her
way, but the trodden path being hid
den by the snow, one direction, so that
she did not wander far from the conjec
tured track, was as good as another.—
And the robin went right onward, hop
pingnow—now flying,and everstrength
ening her resolution. And so she found
herself, ere long, at the door of her
grandmother’s cottage, and then she
saw the robin no more.
She related her story to her grand
mother while warming herself at the
fire which blazed on the hearth. And
oh! what fervent thanksgivings ascend
ed that night from that lowly roof to
the Throne of Glory!
The next morning there came a
knock at the cottage door, and when
Jane opened it, who should present
himself but the sailor who had given
her five shillings on the previous after
noon. He started with surprise at see
ing Jane, and inquired whether Dame
Foster lived there. When Jane re
plied that she did, the seaman gave a
cry of joy.
“That’s Richard’s voice,” exclaimed
the old woman from within. “1 know
it is. God be praised. He has sent
me back my son.”
“My mother, my dear mother,”
cried the sailor, rushing into the cot
tage.
We pass the scene which followed.
“ And so this is my Jane—my own
child,”said the seaman presently,taking
her in his lap, and kissing her for full
five minutes, without drawing breath.
“Yes, that is poor dead Mary’s child,”
said the grandmother. “It was her
mother’s wedding-ring that she pawned
yesterday.”
The old woman, the neighbours, Jane
herself, all assert that it was no robin,
but an angel from the skies, that led
her over the moor that afternoon.—
Who shall dare laugh at their beliet?
For are not the resolves which, nobly
taken, enable us to battle successfully
with the storms of life, and conduct us
safely Home —angels, and guardian an
gels, too? So, here’s God speed the
W inter Robin on repeated missions.
Bbisdlnnij.
LITTLE MARY AND THE MAN WITH
A LONG NOSE.
\\ e heard a very amusing anecdote
related a few days since of a gentle
man possessed of a somewhat promi
nent proboscis, being invited out to
take teA with a handsome young widow,
having the small incumbrance of about
forty thousand dollars, and a beautiful
and interesting little daughter of about
five years of age. The little girl—
whom we shall take the liberty of call
ing Mary—although very much be
loved by all who knew her, had the
habit ol speaking ’aloud in company,
a no. commenting on each and every pe
culiarity that any of her mamma’s
guests might have ; and the charming
widow .knowing this fact,took little Mary
aside on the afternoon iru question, and
gave her a lessson somewhat in the fol
lowing manner :
“ Mary, dear ! 1 have invited a very
particular friend of mine to come and
take tea with me this evening, and as
he has rather a long nose, 1 wish to
w 7 arn you aiair.st speaking of it in his
presence. He is the most sensitive
upon that point of all subjects ; there
fore, if you ailude to it in hjs presence,
you shall most assuredly be severely
reprimanded. But, on the other hand,
if you will sit up in your little chair
and be a lady, you shall have that beau
tiful frosted cake 1 purchased of the
baker this morning.”
Little Mary made the requisite pro
mise, and was amusing herself with
her abundant supply of playthings,
when the long-nosed friend arrived.—
‘Hie compliments of the day having
been exchanged, and the usual topics
of the time fully discussed, the widow,
with one of her blandest smiles, invi
ted M. into the adjoinging room
to partake of the choicest dainties w ith
which the table was bountifully sup
plied. As they were passing out of
the room, leaving little Mary to amuse
herself as best she could, the little
cherub hastily intercepted them at the
door, and archly looking up into the
animated countenance of her mother,
exclaimed, “Mother, dear, ain’t it most
time for me to have my nice frosted
cake for not saying anything about this
gentleman’s long nose ?”
The widow tainted, and the long
nosed gentleoian is still a bachelor.
CONFIRMED HABIT.
A gentleman of excellent habits and
very amiable disposition was so unfor
tunate as to have a wife of a very dif
ferent character; in short, one that
would get beastly drunk. Being in
company of a few intimates, one eve
ning, one of them remarked to him,
ili-it it she was his wito—since all other
things had t illed —he would frighten
her in some way, so that she would quit
her evil habit; and proposed the fol
low method: that some time, when
dead drunk, she should be laid into a
box shaped like a coffin, and left in that
situation until her lit should be over
and consciousness restored.
A few evenings after, the dame being
m o 7 o
in a proper state, the plan was put in
execution, and after the box lid was
properly secured, the party before
alluded to watched, each in turn, to
witness the result. About daylight
next morning, the watcher, hearing a
movement, laid himself down beside
the box, when her ladyship, after bump
ing her head a few times, was heard to
say: “Bless me! why, wi ere am l?”
