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tain it is, however, that this great pow
er of blackness in him derives its force
fro .1 its appeals to that Calvinistic
sense of Innate Depravity and Original
Sin, from whose visitations, in some
shape or other, no deeply thinking
mind is always and wholly free. For,
in certain moods, no man can weigh
this world without throwing in some
thing. somehow like Original Sin, to
strike the uneven balance. At all
events, perhaps no writer has ever
wielded this terriffie thought with great
er terror than this same harmless Haw
thorne. Still more: this black conceit
pervades him through and through.—
You may be witched by his sunlight,
—transported by the bright glidings in
the skies he builds over you ; but there
is the blackness of darkness beyond;
and even his bright glidings but fringe
and piay upon the edges of thunder
clouds/ In one word, the world is mis
taken in this Nathaniel Hawthorne.—
He himself must often have smiled at
its absurd misconception of him. He
is immeasurably deeper than the plum
met of the mere critic. For it is not
the brain that can test such a man ; it
is only the heart. You cannot come
to know greatness by inspecting it;
there is no glimpse to be caught of it,
except by intuition; you need not
ring it, you but touch it, and you find
it is gold.
Now, it is that blackness in Haw
thorne, of which I have spoken, that so
fixes and fascinates me. it may be, ne
vertheless, that it is too la i gely develop
ed in him. Perhaps he does not give us
a ray of his light for every shade of his
dark. But however this may be, this
blackness it is that furnishes the infinite
obscure of his back-ground,—that back
ground, against which Shakspeare plays
his grandest conceits, the things that
have made for Shakspeare his loftiest
but most circumscribed renown, as
the profoundest of thinkers. For by
philosophers Shakspeare is not adored
as the great man of tragedy and come
dy.—“ Od“ with his head ;so much for
Buckingham !” This sort of rant, in
terlined by another hand, brings down
the house, —those mistaken souls, who
dream of Shakspeae as a mere man of
Riehard-the-Third humps and Macbeth
daggers. But it is those deep far-away
things in him ; those occasional flash
ing s-forth of the intuitive Truth in him;
those short, quick probings at the very
axis of reality ; —these are the things
that make Shakspeare, Shakspeare. —
Through the mouths of the dark char
acters of Hamlet, Timon, Lear, and
lago, he craftily says, or sometimes in
sinuates the things which we feel to be
so terrifically true, that it were all but
madness for any good man, in his own
proper character, to utter, or even hint
of them. Tormented into desperation,
Lear, the frantic king, tears off the
mask, and speaks the same madness of
vital truth. But, as 1 before said, it is
the least part of genius that attracts ad
miration. And so, much of the blind,
u lb rid led admiration that has been heap
ed upon Shakspeare, has been lavished
upon the least part of him. And few
of his endless commentators and critics
seem to have remembered, or even per
ceived. that the immediate products of
a great mind are not so great as that
undeveloped and sometimes undeve
— ~....... Vm.ot, mimcuiaie products are
but the infallible indices, in Shaks
peare’s tomb lies infinitely more than
Shakspeare ever wrote. And if 1 mag
nify Shakspeare, it is not so much for
what he did do as for what he did not
do, or refrained from doing. For in
this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly
like a scared white doe in the wood
lands ; and only by cunning glimpses
will she reveal herself, as in Shakspeare
and other masters of the great Art of
Telling the Truth, —even though it be
covertly and by snatches.
But if this view of the all-popular
Shakspeare be seldom taken by his
readers, and if very few who extol him
have ever read him deeply, or perhaps,
only have seen him on the tricky stage
(which alone made, and is still making
him his mere mob renown) —if fen
men have time, or patience, or palate,
for the spiritual truth as it is in that
great genius;—it is then no matter of
surprise, that in a contemporaneous age,
Nathaniel Hawthorne is a man as yet
almost utterly mistaken among men.
Here and there, in some • quiet arm
chair in the noisy town, or some deep
nook among the noiseless mountains,
he may be appreciated for something of
what he is. But unlike Shakspeare,
who was forced to the contrary course
by circumstances, Hawthorne (either
irom simple disinclination, or else from
inaptitude) refrains from all the popu
larizing noise and show of broad farce
and bl ood-besmeared tragedy; content
with the still, rich utterance of a great
intellect in repose, and which sends few
thoughts into circulation, except they
be arterialized at his large warm lungs,
and expanded in his honest heart.
Nor need you fix upon that black
ness in him, if it suit you not. Nor,
indeed, will all readers discern it ; for
it is, mostly, insinuated to those who
may best understand it, and account
for it; it is not obtruded upon every
one alike.
Query for Scientific Men. —ln
what manner does a diamond act apon
glass so as to cut it ? That it does not
penetrate its substance is obvious to
any one who will attend to its opera
tions, for it only divides the exceeding
ly attenuated pellicle on the surface,
and penetrates no deeper. The best
cut of a diamond is when it makes the
least noise in passing a line, and it cuts
in the same manner the thickest as
well as the thinnest plates of glass. —
The Encyclopedia Americana says: “It
is very remarkable that only the point
I of a natural crystal can be used ; cut
or split diamonds scratch, but the glass
will not break along the scratch as it
does when the natural crystal is used.”
