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mjikm biiii manim TERMS, 52,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. (Original Kortlie Southern Literary Gazette. THRENODY*. • In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er hike coarsest clothes against the cold: But that large grief which these infold I. given in outline and no more.”— Tennyson. I. Tue restless tides of busy life, Heave with their wonted ebb and flow, V ,J ntingle still in peace or strife, morn and evening come and go, ( j htrill -s of the burning grief, I ~i which my heart finds no relief, , v , j,t in sleep’s sweet visions brief. 11. |he cold, unfeeling world still wears its calm and heartless look and smile, (id meets me with its work-day cares, [\i -taucli my bleeding heart the while : i n.e drop perchance is nought to thee— (),ic atom from thy human :*•, Hu’ thou. O world, art changed to me! ill. Mmii hath lost something from its beam. The evening paleth to my eye ; Something gone from hill and stream, And something lacks the starry sky : green-wood wtid has lost its charm, The fragrant breezes bring no balm, And twilight shades no soothing calm. IT. flu,.- whom 1 loved, God knows how well, Lies sleeping, silent, cold and still, And I, with feelings none can tell, 1,,w sadl) to the Father’s will! M,,re than a brother e’er can be, Was he, the loved and lost; to me ; 11. sleeps beyond the swelling sea ! v. Hssleeps! Life’s battle-strife is o’er; He won upon the Held repose ; No war-cry can awake him more— No triumph shout of friends or foes: He rests beneath earth’s freshest sod, V ne, hut ’neath the eye of God, (ad wild-dowers o’er his grave shall nod. VI. wide Pacific’s pulses throb ; Its surges break in sullen roar, or die away with moan and sob, l pon the solemn, sounding shore: ‘dice o'er its waters lay his track, But they can never bring him back, Whom lacking here all else I lack. VII. Where ope the amber gates of eve, And sun-set tints the blushing skies, Dark primal woods their shadows weave, And high Nevada’s summits rise: There, in that western land of gold, The earth a treasure doth enfold, Von precious than its stores untold. VIII. Flow on Americano’s wave; Ye mountain streams sing sad and low ; I Bloom fresh, ye wild-flowers, o’er the grave Os him who loved to see ye grow ; ‘.ng to him warblers of the West, Build near the spot your mossy nest, Let music haunt his place of rest. ix. if. ne—lost forever from my view ! Yet may it not be all a dream! 1 H God that it might not be true ! Things are not always what they seem : I press my hand upon my head, > ill unto mine his soul is wed, I cannot, will not think him dead! x. But ah! in vain I seek to hide The aching void which death hath left: And vain is all my manhood’s pride, #0 wounded am I and bereft; 1 press my throbbing brow in vain : 1 slave to cool my burning brain ; ! ears will not come to quell my pain. xi. ‘ sec it all—that voice is mute, So eloquent for Truth and Right, Bo quick the Error to refute, In earnestness so great its might: ■'lid all the voices of the sphere, The sweetest to the listening ear, as his the world no more shall hear. XII. The Apalachian hills which we I ogether clonib, shall feel no tread * pon their wooded sides so free, I ill years on years are fled ! I heir solitudes shall miss his voice, ” hose burden ever was “ rejoice he gladness made his only choice. XIII. ‘ a,n bereft, but not alone; 1 he hopes of others too are crushed. And cherished plans are with him gone, And many a tone of joy is hushed ; she stroke which laid our dear one low, 1 lu *ed blood from other hearts to flow. And made them drink the cup of woe. Xtv. Insatiate Death, thy touch has left In sisters’ hearts a void of pain ; A brother, of his hope bereft, Seeks solace for his grief in vain ; ! heir heart-strings thou hast rudely torn. And all things of their beauty shorn, ,s ' Vm lost to them with him they mourn. xv. ‘nd there is one of whose young life, I-ach hope and purpose knew but him “ho lor her met the fatal strife, And whose light quenched ail else is dim; A‘l ufe’s treasure in one barque tost, freight ot never counted cost, ” in one daring venture lost! xvt. and give her strength ! My words are vain, And seem but mockery of such grief; ” ‘at can I say to sooth her pain ” hose life of love has been so brief? o< l S‘ v e her strength the stroke to bear, ’ Ogth to live on, to do and dare, ‘•th soaring high above despair. xvn. rne hack, O, brother of my soul! Ami let me fondly trace once more, ’ ,le yielded to decay’s control, 1 hose lineaments so loved of yore ; • mile as of old and let me hear, }^ n g out in glee, as bell-tone clear, accents of that voice so dear. & tumumukmwm umtma, mm& abb seisms, abb m mmix iiHmiijS XVIII. Oh, vain my prayer, my yearnings vain ! E’en thee the envious grave hath won, And we on earth meet—not—again ; ‘l’hou art forever from me gone;— Yet moving in the higher sphere Thou livest still to bless me here— Still then,o! brother, be thou