The out-sider replied in a sepulchral
tone: “Madam, you are dead and in
the other world.”
A pause ensued, after which the lady
again inquired: “ Where are you?”
“O! 1 am dead too,” said he.
“ Can you tell me how long I’ve been
dead ?”
“About three weeks.”
“ How long have you been dead?”
“Four mouths.”
“Well, you have been here so much
Ibnger than 1 have, can't you tell me
where I can get a little yin!'”
Southern Vegetable Diet. —We
can have vegetables the year round,
and with so little labour, that it is a
matter of wonder to a provident man
that an independent citizen is content
with so small a variety. The cabbage
tribe will give us boiled vegetables
from the first of May to the first of
January, even if we could not grow the
cabbage heads; we then have the turnip
until April or May. We can have
sweet potatoes from January to Janu
ary. Then there are pumpkins, pars
nips, and winter squashes for winter;
squashes for summer; beans, peas, corn,
&c., for summer; turnip tops, spinach,
asparagus, &c., for spring. What living
for us of the South! But fruits in their
season are not to be forgotten. Straw
berries from 15th of April to 15th of
May; then Chickasaw plums until first
or middle of June; figs, then raspber
ries; nutmeg peaches; soon after, Early
York, Early Tillotson, and other peach
es ; June apples; Early Catharine, Jar
gonelle, and other pears. A family
can have fruit from the tree and vine
from middle of April to first of Janu
ary, without resorting to hot-house cul
ture. .
Notwithstanding these varied gifts
of God to us, we will continue to gour
mandize meat; and for this simple
reason, we are accustomed to it, and
will not try another plan.
[,Southern Cultivator.
V iolin-Cembalo. —This instrument
is in the form of a pianoforte; the
strings are of catgut, and put in vibra
tion by a horse-hair bow, which by the
action of the keys, is applied to the
string meant to be sounded. It was in
vented some twenty years, since, by
Gerli, an artist of Milan. A similar
invention, however, was brought be
fore the public in 1806, by a M.
Schmidt, a pianofore maker of Paris.
His instrument was, in shape, an ob
long square, with a finger-board at each
end ; one of which was used as an or
dinary pianoforte, the other as a violin
cembalo.
INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS.
To dream of a millstone around
j your neck is a sign of what you may
expect if you get an extravagant wife.
To see apples m a dream betokens a
wedding, because where you find ap
ples you may reasonably expect to find
pairs.
To dream that you are lame is a
token that you will get in a hobble.
When a young lady dreams iff a
coffin, it betokens that she should in
stantly discontinue lacing her stays
tightly, and always go warmly and
thickly shod in wet weather.
If you dream of a clock, it is a token
that you will gain great credit—that is,
tick.
To dream of fire is a sign that—if
you are wise—you will see that the
lights in your house are out before you
go to bed.
To dream that your nose is red at
the tip, is an intimation that you had
better leave off brandy and water.
To dream of walking barefooted de
notes a journey that you will make
bootless.
LAWS OF HEALTH.
Children should be taught to use the
left hand as well as the right.
Coarse bread is much better for
children than fine.
Children should sleep in separate
beds, and should not wear nightcaps.
Children under seven years of age
should not be confined over six or seven
hours in the house,and that time should
be broken by frequent recesses.
Children and young people must be
made to hoid their heads up and should
ers back while standing, sitting or walk
ing. The best beds for children are of
hair, or in winter, of hair and cotton.
From one pound to one and a half
of solid food is sufficient for a person
in the ordinary vocation of business.
Persons in sedentary employments
should drop one-third of their food, and
they will escape dyspepsia.
Aoung persons should walk at least
two hours a day in the open air.
\oung ladies should be prevented
from bandaging the chest. We have
known three cases of insanity, termi
nating in death, which begun in this
practice.
Theory of Mahriage.— There was
a merry fellow supped with Plato two
thousand years ago, and the conversa
tion turned upon love and the choice of
wives. He said “he had learned from
a very early tradition that man was
created male and female with a dupli
cate set of limbs, and performed his
locomotive functions with a rotary
movement as a wheel; that he became
in consequence so excessively insolent
that Jupiter, indignant, split him in
two Sincp fhiif timp. pqph rnrus tViromzh
the world in quest of the other half.