Again: the crack is often found to
follow the diamond after it has passed
several inches. That it does not cut
it by dividing the pellicles is clear, be
cause a piece of quart will do the same
by passing in the same line repeatedly
>et will not break true. Then how
does the diamond act ?
During the late canvass in Machigan,
a surgeon-dentist was making an ex
cellent speech in one of the interior
towns. A low fellow belonging to the
other party interrupted him with the
question, “What do you ask to pull a
tooth, doctor'?” “I win pull all your
i teet * l for a shilling, and your nose
I gratis,’ replied the speaker. *
(Original |totrtj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE VIEWLESS BATTLE-GROUND.
BY JAMES W. SPARROW.
0! fierce is the strife when armies meet
In the awful din of battle,
’Mid the rush of the squadron’s sweeping charge
And the muskets volleying rattle!
And a fearful sight is the battle-field,
When the combat all is over,
And thick, dark clouds of sulph’rous smoke
The dead and the dying cover!
When the earth is hidden with mangled men,
Murdered in legal slaughter,
And a horrid stench pollutes the air
From the blood poured out like water!
When the ground is bestrewn with heaps of
slain,
Os brother, and son, and neighbour;
With skulls dashed iu by the charger’s hoof,
Or the deadly sweep of the sabre.
But there is a strife more fearful yet,
And its consequence more solemn ;
Though it lack the sound of the bugle and drum,
And the gaudy array of the column.
It is the strife in the human heart
With the powers of good and evil,
When the soul is feebly struggling against
The crafty schemes of the Devil.
And sadder yet than the field where man
With man lias been the conflictor,
Is the thought of the viewless scene of strife
Where the tempter has been the victor.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
FAKE WILL CANZONE.
Hear!
And Fear:—
Another year,
Speeds and leaves us, Madeleine ;
We
Shall see,
Upon our tree,
What but grieves us, Madeleine !
Thou,
But now,
Upon thy brow,
Wore each blossom, Madeleine ;
1
But sigh
O’er hopes that fly,
From wearied bosom, Madeleine.
Long
The song,
With feeling strong,
Have I made thee, Madeleine ;
Vain!
The strain
But brought me pain,
And doth upbraid thee, Madeleine.
Yet,
Forget
The heart that set
Its hope upon thee, Madeleine ;
Free
For me,
Thy ears shall be—
I love, but shun thee, Madeleine.
They
Shall say,
Behold her prey :
• They shall fly thee, Madeleine;
Smile
And guile,
Will fail to wile,
Free
From thee,
I speed o’er sea,
Nor dread the billows, Madeleine ;
Thou
From now,
Upon thy brow,
Shalt wear but willows, Madeleine.
LEONTES.
Original feiujs.
.. ..
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
EGERIA:
Or, Voices from the Woods and Wayside.
NEW SERIES.
CIX.
Music. It is quite curious to know
that few poets know anything of music,
or appreciate it very highly. It is sel
dom that they understand it, and quite
as seldom that they compose or per
form it. Milton and Moore are almost
the only exceptions in the whole circle
of the British Parnassus. The vulgar
idea is that poetry and music are much
of the same nature, and that the indi
vidual possessing one must necessarily
possess the other; but this is rarely
the case. Poets know little or nothing
of music, and musicians are most gen
erally very indifferent to poetry. The
truth is, they assimilate in but one re
spect —that of harmony; and while
poetry appeals chiefly to the intellectu
al, spiritual and passionate nature, the
persuasions of music are addressed al
most wholly to the sensual. Music as
it tempers the passions and produces a
calm of the mood and the will, soothes
and prepares the way fer the moral
agencies.
cx.
Susceptibilities of Thoughts and
Things. To discover what are the sus
ceptibilities of things, is the business
of science. It is in the susceptibilities of
thoughts , as well as things , that the
poet and the philosopher find their
proper vocation.
CXI.
Justice to Children. The child, con
scious of no ill intention, and erring in
judgment only, at once withdraws his
sympathies from, and his confidence in,
the parent, as well as the tutor, who,
in their treatment of his fault, will not
discriminate justly, and recognize this
moral distinction in his conduct. We
are not only required to teach justice
to children, but to teach it in the most
impressive manner, by always dealing
with them justly.
CXIII.
Egotism. It is in the conceit and
selfishness of philosophy that the con
dition of poverty is ever preferred.—
Timon was simply a monster of egot
ism, and in his way quite as worthless
aud immoral as his sycophants. Phil
enthropy loses half the value of its
virtue denied the means of fully exer
cising it.
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
CXII.
Kind Words in Season. So that they
be in season, it matters not how sim
ple are the flowers that one gathers
from the way-side. A kind word, when
the heart needs it, is grateful, though
the grammar very bad of him who
speaks it.
CXIV.
Weapon. As long as the wit will
suffice, you should hide the weapon.
The blow is the brute argument, pro
per only when the brains fail. It is the
ass only whose first salutation is made :
by his heels.
CXY.
Gold and Silver. Gold and silver
are metals quite too heavy for us to
carry to heaven; but, in good hands,
they can be made to pave the way to it.
CXVI.
Neighbourly Help. lie is the best
help to bis neighbour who shows him
the way to help himself.
‘(E'jjc Incrrit 511 tar.
From Littell’s Living Age.