near! XIX. One tie the less binds tne to life, One more, in him, draws me above ; Still will I calmly meet the strife, And still like him my manhood prove : A few brief, busy years at most, Upon life’s heaving ocean tost, And all is gained I’ve counted lost. xx. ; Now to my daily tasks I’ll turn Sad, sad at heart, but strong and brave, And while the fires of life shall burn I’ll not lie down upon the grave ; | Oh ! Source of Strength, help me to do, I Make strong my heart till all is through, i And then in Death my Life renew. i* U n 1 John .McCoy, who died oil the tiaiiksot the Rio Americano, in Alta California, on Mas’ i the 31st 18,j0. — (Original ifnlra. For the Southern Literary Gazette EVELYN ST. CLAIR; OK. A HEART’S HISTORY. It was the deep stillness of midnight, and 1 sat by the hedsido of Evelyn St. (lair. Ihe half-shaded taper threw a sickly “glare over her wasted features, as she lay so pale and still on her pil low. One small white hand was qui -1 etly lying on the counterpane, one of I h er lingers being encircled by a hair j *5 the other was placed on her i heart—that faithful heart, which would i soon cease beating forever. There are some people whose inner ! hfe we always feel a wish to peer into,* whose heart revelations we ever desire to know, and it is with a feeling of no ordinary disappointment we see them sink nto the silence of the tomb, with the leaves of their heart still closely folded—sealed for this world but open ed in the next. And it was thus 1 feared Evelyn St. Clair would die; leaving the longing we ever felt to know her heart’s history still unsatisfied. About Evelyn St. Clair there was very little of what the world would call fascination; but to me there lin gered about her a charm almost im possible to describe. She was one of “those people I should think not easily loved, out once loved, loved torever. She possessed the mystic charm of en chanting never again to disenchant, and once loving her, every day unfolded some new and beautiful trait in her character. Although courtqpus and ac cessible, yet you felt in her society as if you would never know her; that is, know her heart to heart. You might o glance upon the surface, but very few ever saw into its depths; the depths of that heart, oh! who can fathom it.— Still and silent its streams flowed, but fervent and deep. *As one said, “I have two hearts, one for my friends and one for my company,” so said Evelyn St. Clair. Blessed privilege, when such hearts, opening wide their portals and admitting you into their inmost sanc tuary, lift the veil, and you behold in all its beauty, its still holiness, the in ner life, lie that ‘has seen the sparkle of even one of the jewels of thought that lay treasured up in the heart’s casket, has won for himself imperish able wealth. Evelyn St. Clair was not pretty, but her pale face, when animated in versation, possessed more than the fleeting charm of beauty. When silent, it had a sad expression, and at that time her dark eyes seemed to be look ing inward at some hidden grief. It was many years before 1 passed be yond the threshold of mere acquaint anceship; not until accident threw us a great deal together, and similarity of tastes, that true bond of friendship, cemented our union forever. Even then, though 1 was admitted into her intellectual life and shared her every thought, there was still a veil on her heart which she would not lift. I felt a desire to know the history of her love, for 1 well knew no woman of her sen sibility, and one so richly endowed with all the finer feelings of the heart could have reached her age without loving. But on this one subject she was impenetrably silent, and though sympathizing in the loves of others, “‘she never told” her own. It has been said, ‘“that in the meanest hut there is a romance, if you did but know the hearts in it,” and so in the beating hearts around us dwells some passion ate love story, if the lips could but bring themselves to utter it. And thus I ever felt with regard to Evelyn St. Clair, and was-assured if 1 learnt her historv, it would be some new phase in love; some passionate soul absorbing affection, never dying, but, perchance, hopeless. I knew that though hers would be love in all its po etical refinements, it would also be a love in all its practical beauty ; only deeming itself lovely when scattering sunshine around the path of the belov ed one. I asked her one day if she | had ever loved. I put the question ab i ruptly, she glanced quickly up from the book she was reading, and simply said, “1 have a heart, and am a wo man,” then gazed at her book again. I saw the tear-drops forcing themselves down her cheek, and 1 felt that 1 had touched the chord of memories strong and deep. Alas ! how often we possess the rod,- the stroke of which w ill call forth the dafk waters of affliction, and word spoken carelessly may rouse up the buried ghosts of past sorrows from their home in the heart. And now, in the deep stillness of that sick room, 1 found myself wondering again about the heart history of her, who was lying so pale and still, already en compassed by the shadows of the grave. VV hile my thoughts were roving to the past, she called in a faint voice. ‘•Edith, she said, “come here.” I ap proached her, and stooping down, kissed her pale brow. She looked up at me, and pressing my hand in her’s, said in a low hut earnest voice, “Ah, you have come to “ Cheer my spirit, ere its bark Puts off into the unknown dark.” “Edith,” she continued, before I had time to reply, “you have often wished to know my heart’s history ; you shall not he disappointed. 