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Southern literary gazette. (Charleston, S.C.) 1850-1852, August 24, 1850, Image 1

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WTTOTO A TOW /T 1 a wtpwwtc? &WJ ill ii juJilmvJ Mii Malika II <kM I 111 .Ik TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. (Driginnl |^nttrij. 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, 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 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