THE SOWER TO HIS SEED.
Sink, lit.le seed, in the earth’s black mould,
Sink in your grave so wet and so cold—
There must you lie;
Earth I throw over you,
Duikness mu t cover you,
Light comes not nigh.
What grief you’d tell me, if words you could
say !
What grief make known for loss of the day ;
Sadly you’d speak:
“ Lie here mutt I ever ?
Will the sunlight never
My dark grave seek ?”
Have faith, little seed ; soon yet again
Thou ’lt rise from the grave where thou art lain;
Thou ’it be so fair,
With thy green shades so light,
And thy flowers so bright,
Waving m air.
So must we sink in the earth’s black mould ;
Sink in the grave so wet and so cold:
There must we stay,
Till at last we shall see
Time turn to eiernity,
Darkness to day.
Lesson for Sunday, September 1.
THE SCRIPTURE TESTIMONY.
“The testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the I
simple.”—Psalm xix. 7.
Bishop Horne beautifully remarks
on the book of Psalms, “ The fairest
productions of human wit, after a few
perusals, like gathered flowers, wither
in our hands, and lose their fragrancy;
but these unfading plants of paradise
become, as we are accustomed to them, |
still more and more beautiful ; their i
bloom appears to be daily heightened,
fresh odours are emitted, and new
sweets are extracted from them. Con
template God’s word.
In its nature. “ The testimony of
the Lord.” Examine its contents.
It is a testimony of mans sin. Thus
it is a testimony against the human
race. Here God testifies against his
creatures for their ingratitude, rebellion,
sinfulness, and indifference.
It is a testimony of God's grace. —
The Scripture is a well of water, on the
surface of which, if you cast your eye, i
you will see reflected both the image
of God, and your own likeness. Christ
are tney which testify of me.” They
testify of glory, grace, fulness, love,
and salvation, and of the operations of
his Spirit.
It is a testimony of a future state. In
the wri ti ngs of the heat hen phi 1 (isophers,
what is there to comfort the mind in
the prospect of death, or to irradiate
the darkness of the sepulchre ? But
“ life and immortality, are brought to
light by the Gospel.” Look at God’s i
word.
In its property. “It is sure.”—
Some sayings are false, but “this is a
faithful saying;” some are not worth
listening to, but this is “worthy of all
acceptation ;” some are uncertain, but
this is “suresome though true are
trifling, but “this is life eternal.” Its
authenticity might be argued from the
character of its Author, the fulfilment j
of prophecy, and the power of religion.
Every Christian is a living witness that
“the testimony of the Lord is sure.”—
View God’s word
In its effects. “ Making wise the I
simple.” By the grace of God it en
lightens the ignorant and instructs the
simple hearted in that wisdom which is
from above.
Death of a Banker. —ln Decem
ber, 1790, died at Paris, literally of
want, Mr. Ostervald, a well known
banker. This man felt the violence of
the disease of avarice (for surely it is
rather a disease than a passion of the
mind) so strongly that, within a few |
days of his death, no importunities
could induce him to buy a few pounds
of meat, for the purpose of making a
little soup for him. “’Tis true,” said
he, “ 1 should not dislike the soup, but !
I have no appetite lor the meat; what,
then, is to become of that ?” At the
time that he refused this nourishment,
for fear ot being obliged to give away
two or three pounds of meat, there was
tied round his rieek a silken bag which
contained 800 asssignats of 1000 livres
each. At his outset in life he drank a
pint of beer, which served him for sup
per, every night at a house much fre
quented, from which he carried home
all the bottle corks he could come at:
of these, in the course of eight years,
he had collected as many as sold for
12 louis d’ors; a sum that laid the
foundation of his fortune, the super
structure of which was rapidly raised
by his uncommon success in stock-job
bing. He died possessed of 125,000/.
sterling.
The Minister’s Appeal.—A minis
ter who was called to preach probation
ally to a vacant congregation, after ser
mon was addressed by the deacon of
the church, an amiable man, as follows:
—“Sir, l should have approved your
sermon highly had you closed it w ith
out that address to sinners.” The
young preacher in reply said, “Sir, 1
cannot preach a sermon without doing
it.” He was, however, chosen pastor
of the church. Some time after, some
young persons giving an account of
their experience in order to their ad
mission, one of them, the daughter of
the said deacon, publicly declared that
the Lord had been pleased to make that
address, which her father had so con
demned, the means of her conversion.
She lived an ornament to her profes
sion, and died happy in the Lord. The
•food deacon said, he should never
more be an enemy to the free call of
the gospel.
and% itttrra.
Correspondence of the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW YORK, Aug. 24, 1850.
The horrid tragedy that took place
in Troy this week, —a man committing
the double crime of murder and sui
cide, —has not produced any strong
excitement in town, although it is said
i one of the parties in the bloody drama,
Mrs. Knapp, was well known in this
vicinity. She was a resident of Brook-
I lyn before her marriage with Knapp,
j and from all accounts had sustained an
i unblemished reputation. Her mother’s
j family still reside there, and are said
to be quite respectable. Knapp was a
printer by profession, but his health
failing, he opened a drinking saloon in
New York, where his showy and beau
tiful wife soon became the centre of
attraction. She was noticed as she
walked in the streets for the rare sym
metry of her figure, often accompanied
by her little children, who also pos
: sessed exquisite beauty. She was a
member of the Methodist Church in
Brooklyn, and though surrounded by
company in her husband’s saloon that
made no pretensions to Pharisaic vir
tue, it was not until after her elopement
with Caldwell, or Crowell, his real
name, that any suspicions were excited
against her character.