1 leave you my desk and its contents; there you will learn how I loved and suffered. Do not. let them remove this ring,” she said, pointing to the one of hair on her finger, “it is the last relic 1 have of him, bury it with me.” The next morning Evelyn St. Clair, had forever done with the shadows of life, and the sunshine of heaven had broken upon her view. For days 1 was so absorbed in my grief, that I had forgotten the legacy of her desk. But it was sent to me ; and a week after her death, 1 came in possession of the heart history of Evelyn St. Clair. THE MANUSCRIPT OF EVELYN ST. CLAIR. It was a delightful evening, and I walked the beach with George Lester. The moon fairly rained down her beams, filling earth and sea with her glory. It. was a beautiful sight as the jewelled waves came dashing to the shore, then gradually rolled back, like some disappointed spirit, retiring from its vain but eager pursuit after ambi tious dreams, or love’s false vision. Have you ever heard the music of the . ~ *• . - .. song of the waves? If not, you should have stood on the beach that night, and your soul might have drank in the mournful harmony, that swelled from that billowy and dashing sea. Arm-in arm with George Lester, I stood on that beach, whose glittering sands formed a radiant pathway. We were both silent, and watching that foaming and moon-lighted tide, for a time gave our thoughts no utterance. There are moments when we grow still with ex cess of happiness, brief joy, winged mo ments, too bright to linger long. This was to me one of those golden hours of which our calender of time contains so few. At last he spoke— “ Evelyn,” he said, “of what are you thinking ?” I started from my revery. 1 had not been thinking at all. 1 was only enjoying my intense happiness, but I answered “I was not thinking, 1 was only dreaming.” “l suppose,” lie replied, “yours is a ‘love-dream, as yet no object know mg,’ and vet I cannot understand an aim less revery. Did you see no loved face in the distance, Evelyn ?” “George,” I answered, “what would be very natural to me, w r ould seem quite the contrary to you; I could dream, and my visions hover around no cherished form, but no doubt, more than one lovely face smiles upon you in your celestial dr earning “ Evelyn,” was his reply, “ this from you, you w hom I have ever loved 1 Is this a reward for my constancy ?” I felt myself tremble in every limb. I could have sunk to the ground with excess of happiness. I was too much of a child in all save my deep devotion for him, to conceal my feelings, and the pent up love of my childhood’s years burst from my eager lips, in this one fervent, burning sentence, “Thank God, that you love me.” 1 could say no more, but sunk in a paroxysm of weeping on his bosom. He pressed me to his heart, astonished at my display of feeling. I was so quiet, and to all appearance so cold, that few imagined the depth of fervor that lay concealed beneath my calm exterior. I had known George Lester from the time we were children. lie was a handsome, gay hearted boy, and 1 a pale, uninteresting child, with deep feelings, full of poetry and romance, but too shy to express them. From the moment we met, he singled me out from the crowd of lovely girls, that grew like bright flowers around his pathway. I, the only pale blossom in that living wreath of loveliness. My w hole soul seemed to go out to meet his, and though still as I ever become from excess of feeling, and cqMas I always am, when fearful of bemtying CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, AUG. 31, 1850. too much warmth, I felt, child as 1 was, that love had entered into my whole being. Time sped on, and I stiil loved, more intensely, more enthusiastically, 1 never dreamed of worshipping at any other shrine, and would have trampled underfoot any votive offering but his. But he had never breathed his love un til this night; and there, beneath that lovely sky, and amid the music of the dashing waves, he proferred me the de votion of a life time, and I vowed to love on “ unchanged, and unchanging.” The perfect happiness of that night I shall never forget, the pale silver moon light, the dreamy murmurs of the waves, that fervent love vow lingering in my ear, all “ lapped me into Elys sium.” The dream of my life had been realized, and I laid unhesitatingly j and with all a woman’s trust, the hoard, ed treasure of my heart’s deepest, pu