If the original halves meet they are a
very loving couple; otherwise they are
subject to a miserable, scolding, peev
ish and uncongenial matrimony. The
search, he said, was rendered difficult,
for the reason that one man alighted
upon a half that did not belong to him,
another did necessarily the same, till
the whole affair was thrown into irre
trievable confusion.”
Origin of the name Baton Rouge.
All of Louisiana, north of the river
Iberville, having been ceded to Eng
land by Louis XIV, in 1753, a trading
post was established at the place where
Baton Rouge now stands. In 1765,
the settlement consisted of a few ca
bins, scattered here and there, protected
by a fort. Le Page du Pratz relates
that there was a remarkable cypress
tree there, of so large a size that a ship
carpenter offered to make two pirogues
from it—one of sixteen tons burthen,
and another of fourteen. He says its
height was so great that its top was
lost to the view ! One of the early
travellers once remarked (as the cy
press wood is of a red colour) that this
tree would make a fine stick {un beau
baton.) From this trifling circumstance
the place was named Baton Rouge.
[TV. O. Delta.
Pine Apples, &c. —There is now
growing on the Piazza of the Magno
lia House a magnificent pine apple upon
its parent stem. This beautiful tropi
cal plant we believe may be success
fully cultivated here, with a little pro
tection occasionally in winter. There
are now several growing here, brought
from Indian river by Mr. Haight, a set
tler at that place. There has been no
difficulty in growing the fruit there, and
at no very distant day it will be an im
portant article of export. We have
also seen ripe bananas, guavas, &c., —
raised in this city the present season.
All these fruits will succeed with little
cultivation or prtoection ; with a mo
derate degree of attention, Florida can
be made to be not only the land of
flowers, but of fruits. The fig, the date,
the plum, the orange, the vine, the
peach, nectarines, &c., all flourish here,
and we can readily add the tropical
fruits. As to flowers—but of that we
will talk another day.
[iSY Augustine Ancient City.
Coffee. —The St. Augustine An
cient City, says : “ One of the most ex
tensive articles imported, and one most
used in the South is coffee. We are
advised by one who has tried it, and
upon examination we find that the ex
periment is not a recent one, that ripe
seeds of okra burned and used as cof
fee, is a good substance therefor, and
cannot Vie distinguished therefrom ; and
that the drink made from it is very
healthy. We also find it stated that
many persons of the most fastidious
taste have not been able to distinguish
it from the best Java. We mean the
common okra so easily grown here, and
whose excellence in soup is universally
known.
Books. —The question is often asked,
“ What becomes of all the books daily
issued from the press?” We need only
say, in reply, that the baker sends home
I our bread wrapped in a page of biology;
the butcher, our meat in metaphysics,
THIRD VOLUME—NO. 17 WHOLE NO 117.
j and the confectioner, our children's can
dy in a chapter ofconehology. Strange
that authors have the patience to write
what the people have no patience to
read.
(Mittpsfs of 30nn 33anks.
FALSTAFF.
From “Giles’Lectures and Essays.” Published by Tick
nor. Reed ic Fields. Boston.
The gross idea of Fallstaff is that
of a coward, a liaiq a glutton and a
j butfoon. The idea is so partial, that
when taken fur the whole character it
is untrue. Much more than this there
must be, in one among the greatest
of Shakespeare’s creations. In the
cowardice of Falstaff there is much in
consistency ; and much of this, we
may suppose, arises from the exaggera
tions in which the poet has knowingly
indulged for the sake of ludicrous po
sition. Ido not know otherwise how
to interpret the atfair at Gad's Hill.
The prince, whether as Shakespeare or
history represents him, was no lover of
dastards; yet the poet allows him to
intrust Fallstaff with a company ; and
Fallstaff himself, as he gives him to us
after the battle of Shewsbury, says, ”1
have led my ragamuffins where they
are peppered ; there’s but three of my
hundred and fifty left alive.” Falstaff
willingly goes twice to the wars; and
the cool mockery of which he was ca
pable on the field, shows a light heart, i
and not a timid one. The gaiety, the j
ease, the merriment, the reckless frolic, j
the immovable self-possession which he
exhibits, preceding the campaign and
in it, evinces any other temper than
that of cowardice. A coward may
have daring in the midst of danger, but
he Las never levity in it.—spontaneous,
unaffected levity. Falstatf, physically,
was not a craven. lie was assuredly
attached to life, and to the life of the
senses. It was all he had ; it was all
he hoped ; and it was all he wished.
He was therefore in no anxiety to lose
it; and his philosophy taught him of
nothing which was a compensation for j
endangering it.