Crowell seems to hav e been a profli
gate of the worst kind. A sot, a spend
thrift, a felon in the State’s Prison, he
had recently kept his head above water
by the force of sheer impudence and a
plausible address. The homicide was
of the most deliberate character. After
making one or two ineffectual attempts
to end their lives by poison, it seems
that he cut the throats of each in ghast
ly desperation. This shocking denoue
ment of an illicit passion seems more
like the plot of a French novel than a
real event in American life. Still, a
similar incident took place in virtuous,
immaculate Boston several years since,
the daughter of a respectable family
being found dead with her lover, hav
ing committed suicide in an upper room
of her father’s store.
The execution of Prof. Webster is
jto take place next Friday, i under
stand that he has made ii full and ex-
J plicit confession of premeditated mur
der, which will be promulgated after
his death. 1 have had little doubt of
this for some time past, and feel sure
j that it will prove, as 1 have before inti
mated to vou. that Webster was driven
to a certain quasi monomania by the
urgency of his grim, importunate ere
: ditor.
The fancy ball at Saratoga came off
on Wednesday night, with somewhat
less than its usual eclat. Coming at
the young guests.were too much fagged
for such elaborate artistic gayety. A
! grand break-up is the next thing at
I Saratoga, and the shining birds of pas
sage are already on the wing. The
town here is more thickly crammed
i than ever, every place in the principal
hotels being secured for days before
’ hand.
The Trade Sales of Cooley & lveese
are now in full blast. Witty John
Keese, whose fame as a valuble auction
eer is known the country round, keeps
his large audience in a state of over
flowing good humour. lie has handled
an enormous quantity of good books
in his day, and with a great talent for
curt, spicy, off-hand criticisms, he makes
about as many good hits with his tongue
as with his hammer.
The Regular Fall Sale of Bangs &
Brother is announced for the second
week in September, and will attract an
immense gathering of the Trade. The
catalogue comprises the most exten
sive collection of books ever offered for
sale in this city. Among them, are
many of the most popular books of the
season, issued by the largest houses in
1 the country. The invoices embrace the
; valuable legal publications of Little &
Brown, Johnson & Cos., and others—
the fine list of school-books published
by Barnes & Co.—and the rich miscel
| laneous assortments of the Harpers,
Putnam, Thomas & Coperthwaite,
Lea & Blanchard, Phillips, Sampson &
Cos., and other bibliopoles m all the
great cities.
The September Magazines are out in !
full feathers. 1 will not attempt to say i
w hich takes the highest flight. 1 notice
in one of them an article on the Loves
of Goethe—a subject which most la
dies would think the less said about
the better—but it is here treated with
graceful skill by Talvi, whose agile pen
glides over the weak places of the
theme with admirable dexterity.
This reminds me of Parke God
win’s preface to the second edition of
his translation of Goethe’s Autobiogra
phy, just issued by Putnam, in which
he describes the curious piracy which
was committed on the work by some
hungry English literateur. After al
luding to the American translation as
too imperfect to suit his purposes, he
proceeds to appropriate it bodily, copy !
ing even its typographical errors. This |
adding of injury to insult is very justly j
complained of by Godwin, who would i
have been content if they had merely
stolen his labours without seeking to
brand them with a bad name. You
are aware that this is one of the best
translations that have been made from
German into English, Godw r in not
only bringing to it the resources of his
own fine scholarship, but availing him
self, in portions of the w'ork. of the aid
of C. A. Dana and J. S. Dwight, w T hose
rare skill in both languages is well
known to the cultivators of foreign
literature in this country.
You will have read before this time
the new novel by the author of Kaloo
lah, called “The Berber,” and I think
you will agree with me in regarding it
as a work of more than ordinary tal
ent, though a good deal tamed down
from the high horse on which he rides
through his narrative in Kaloolah. In
my opinion, the volume depends for its
interest less on the brilliancy of its de
scription than on its insight into char
acter. Its personages are kept quite
distinct, and leave a powerful impres
sion of individuality on the reader.
The Harpers will publish in a day or
two, an elaborate and important work
on the English Language, by Professor
Fowler, late of Amherst College. Mr.
Fowler married a daughter of Noah
Webster, and appears to have been in
oculated with the taste of his philologi
cal father-in-law. He has devoted many
years to its preparation, and from some
sheets of it that 1 have been permitted
to examine as it is going through the
press, have no doubt that it will be a
valuable contribution to the philosophy
of language. He goes into a minute
consideration of the niceties and diffi
culties of construction, which make the
writing of good English like trdading
on eggs, and endeavour in each case to
trace the principle involved to its foun
tain-head. His work will be well
adapted for college study, while, at the
same time, the most advanced scholars
may find in it something for their ben
efit as well as their entertainment. 1
have often wondered that when so
much stress is laid on the ancient clas
sics, in our higher seats of education,
scarcely any attention is paid to a
| critical study of the vernacular —alan-
i guage, certainly, which, both for its
construction and its literature, deserves
the most assiduous attention of the
scholar. Prof. Fowler’s work will have
the effect of creating anew interest in
the subject, and will tend to popularize
a study which has been almost con
fined to a small number of critics and
j amateurs.