rest love, at the feet of an earthly idob In the delightful consciousness of loving and being loved, time sped rap idly on. Each moment served to draw j the precious chords of affection still closer, and my trusting heart saw no ending to its delightful love. “There was no music, but his voice to hear, No . joy, but such as in his steps drew near, Light was but where he looked, life where he | moved. Silently, fervently, thus, thus, I loved.” But the enchantment was destined to end, and the rose-coloured hues of affection to give way to the dark shad ows of neglect and desertion. I had tuned my harp of love too high, and its silver chords had snapped beneath m\ touch, while I sat despairingly, still holding its shattering strings. W ith the keen sightedness of love, 1 had perceived a gradual change in j George’s manner. There was no lon ger the same confidence, or the same I warmth. 1 w-as painfully conscious of this, and only awaited its further devel opment to seek out the cause. By de grees his visits became less frequent, and at last a week elapsed, and he did not come at all. lo believe myself no longer loved j was agony too great to bear. I could ; not contemplate for one moment, the i beautiful fabric ot love, raised by the work of years, shattered in the dust. Ibis had been no passing fancy of mine, “grown w ith my growth, and strength ened with my years.” That love had j been the beautiful oasis in the dreary desert of my childhood’s days. The love of some hearts is peculiarly con- j centrative, it asks but few to lavish its love upon, and it loves the more for j loving so few-. Such was my affection ; and to tell me to look calmly upon the crushing of such love was more than I could do. It was the first night of the opera of Norma, and at the desire of my guar- j dian, I prepared to accompany him to the threatre. But it was with a heavy heart. I felt in no mood for gaiety, and music almost maddens me when I am sad. Its plaintive harmony or wild bursts of melody ever touch the spring ; of my sorrows; aiid as “I am never j merry when I hear sweet music,” so 1 ! am doubly sad when listening to it un der the influence of sorrow. We ar rived late, and a perfect burst of wild music greeted us as w-e took our seats. The theatre was crowded with lovely women, in glittering gems and costly robes; the light gave forth a brilliant blaze ; and altogether, “ the scene was one of enchantment.” I was so entranced for some time with the music, that I merely glanced around, but upon taking a second look. I saw seated in a box near me, George Lester. lie-was so busily engaged in conversing with a beautiful girl, that at first he did not perceive me. I seemed turned to stone. I could not take my glance away, and l gazed on. He look ed up suddenly, and our eyes met — one long, long gaze of love and despair, and 1 turned away, and never looked again. Oh, the first dreadful heart stunning blow of jealousy ! It seemed as if all the dark spirits had been let loose from their prison homes, and en tered my form. It was but for a mo ment, and it passed away, and I be came still with despair. Every thing seemed confused before me, and I lis tened to the music w ithout hearing it. and I was only startled from my hor rible dream, by the voice of my guar dian. I arose, and drawing my shawl around me, left the box. In the crowd ed passage way, I was forced by the mob outwards, until 1 stood side by side with George Lester. lie bowed with confusion, and l said in a low, calm tone, “ can I see you to-morrow night ? lie hesitated a moment, and then said falteringly—“yes.” The crowd separated us, and we went on our divided way. All night I paced my room in agony of spirit. I had made up my mind what course to pursue, and was nerving myself for the morrow’s conflict. Oh, the agony of that next night. I feel it even now, as after listening to the de claration, that he no longer loved me 1 returned him all the tokens of his | former love. “Do not blame me,” he said, “for | constancy is a virtue not under our own ; control.” “ Fear no reproaches from me,” I re plied, “ but I agree with you that it is very difficult to be constant to one ; we have never loved. No, constancy is a precious jewel worn only in the di j adem of true love.” “Say not, Evelyn,” lie said, “that I have never loved you. Once every ; pulse in this heart throbbed madly for i you; your slightest word seemed music to me; I loved you when a child, and 1 i fancied the love of my childhood s days would last forever; but I did not know how slight a hold such love takes upu. the heart—that it was hut a mix ture of vanity and mexpenence.” 