“Hal,” he says, “if thou seest me
fall down in battle, and bestride me so,
’tis a point of friendship.”
“Nothing,” says the prince, “but a
colossus can do that friendship. Say
thy prayers, and farewell.”
“ I would it were bed-time, Hal, and
all well.
“ Win. thou owest God a death.”
“ ’T is not due yet, and I would be
loath to pay him before his day.”
This, though banter, is all congruous
with his system. And, also, what can
he be but joking, when he says to the
prince:
“ But tell me, Hal, art thou not hoc
•l P l a r Pl__ 1_ * L-! . _ 1
rent, could the world pick thee out
three such again, as that fiend
Douglas, Percy, and that
devil Glendower ? Art thou not hor
ribly afeard? doth not thy blood thrill
at it ?”
No coward reveals his character in
this manner, and surely this is not the i
way in which Shakspeare would reveal j
it. Falstatf gives us the truth of his ;
character, when he says, “ Indeed, 1 am
not John of Gaunt, your grandfather j
but yet no coward, Hal.” Falstatf
was an epicure, but no glutton. He j
was noUa great eater, for his bill con
tained a half-penny worth of bread to an
intoilerable quantity of sack. And al- ‘
though Falstaff was a large drinker, he 1
was no inebriate. And here we con
ceive a consummate art in Shakspeare,
who sustains Falstaff throughout in our
intellectual respect. He presents to
our fancy a character whose life was in
the senses; whose atmosphere was the
tavern, whose chief good was convivi
ality, and yet who never once passes
the line where mind lies conquered by
excess.
If the name of buffoon can be applied
to Falstatf, then it is a designation not
inconsistent with the richest prodigality !
of talents. Falstaff companioned with
the highest of the land, not only on
account of his genius, but of his rank.
That Falstaff was not unmindful of his
genius, appears everywhere in the
spirit of a confident egotism, which
never strikes us as puerile or foolish,
and he constantly shows the same tact
in direct expression. Subscribing a ;
very characteristic letter to the prince, j
he shows that he was equally confident
of his rank, when he writes, “Jack ;
Falstaff, with my familiars; John, with j
my brothers and sisters; and Sir John
with the rest of Europe.” Indeed,
there is in this signature, consciousness
of fame as well as pride of station;
and both are distinctive of the man.
He was jealous of his position, and !
next to this, he was jealous of his abili
ties. While, upon occasions, he seems
to abase himself, his self-abasement
has always along with it more than an
equivalent in self-elation. “Men of
all sorts,” he says, “ take a pride to *
gird at me; the brain of this foolish
compounded clay, man, is not able to
vent any thing that tends to laughter
more than I invent, or is invented on
me: I am not only witty in myself,
but the cause of wit in othdr men.”
It is plain, too, that he did not esteem
himself meanly beside the proudest
titles. When Prince John of Lancas
ter says to him, parting in the forest,
“ Fare you well, and I in my condition
shall speak better of you, than you de
serve Falstatf mutters after him, “ 1
would you had but the wit, ’twere bet
ter than your dukedom.” As to the
lies, they were in the way of his voca
tion. The highest stretch of imagina
tion could not even suspect him of
veracity ; and if he had any dupes, they
were strangely In love with deception.
His lies, too, were the lies of a pro
fessed and known wit; they were de
signed only for ludicrous effect, and
generally were little more than comic
exaggerations. In the events at Gad’s
Hill, and those that immediately fol
low them, there is an epitome of the
whole character of Falstatf; but there
is, at the same time, an evident design
on the part of the poet, to bring out
; his peculiarities with grotesque extrav
agance ; and to produce the broadest
and the most comic result. The entire
scene is too long to recite, and therefore
I can but recall it to. your thoughts by
a very abbreviated sketch.
Travellers are coming to London
with money. The prince, Falstaff, and
their companions, lay a plot, to rob
them. On the way, Falstaff is cheated
from his horse, and then he is all but
helpless. “ Eight yards of uneven
ground,” he says, “is three score and
ten miles afoot to me; and the stony
hearted villains know it well enough.”
It being dark before daybreak in the
i morning, Prince Henry and Poins easi
;ly separate from the party. Falstaff
I and the rest accomplish the robbery,
| and set down to count the spoils.