I see that Tieknor&Go. have brought
| oyt a neat edition of the Confessions
lof an Opium Eater, by De Quincy,
i containing the recent supplementary
j portions of the last English issues.
The Prelude, Wordsworth’s great
| autobiographical poem, is published by
the Appletons, before the ink was
hardly dry on the English copies. It
! will not disappoint the admirers of
I Wordsworth, nor is it suited to gain
; converts to his peculiar school of poe-
I try. For my own part, leaving out
, the intense self-consciousness which
/ . . . . . ....
Hamlet with the Prince of Denmark
omitted,) I will acknowledge the plea
sure 1 have received from its perusal.
It is a concentration of the essential
; characteristics of Wordsworth’s poetry.
! You have the same frank, cordial,
homely narrative, in which he so much
I delights, returned at no distant inter
; valsby flashes of inspiration and traits
I of exquisite tenderness and beauty. —
Such a record of self-introspection, con
tinued for so many years, is actually
without a parallel in the history of lite
j rature.
The International Miscellany pub
| lished by Stringer & Townsend, is to
|be converted into a monthly. Mr. R.
W. G riswold is understood to be its
principal editor. The same house an
| nounce a translation of George Sand’s
j Memoirs, by Fayette Robinson.
The popular and enterprising firm of
Baker & Scribner will shortly issue a
new book by N. P. Willis, quaintly
entitled “Life Here and There, or
! Sketches of Society and Adventure at
far apart times and places;’” a History
of the Revolution, by Mrs. Ellett, and
; anew novel by the spirited author of
“Talbot and Vernon.” T.
I d&lintjata of jffntt ‘Bunks.
GRAPHIC SCENES.
From -'The Berber,” by William Starbuck Mayo M. D.
just published by Putnam, New York.
THE TWO MAIDENS.
Near the banks of the Guadalete, and
not far from the shore, where by seve
ral mouths the shallow stream pours
j its waters into the beautiful bay of Ca
diz, stood, some hundred and fifty
[ years since, the quinta or casa di cam
p<> of Don Pedro de -Estivan. The
building itself was one of but little pre
tension, either as to size or architectu
ral merit; but the grounds were ex
tensive—stretching* with a magnificent
sweep, from the suburbs of Puerto
Santo Maria down to the shore of the
bay —the terraced gardens overlooking
the rippling surf, being separated from
the beach by a rampart merely of
large stones, surmounted by a marble
balustrade.
It was upon this balustrade—at the
close of one of those glowing but cool
and balmy summer days, for which the
climate of Andalusia is so famous—
that a lady leaned, gazing with pensive
air upon the golden waters. Her dark
eyes, bordered by long lashes and sha
dowed by jetty brows arched and sharp
ly defined, floated in lustrous languor
over the glorious scene. Her black
hair was arranged in festoons and se
cured by a large comb of tortoise shell
and gold. One jewelled hand con
fined the folds of her mantilla beneath
her chin, the other, holding the closed
fan rested in careless grace upon the
marble. Her foot —that tiny, plump,
playful foot, for which the Gaditana
ever has been, and ever will be, world
renowned—was partially revealed from
beneath the drapery of her basquina,
as it was raised upon the narrow ban
quette of the balustrade. Her form
was of the medium height, and al
though well rounded and full, was far
from, being heavy. Her attitude was
one of pertect repose; but there was
a wavy undulatory air about it de
licious in itself, but perfectly enchant
ing in its promise of mobile grace. It
seemed as if the very atmosphere was
anxious to anticipate her will, and
held itself in conscious readiness to
yield to the slightest indication of mo
tion.
Oh ! it was a beautiful picture, —that
fair, young Spanish girl as she stood
thus leaning on the marble, beneath a
canopy ot vines, and gazing with pen
sive mien upon the sandy beach, the
rippling water, and in the distance the
glittering walls and towers of the re
oO ( t
nowned city of Hercules, rising from
out the bosom of the ocean. It was a
beautiful picture as she stood thus gaz
ing at the numerous lateen craft that
dotted the surface of the bay, the tall
galleons and men-of-warof the Caraca
and the inner roadstead, the numerous
sails that crowded the seaward passage
between Rota and Point Sabastian, and, 1
in particular, one small boat, rowed by !
a single oarsman, that for an hour and
more had been slowly approaching the I
bar of the Guadalete.