1 arose from my seat, and said . warmly: ’•George Lester, you have never i • loved, or you would not thus talk. 1 feel deep within my inmost soul the | conviction that 1 shall never know love again, as true, as pure as the love of j my girlhood s days. Go, forget me if you will. 1 shall not offend you by re- | proaches, but remember that I am j bound to the past by a chain 1 can never break. Shatter its links as you ! w ill, they will still he binding. But go, and though you have taken from i life its brightest light, thank God this j I darkness has enabled me t. sec that 1 lavished my love on an unworthy idol.” As 1 speke. I felt the hair l ing on my finger, and l remembered 1 had forgot ten to return it to him. It was his first gift to me, and made of his hair, and was therefore more precious than all the glittering wealth of Peru. 1 fol lowed him as he left the room, and handed it to him. lie looked at me j long and earnestly, and drew back from ; it, saying: “Keep it Evelyn;” he hesitated a , moment, and continued, “for friend ship’s ake.” i 1 felt the blood rush in crimson glow ; over my lace, and said, “No, never; it I was given once in love’s name, and I : cannot keep it in friendship’sand 1 ! placed in his hand that precious ring that had never left my finger from the first time it encircled it. And as I gave up that last connecting link between parted for ever; but ! shed no tear; 1 i walked back into the room and threw myself on a chair. I listened, with j hands pressed tightly on my aching ; heart, to his receding footsteps, until I I could hear them no longer. Then did ! every restraining power seem to give way, and I burst into a fit of agonized grief. Sob after sob followed*that rent ! my frame with fierce convulsions. My spirit echoed and re-echoed these sad words, “He is gone!” It seemed as if invisible voices breathed it in my ear, ■■He is gone—gone, forever!” All night I passed in this bewilder ing grief, and at the first dawn of day, crept up to my bed, sick and exhaust ed. Mysterious is the power that al | lows poor weak hearts to be tossed I about on such a dreadful sea as this, i And yet in the darkest hours of my morning, I saw a higher hand than that of flesh, in the dispensation; and 1 heard a voice that said, “ I will shatter thy idols thou false worshiper.” Ah, I had idolized, that love was “the religion of my heart.” Fierce was the struggle I underwent before I could become calm; but I never once ceased to love; the holy j light that swung like a pious censer in my heart, never went out. I had once loved and must therefore love forever. The forsaken Ariadne, wandering on the sea-shore of the isle of Naxus, could not have felt more utterly de serted than 1 did. With that early dream of love, too, had vanished all my confiding trust, 1 felt that hence- I forth 1 must ever be a doubter. Years passed and we never met. George Lester had left the city, but I ever and anon reports reached me that was about marrying. But though for a moment they disturbed the calm wa ters of life, yet all would roll on peace fully- again. At last, one day- 1 re ceived a note from his mother. “Do come to George,” she said, “he is per haps dying, and has earnestly desired to see you.” I was fearfully agitated, and that mo ment the current of my love seemed to run stronger than ever. George Lester in the city and dying? I must go to him; all the past was forgotten, and I felt too truly that I could never break the chain that bound me to him. I flew rather than walked, and in a mo ment was at his bedside. “Dear Evelyn,” he said, as I sunk almost fainting on the floor. I looked up at him and sobbed out with passion ate energy, “Oh, live —live, my first, I my only love.” He took my hand, and pressing it to his pale lips, said: “Thank God you’ve come; do not leave me.” For weeks I lingered by his side, until I saw him spring up to health again. Once more he looked upon me with “love-lighted eyes,” and once more re-breathed his early vows. But it was too late; I could not again trust where I had been so fearfully deceived. 1 still loved, but it was not with the I utter reliance of early years. He con fessed that he had deserted me once for a passing fancy. What chain had I strong enough to bind him from doing so again ! .No!—rob the heart of its faith and your stronghold upon it has gone forever. And yet l did not refuse him in a fit ot pique, or from mistaken motives of pride, but 1 felt he could never he again to me what he had been. I had plucked the hitter fruit of the tree of knowledge, and that knowledge had driven me out from Eden. And there again, on that same beach where I had listened to his first vows, standing be neath that same Heaven, tracked by “the shining footprints” of the moon, hearing the requiem-like music of these same waves, and all things the same but ourselves, 1 heard again his solemn protestations to love forever and un changing; but my heart turned away from the bitter mockery of such vows, and firmly and unhesitatingly 1 pro nounced the words that separated us for ever. Eight years before and I gave him up freely the love that I had garn ered through all my childhood’s years. In the perfect abandonment of young love, I poured unreservedly out, the , whole ot the golden treasure at his I feet, lie prized the gift for a while, [ then, like a tired child, returned love’s