Prince Henry and Poins then sudden
i ly rush upon the victors, and secure the
booty. When Falstaff comes after
wards empty-handed to the inn, his
burlesque is so openly broad, that we
cannot suppose that so great a master
of art and nature as Shakspeare ever
connected such enormous, such palpar
ble blunders with so keen an intellect
as Falstaff’s, except for the direct pur
pose of broadest comedy. Falstaff.
accordingly, aims at making no inge
nious excuses. He sets, at once, to lie;
but upon a scale so grand, that while
his hearers shall see that the) are lies,
they shall yet be startled at their mag
nitude; ai.d, with an inconsistency so
bold, that it stammers at no contradic
tion, blushes at no detection ; with od
dities so wild and full of humor, that
his impudence becomes magnificent,
and his drollery irresistible. This is
the result which he proposes to himself,
to cover the ludicrousness of his posi
tion by investing it with a circle of the
most enchanting absurdity ; and then,
■from the centre of that circle, to flash
around him such corruscations, such a
splendor of fun, that men shall have no
power to mock him in their paroxysms
of laughter, and no sight to note his hu
miliation foi"the tears of mirth that
bedim their eyes; this, 1 say, is the
result which he proposes, and this th*
result, lie most successfully accom
plishes. As he comes into the tavern,
puffing and panting, how heroically he
puts forth his indignation, as he ex
claims, against the prince and his fel
lows, “A plague ot all cowards, and a
vengeance, too! marry and amen !
Give me a cup of sack, boy ! A plague
ot all cowards! Give me a cup of
sack, rogue ! Is there no virtue extant!
You rogue, there’s lime in this sack,
too. There’s nothing but roguery to
be found in villainous man; yet is a
coward worse than a cup of sack with
lime in it—a villanous coward. Go
thy way, old Jack, die when thou wilt,
if manhood , good manhood be not for
ain fa shotten herring. * J ’There*tlvelfrul
three good men unhanged in England,
and one of them is fat, and grows old.
God help, the while, a bad world, I
say. I wish I were a weaver, and could
sing psalms, or any thing ; a plague of
all cowards, I say still.” As he warms
to his work, the banter becomes richer.
“ I am a rogue,” he says, “ if I was not
at half a sword with a dozen of them
two hours together. 1 have ‘scaped by
a miracle: 1 am eight times thrust
through the doublet; four through the
hose; my buckler cut through and
through ; my sword hacked like a hand
saw, ecce signum. I never dealt better
since I was a man; all would not do.
A plague of all cowards! let them
speak ! if they, if they speak more or
less than truth, they are villains, and
the sons of darkness.” Absurdity now
deepens upon absurdity. Four come
on; then sixteen ; then all!
Prince Henry. “ What, you fought
with all!”
Falstaff. “ All ? I know not what
you cull all ! But if I fought not with
fifty of them, then am Ia bunch of
radish : if there were not two or three
and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am
1 no two legged creature.”
Poins. “ Pray God, you have not
murdered some of them!”
F. “Nay, that’s past praying for!
for I have peppered two of them : two,
I am sure, I have paid : two rogues
in buckrum suits: 1 tell thee what,
Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face,
call me horse ! Thou knowest my old
ward. Here 1 lay, and thus I bore my
point. Four rogues in buckram let
drive at me.”
P. H.—“ What! four? thou saidst
two, even now.”
F. “Four, Hal, I told thee, four.”
Poins. “Ay, he said four.”
F. “These four came all afront, and
mainly thrust at me. I made no more
ado, but took all their seven points on
my target thus.”
P. H. “Why there were but four
even now.”
F. “ In buckram.”
Poins. “Av, four in buckram suits.”
F. “Seven, by these hilts, or I am a
villian, else.”
P. 11. “ Let him alone, we shall have
more anon.”
F. “Dost, thou hear me, Hal ?”
P. 11. “Aye, and mark thee too,
Jack.”
F. “Do so, its worth listening to.
These nine men in buckram that 1 told
thee off-—”
P. 11. “Two more already!”
F. “ Began to give ground : but I
followed me close, came in hand and
foot, and with a thought, seven of the
eleven I paid.”
P. 11. “O, monstrous, eleven buck
ram men grown out of two !”
We have then his account of the
three men in Kendal green, that let
drive at his back, when it was so dark
that he could not see his hand.
P. H. “Why how could’st thou know
these three men in Kendal green, when
it was so dark that thou could’st not
see thy hnnd ? Come, tell us your
reason. What say’st thou to this?”
Poins. “Come, your reason, Jack,
your reason.”
F. “What! upon compulsion? No:
were I at the strappado, or all the racks
in the world, 1 would not tell you on
compulsion! Give you a reason on