******
A young girl rose from a pile of cush
ions in a corner of the parapet sur
rounding the flat roof of a house that
-stood within a few steps of the vast in
closure designated as the “ Palace of
the Sultan.” With a gesture of impa
tience she tossed the guitar upon which
she had been playing from her, and
leaned upon an angle of the railing that j
encircled the square court. Her figure, j
tali and light, but well rounded, was j
finely set off by a tightly fitting caftan |
or vest of green velvet worked with |
gold thread, from beneath which fell a i
short skirt of linen. Her arms were j
bare nearly to the shoulder, save three
or four bracelets of emeralds and pearls, j
Around each delicate and nicely turned
ankle, the proportions of which were
unconcealed by other covering, there
were clasped broad anklets of massive
silver. Her feet were thrust careless-1
ly into wide slippers of w’orked cordo- i
van, from which at times they were j
half withdrawn, as if to afford a glimpse
of what they would have been in the
nicely fitting shoe of the Gaditana. Her
hair was braided and secured by a ban
deau of silk and gold. Her eyes, dark
and lustrous as hers of Cadiz, were re
lieved by even longer lashes and a
more finely drawn eyebow. A con
tinuation of the eyebrow, however, by
a dark line drawn in a curve upon the
temples, would have produced upon a
Christian eye a somewhat questionable
effect, and in conjunction with a bril
liant circle of red paint upon either
cheek would, perhaps, have detracted
slightly from the influence of a broad,
smooth brow, a delicate aquiline nose,
a mouth small and of exquisite shape,
and of capabilities fully corresponding
to the eye in the way of passion and
affection, and a chin deeply dimpled
and curved to the most perfect oval.
‘Hie maiden gazes for a moment
down into the court below, where seve
ral female slaves are hurrying to and
fro, scolding and jostling each other as
they proceed in their preparations for
the evening meal. Her short pouting
‘ lip curls with an expression of contempt,
* - tjc onwtfjs dci ilic
bi •oad scene—the wide expanse of white
washed roofs, from which tower up the
glittering minarets of the mosques—
the lofty peaks and broad slopes of the
Atlas, until reaching the north it be
comes fixed iz. vacancy. Suddenly an
expression of sternness comes over
those delicate features, and then a sigh
undulates the palpitating outline of her
bosom. The maiden is dreaming of
the traditionary glories of Andalusia.
In fancy she visits the house of her an
cestors ; the very key of which, pre
served with reverential care, hangs in
the court below. The halls and fount
ains of the Alhambra rise upon her
imagination ; she sees the battle-field
by the banks of the Guadalete, where
base Roderick yielded up his kingdom
to the fiery valour of Tarik and his
followers ; she sees the gardens of Se
ville, and the mosques, and palaces, and
bridges, and Laths of Cordova and To
ledo, and soft, sunny Xerez; she hears
the mingled sounds of the tournament
and the bull-fight—the shouts of the
populace—the tramp of the war-steed
—the clangor of drum and cymbal,
and the clash of buckler and spear.—
She hears the soft tones of rebec and
guitar mingled with the sound of joy
ous voices, —and oh! how her heart
swells, and her form dilates, and her
eye flashes, as she catches the st rains of
an old ballad:
“ Rise up ! Rise up, Xaripha!
Lay your golden cushion down ;
Rise up! come to the window,
And gaze with all the town.
From gay guitar and violin
The silver notes are flowing,
And the lovely lute doth speak between
The trumpets lordly blowing :
And banners bright, front lattice light.
Are waving everywhere,
And the tall plume of Andallah
Floats proudly in the air.”
Oh, it was a beautiful picture ! as
she stood thus gazing and dreaming—
that fair, young Moorish maiden, with
her passionate eye and quivering lip—
it was a beautiful picture; but what
has it to do with the similar picture of
the lovely Gaditana on the shore of the
bay of Cadiz 1 Much —much that
neither of those graceful beings could
have dreamed of at the time, as they
stood thus unknown to each other, ig
norant of each other’s existence even,
but intimately connected in the com
mingling destinies of their future lives.
A PERILOUS EXPLOIT.
It was just at this moment that there
occurred a slight pause in the game.—
The e \ es_of the soltan. and those of
his attendants rolling in sycophantic
sympathy with his, were turned aside
in the and rection of the lower end of the
lists. Suddenly a single horseman
sprang into the open place in front of
a party who were preparing to start.
No one could tell whence or how he
came-; and no time did the stranger
give them for question or salutation.—
The beauty and spirit of the horse*—a
tall jet black barb—and the graceful
ease of the rider, excited at the first
glance a glow of admiration.
“ Ha—ha ! Boroon !” exclaimed the
horseman, at the same moment slip
ping his feet, which were unencumber
ed with spurs, from the broad sharp
cornered stirrups, and springing erect
to the saddle. The gallant barb at the
word sprang forward as if a thousand
spurs goading him. Firmly and
gracefully his rider stood ; one foot on
the saddle, the other extended in the
air ; his left hand grasping the rein, his
right raised aloft, with his polished mus
ket twirling horizontally by the mere
motion of the fingers, and so rapidly
that it presented the appearance of a
wheel.
As the head of the barb came on a
line with the imperial carpet, his course
was instantaneously arrested. So sud
den and so complete was the check that
he did not even pass the carpet, but
sliding along a few feet with his haunch
es to the ground, brought his rider
right abreast of the soltan. The horse
man leaped lightly from the crouching
steed, and bending down touched the
edge of the carpet, put his hand to his
lips, and instantly sprung back with his
feet to the saddle, when he stood erect
for a moment, and then quietly sank
to his seat, wheeled his horse and leisure
ly walked him back to the end of the
•/
course.
Sixty thousand voices rent the air
with a simultaneous shout of applause.