precious jewels; and once more I lock ed them up in the casket of my heart, never to he again taken from thence. | And thus we parted; he to seek out a | new love, I to Jive upon the remem brance of the old. A year after, I re ceived, in a letter, the hair ring, with these words: “T he dying gift of George | Lester.” He had married a lovely woman, and I met him in the first dawn of his hap piness. For happy lie really seemed; and the cordial greeting with which he hailed me, and the look of triumph with which he glanced at his beautiful wife, proved that the blow had only fallen upon myself. But the gift of that ring satisfied me that 1 was not entirely for gotten, and that though circumstances may separate the bodies of those that chain that hinds for ever their invisible spirits. 1 once read a story of one who, twenty years before, seen his heart’s hopes laid prostrate in the dust. He uttered no complaint; scarcely a sigh escaped him, and there was nothing about him to tell he had suffered, save a certain impatience of manner when ever love’s name was mentioned. But the wound was all inward. Twenty years had elapsed and time had thrown her silvering on his head, when he was laid on a bed of death. Never, from the moment of his last agonized part ing, had the name of the beloved one escaped him. Friends looked on and thought he had forgotten her; they lit tle remembered, that with some, what is nearest the heart is furthest from the lips. And now, on that bed of death, he called upon the loved name continu ally. “Give me music, music,” he would say; “hut ah, I want no other music than her name.” “ Eda, Eda,” he murmured, and with that precious name lingering on his pale lips, his spirit passed away into eternity. — Death set free the name that Life had sealed so close. And thus it was with me. As the rainbow arches the earth, yet touches it not, so did that love en circle my heart, hut never passed my lips. But it was not without its teach ings, for I learnt to extend the sphere of my usefulness. I put forth every energy that, fanned by Love’s wings, lay idly sleeping; and I appeared be fore the world, not as a love-dreamer, hut as a thinking woman. One for whom there had been opened anew page in life, teaching her that not Love alone is the great object of woman’s life, but Friendship and Charity are also bright flowers worth her culture. And thus ended the manuscript of Evelyn St. Clair. E. B. C. Charleston , S. C. The Calcium Light. —We fear Mr. Paine has been cast into outer darkness by the late discovery made by Profes sor Grant, of Washington, who has produced a light far more intense and brilliant than the celebrated Druin ‘ mond Light, and which he exhibited ! in front of the Capitol, on the 4th of July night. Persons were enabled to read and tell the hour by gold dial watches, a mile off! He calls it the Calcium Light and says it is available fur all purposes of practical lighting, being easily managed and far cheaper than oil or gas light. The National In telligencer, alluding to it, says —“ We are informed that the chief merit of this invention, as far as regards its novelty as a scientific discovery by Mr. Grant, consists in his improvements in the manufacture of oxygen gas from the nitrate of soda, and in the discovery of a vein of pure oxide of calcium, which will stand for forty-eight hours in a powerful jet of mixed gases, without decomposition, or abrasion of surface.” This is an important principle, and en tirely anew discovery. THIRD VOLUME—NO. 18 WHOLE NO 118. I iTljf fesiujist. From the Literary World. HAWTHORNE AND HIS MOSSES. BY A VIRGINIAN SPENDING JULY IN VERMONT. I A papered chamber in a fine old ! farm house, a mile from any other dwelling, and dipped to the eaves in foliage—surrounded by mountains, old woods, and Indian ponds,—this, surely, is the place to write of Hawthorne.— Some charm is in this northern air, for i Jove and duty seem both impelling to the task. A man of a deep and noble nature has seized me in this seclusion. His wild, witch-voice rings through me; or, in softer cadences, 1 seem to hear it in the songs of the hill-side birds that sing in the larch trees at my window. \\ ouid that all excellent books were foundlings, without father or mother, that so it might be we could glorify them, without including their ostensi ble authors! Nor would any true man take exception to this; leas* of all, he who writes, “ When the Artist rises high enough to achieve the Beautiful, the symbol by which he makes it per ceptible to mortal senses becomes of little value in his eyes, while his spirit possesses itself in the enjoyment of the reality.” But more than this. I know not what would he the right name to put on the title-page of an excellent hook ; but this I feel, that the names of all tine authors are fictitious ones, far more so than that of Junius ; simply stand ing. its they do, for the mystical, ever eluding spirit of all beauty, whi<?h übiquitously possesses men of genius. Hu rely imaginative