Never had such a course been run in
! Morocco. Never before had such a
position been assumed with such bold
; ness, or maintained with such firmness
! and grace, or finished with such precis
ion and agility. Muley Ismael straight- |
ened himself up—glanced at the French
ambassador and his suite, grinned gra
ciously upon his attendants, and allow
ed several expressions of commenda
tion to escape him. “Excellent! Won
derful! Well done! Thank God there
is one man here to-day who knows how
to ride !”
The deliberate pace at which the
| horseman returned to the starting place,
; afforded all eyes a good opportunity of
scanning his dress and person. As to
j his features, they were nearly eonceal-
I ed by the ends of his turban, which
: with apparent carelessness were allow
i ed to hang down on each side of his
i face ; but no outer garment concealed
the proportions of his fine figure. A
close-fitting caftan, or vest, of red cloth,
over a shirt of linen, and a pair of short
wide white linen trousers, set off and re
j vealed his light but muscular form to
j the best advantage.
But not less worthy of admiration
was the horse than the rider, particu
larly to judges of the animal, of whom
there were not a few on the ground. —
The fine points of Boroon were noted
and eagerly commented upon. Hisjet
black skin, immaculate from colour,ex
cept where his wide expanded nostrils
exposed a delicate circle of pink. His
but long head, gracefully placed
at the end of a tapering. tendinous, and
slightly arched neck ; his height—near
ly sixteen hands; his broad chest; his
oblique muscular shoulders; his fine
sinewy legs ; long withy pastern, and
the huge veins, lying just beneath the
skin, and showing that a large part of
his circulation was carried on over the
surface, and, therefore, not liable to be
hurried by the compression of contract
ing muscles; together with twenty oth
er marks and points of mere fanciful
significance, were loudly indicated by
the excited crowd, as with loosened
rein, hanging head, and a composed
step, he bore his master back to the
starting point.
Not a look did the latter bestow
upon the multitude. His whole atten
tion seemed given to his horse. Lean
ing lorwaru fie parted ms neck, pulled
his ears, and caressed him in a variety
of ways, at the same time addressing to
him, in a low tone, words of the most
affectionate endearment,
“Oh ! Boroon!” he exclaimed.—
“Son of the .Beautiful! Breath of the
east wind ! Be true to me to-day—fail
me not for great is my strait, and sore
would be my trouble, did I not depend
upon thee ! Quietly, Boroon ! —save
thy courage for the time of need—it is
at hand. Oh ! Boroon ! fail me not,
and her hand shall caress thee—her voice
shall cheer thee ! I swear it, son of the
Beautiful!”
Baroon replied to his master’s words
yvith an expansion of the nostrils, and
a low snuffle of delight; but he raised
not his head, nor altered his gait, until
he wheeled with his head pointing up
the lists. Then indeed his whole man
ner changed. His head was erect, his
eyes flashed fire, his breath was blown
from his nostrils with a furious snort
of impatience, the foam flew from his
mouth, and every muscle quivered with
excitement; but still he stirred not.
The shouts and exclamations subsid
ed —a deep silence prevailed throughout
the multitude.
“ Ha—ha ! Boroon !” exclaimed his
master, and with a spring, light, as that
wild eat, the fiery animal started.
W ith a loud shout the horseman toss
ed his musket high in the air, caught it
as it descended, and instantly stooping
from his saddle, placed it upon the
ground. As he rose, he bent down
again on the othei side, touching the
ground with his left hand. Again ris
ing, he descended to the right, and so
on alternately, a dozen times, in rapid
succession, each time grasping the soil,
and scattering it in the faces of the near
est soldiers. Arrived at the soltan’s
carpet, he cheeked his steed again with
in a few feet of the edge—recovered
him the next instant, and then forcing
him into a series of lofty croupades and
curvets marked with the sharp corner
of his wide shovel-shaped stirrup-iron
the initials of the soltan’s name.
There was an instant’s pause, and
then such a shout went up as had never
before echoed over the plain of El
Sakel. Muley Ismael smiled, and again
applauded; the royal attendants were
of course vociferous, and swelled with
their voices the roar of the soldiers and
the populace. Even the sleepy little
Muley Abderrhaman sprang to his feet
at the front of the carpet, and joined his
childish cries to the rest. The letters
were large, and scored roughly on the
smooth shining flanks of Boroon, were
visible to all except the more distant
spectators in the field.
Once more all sounds were hushed.
The horses, even, seemed to partake of
the sensat.on, and ceased their champ
ing and pawing. Again the strange
horseman commenced a career, but not
with the same reckless impetuosity.—
It was observed that his steed, although
plunging furiously, was kept well in
hand, and all eyes followed, with in
tense interest, his every movement. —
He passed his gun without stopping to
pick it up. What could he be going
to do ? Silence !—hush !—not a whisp
er ! His horse swerved violently from
side to side. Expectation was excited
to the utmost. He was evidently pre
paring for something desperate. Some
daring feat; and novel too, thought the
crowd ; else why move so slowly ? and
why such an air of preparation ? The
course was almost finished. He w a
nearly abreast of the seat of the soltaT
when suddenly his horse swerved vio ‘
lently to one side, bringing his hoofs on
to the very edge of the imperial carpet ?