as this fancy may appear, it nevertheless seems to receive some warranty from the fact, that on a personal interview no great author has ever come up to the idea of his reader. But that dust of which our bodies are composed, how can it fitly express the nobler intelligences among us ? With reverence he it spoken, that not even in the case of one deemed more than man, not even in our Sa viour, did his visible frame betoken anything of the augustness of the na ture within. Else, how could those Jewish eyewitnesses fail to set* heaven in his glance! It is curious how a man may travel along a country road, and yet miss the grandest or sweetest of prospects by reason of an intervening hedge, so like all other hedges, as in no way to hint of the wide landscape beyond. So has it been with me concerning the enchant ing landscape in the soul of this Haw thorne, this most excellent Man of Mosses. Ilis “ Old Manse has been written now four years, hut I never read it till a day or two since. I had seen it in the book-stores —heard of to me by a tastetul in end, as a rare, quiet book, perhaps too deserving of popularity to be popular. But there are so many books called “excellent,” and so much unpopular merit, that amid the thick stir of other things, the hint of my taseful friend was disre garded ; and for four years the Mosses on the Old Manse never refreshed me with their perennial green. It may be, however, that all this while the book, likewise, was only improving in flavor and body. At any rate, it so chanced th at this long procrastination eventua- , ted in a happy result. At breakfast the other day, a mountain girl, a cousin of mine, who for the last two weeks has every morning helped me to straw berries and raspberries, which, like the roses and pearls in the fairy tale, seem ed to tall into the saucer from those strawberry-beds, her cheeks—this de lightful creature, this charming Cherry says to me —“1 see you spend your mornings in the hay-mow; and yester day I found there ‘ Dwight’s Travels in New England.’ Now I have something far better than that, something more congenial to our summer on these hills. Take these raspberries, and then i will give you some moss.” “ Moss !” said 1. “\es, and you must take it to the barn with you, and ijood-bv to ‘ Dwight.” With that she left me, and soon re turned with a volume, verdantly bound, and garnished with a curious frontis- I piece in green; nothing less than a fragment of real moss, cunningly press ed to a fly-leaf. “ Why, this,” said I, spilling my raspberries, “this is the ‘ Mosses from an Old Manse.’” “Yes,” said cousin Cherry, “ves, it is that flow ery Hawthorne.” “ Hawthorne and Mosses,” said I, “no more: it is morn ing : it is J uly in the country : and 1 am off for the barn.” Stretched on that new mown clover, the hill-side breeze blowing over me through the wide barn-door, and sooth- ed by the hum of the bees in the mea dows around, how magically stole over me this Mossy Man ! and how amply, how bountifully, did he redeem that delicious promise to his guests in the Old Manse, of whom it is written— “ Others could give them pleasure, or amusement, or instruction —these coula be picked up anywhere—but it was for me to give rest. Rest, in a life of trouble! What better could be done for weary and world-worn spirits ? What better could be done for any body, who came within our magic cir cle, than to throw the spell of a magic spirit over him So all that day, half-buried in the new clover, 1 watched this Hawthorne’s “ Assyrian dawn, and Raphian sunset and moonrise, from the summit of our Eastern Hill. The soft ravishments of the man spun me round about in a web of dreams, and when the book was closed, when the spell was over, this wizard “dis missed me with but misty reminiscen ces. as if I had been dreaming of him.” What a wild moonlight of contem ; plative humour bathes that Old Manse! —the rich and rare distilment of a spi cy and slowly-oozing heart. No rol licking rudeness, no gross fun fed on fat dinners, and bred in the lees of wine, but a humour so spiritually gentle, so high, so deep, and yet so richly relish able, that it were hardly inappropriate in au angel. It is the very religion of mirth; for nothing so human but it i may be advanced to that. The or | chard of the Old Manse seems the visi | ble type of the fine mind that has de j scribed it—those twisted and contorted i old trees, “ that stretch out their crook , ed branches, and take such hold ot the imagination, that we remember them .as humourists and odd-fellows.’ And then, as surrounded by these grotesque forms, and hushed in the noon-day re pose of this Hawthorne’s spell, how aptly might the still fall of his ruddy thoughts into your soul be symbolized by “ the thump of a great apple, in the 1 stillest afternoon, tailing without a j breath of wind, from the mere necessi ty ot perfect ripeness! Tor no less | ripe than ruddy are the apples of the thoughts and fancies in this sweet Man of Mosses— “ Buds and Bird-voices"— \\ hat a delicious thing is that! ‘’Will the world ever be so decayed, that i Spring may not renew its greenness ?” And the “Fire-Worship.” Was ever the hearth so glorified into an altar be fore l The mere title of that piece is better than any common work in fifty folio volumes. How exquisite is this: —“ Nor did it lessen-the charm of his soft, familiar courtesy and helpfulness, that the mighty spirit, were opportuni ty offered him, would run riot through the peaceful house, wrap its inmates in his terrible'embrace, and leave nothing of them save their whitened This of mad destruction on ly made his domestic kindness the more beautiful and touching. It was so sweet of him, being endowed with such power, to dwell, day after day', and one long, lonesome night after an other, on the dusky hearth, only now ; and then betraying his wild nature, by j thrusting his red tongue out of the I chimney-top ! True, he had done much mischief in the world, and was pretty certain to do more, but his w arm heart atoned for all ; He was kindly to the race of man.” But he has still other apples, not quite so ruddy, though full as ripe ; apples, that have been left to wither on the tree, after the pleasant autumn gathering is past. The sketch of “The Old Apple-Dealer” is conceived in the subtlest spirit of sadness ; he whose “subdued and nerveless boyhood pre i figured his abortive prime, w hich, like wise, contained w ithin itself the proph ecy and image of his lean and torpid age. Such touches as are in this piece j cannot proceed from any common heart. They argue such a depth of ten i demess, such a boundless sympathy with all forms of being, such an omni present love, that we must needs sav that this Hawthorne is here almost alone in his generation,—at least, in the artistic manifestation of these things. through his chapters —furnish clues whereby we enter a little way into the intricate, profound heart where they originated. And we see that suffering, i some time or other and in some shape or other, —this only can enable any man to depict it in others. All over : him, Haw thorne's melancholy rests like an lndian-summer, which, though bath j ing a whole country in one softness, still reveals the distinctive hue of every : tow ering hill and each far-w inding vale. But it is the least part of genius that attracts admiration. Where Haw thorne is known, he seems t<> be deem ed a pleasant writer, w ith a pleasant style,—a sequestered, harmless man, from whom any deep and weighty thing would hardly be anticipated—a man who means no meanings. But there is no man, in whom humour and I love, like mountain peaks, soar to such a rapt height as to receive the irradia tions of the upper skies ; —there is no man in w horn humour and love are de veloped in that high ibrm called genius; no such man can exist w ithout also pos sessing, as the indispensable comple ment of these, a great, deep intellect, which drops down into the universe like a plummet. Or, love and humour are only the eyes through which such an intellect views this world. The great beauty in such a mind is but the product of its strength. What, to all | readers, can be more charming than the piece entitled “ Monsieur du Miroir ;” and to a reader at all capable of fully j fathoming it, what, at the sarfie time, can possess more mystical depth of 1 meaning?—yes, there he sits and looks at me, —this “ shape of mystery,” this “ identical Monsieur du M iroir.” “Me thinks 1 should tremble now', were his wizard power of gliding through all im pediments in search of me, to place him suddenly before my eyes.” flow profound, nay apalling, is the moral evolved by the Earth’s Holo- caust; where—beginning with the hol low follies and affectations of the world, —all vanities and empty theories and forms are, one after another, and by an admirably graduated, growing com prehensiveness, thrown into the alle gorical fire, till, at length, nothing is lett but the all engendering heart of man; which remaining still uncon sumed,the great conflagration is naught. Os a piece with this, is the “ Intelli gence “Office, a wondrous symbolizing ; of the secret workings in men’s souls. Thereare other sketchesstill morecharg- I ed with ponderous import. “ The Christmas Banquet,” and “The Bosom Serpent,” would be line subjects for a curious and elaborate analysis, touching the conjectural parts of the mind that produced them. For spite of all the indian-summer sunlight on the hither side of Hawthorne’s soul, the other side—like the dark half of the physical sphere—is shrouded in a blackness, ten times black. But this darkness but gives more effect to the ever-moving dawn, that for ever ad vances through it, and circumnavigates his world. Whether Hawthorne has simply availed himself of this mysti cal blackness as a means to the won drous effects he makes it to produce in I his lights and shades; or whether there really lurks in him, perhaps unknown to himself, a touch of Puritanic gloom, —this, 1 cannot altogether tell. Cer