At this moment it was observed that I
the horseman held a paper, which, bow
ing himself from his saddle, he threw
into the lap of Muley Ismael. At ti.
same instant, with a rapid sweep ofhi, I
’ arm, he seized the young Muley A
derrhaman. Clutching the child 1, V ‘ I
the clothes, the horseman swung hin j
to his saddle-bow; growling, while bend
ing over him in the act, almos* in tL jf
ears of the astonished father, in the de. t,
guttural of the Arabic.
“ Look to the paper, and when you
want him, send to Casbin Subahf’”
Wheeling his horse short round, th,-
Berber leaped a corner of the rova
carpet, knocking over one of the urn
brella bearers, and dashing through the
shrinking slaves in the rear of the so].
tan. In a moment he was at the banks
of the shallow stream, down which his
steed scrambled with cat-like agilitv
A few jumps cleared the narrow bed - |
: and then, breasting him by main force I
i through a thicket of oleanders, the oth- 5
er bank was gained, and the gallant
animal, with loosened rein, was skim,
ming the plain in the direction of the
hills, with a stride as steady, and al
most as rapid as the sweep of an eagle.
For a few minutes the soltan, his of
ficers, and slaves, were lost in astonish
ment. Stupified at the audacity of the |
act, they stood as if doubting the evi
dence of their senses. In sixty thou- f
sand minds arose, simultaneously, an t
idea of djins, or of Ebliss himself. The ’
soltan was the first to .recover himself.
He knew that the daring rider was n<> -
djin, and he bounded to his feet con- i
vulsed with rage and fear.
It is impossible to describe fully the
scene of confusion that followed. The 1
whole field was in commotion. Troop *
pressed upon troop. The masses sway
ed backward and forward, and orders,
execrations and cries of pain made a
terrible chorus with the stamping and
snorting of steeds, and the clashing of
muskets and sabres. Muley Ismael,
crazy with passion, drew his eimeter, ,
and for a moment laid about him in
every direction. He voieiferated for
his horse ; tore his beard; dashed his
turban to the ground, and shouted like
one possessed, his orders for instant
pursuit.
The very ardor of the troops prv- j
vented these orders from being early
obeyed, and before the masses of caval
ry could extricate themselves from the
confusion, into which they had been i
thrown by the effort of all to be first
in the chase, the Berber had been able
to gain a start of more than a mile. |
At length the Moors and blacks got P
under way. The little stream was
something of an obstacle, but at various
points it was quickly overcome. Over
it poured the excited crowd, until more
than thirty thousand horse thundered
over the plain, gradually extending
themselves in long lines, as the relative |
difference in the speed of their horses I
began to exhibit itself.
Soon those who lagged the most he- |
gan to rein up, until ere two leagues I
had been passed the body of the pur
suers was reduced to a few score of the
tiesst mounted, whose pure blooded
thorough-bred steeds enabled them to
keep together, and also to slowly, but
certainly gain upon the Berber, whose
horse laboured under the terrible dis
advantage of the additional weight of
the child.
ATHENS.
“We landed in the Piraeus,” says
the Hon. George Keppel, a recent tra
veller in the East, “early in the morn
ing, a part y of nineteen from the ship, j
We shortly afterwards entered the ,
gates, which were guarded by regular j
Turkish troops, and proceeded to visit
the Bey, who lived in a house wretched
enough, but the best in the town, dhe
first object that met our view in the
court yard was the head of a Greek,
hanging up by its long hair. By the
appearance of the features, and the
slightness of the moustache, it wasthad
of a very young man. We partook of
pipes, coffee, and sweetmeats, and of
fered in return that without which we
should have been most unwelcome
visitors—a hamper containing six bot
tles of rum. The visit of ceremony
performed, we went over the ruins.—
Ancient Athens has survived its suc
cessor; the pillars of majestic temples
still stand, while shapeless heaps are j
nearly the only indications of the mo
dern town. With the exception of the
Turkish garrison, a few squalid looking
Greeks, who cultivated the fields in the
vicinity of the town, were the only
population to be seen. After we had
visited every thing worthy of notice j
within the w alls, we went outside to
see the superb temple of Adrian, walk
ing in perfect ease and security between |
the Turkish garrison on our right hand. ,
and the Greek army, who were in pos- j
sessien of the heights, at no great dis
tance, on our left.”
How TO LIGHT ALL THE G.\S LaMPS
in a Town at once. —The Paris cor
respondent of the London Timex says:
“ A rapid and scientific mode of light- >
ing and extinguishing public gas burn
ers has been invented by a person
named Nillatte. The opening ot the
burner of each lamp is covered with a
piece of soft iron, mounted upon a
hinge. In connection with this is a
wire extending from a galvanic batteiy
the entire length of the service of the
gas lamps, and close to the orifice uI
each burner is a small slip ot platina.
The soft iron, becoming a magnet wb
acted upon by the electric fluid, ope 1 '’
or closes the orifice according to t n
motion imparted to it; the platina u.
nites when it is necessary to light 11<
lamps, and thus every lamp i a ‘ al -“ e
town may be lighted simultaneous A
or extinguished in the same way, . I
a different action on this magnetize L
iron.”
Electro Magnetic Engine-"’ |
Baltimore Patriot states that - ‘•
11. Tatum, who has been
several months past in Baltin™' 4 I
strueting an Engine to be prop l “ ,*
Electro Magnetism, has triunip • I
succeeded. A number ot _ t
had the pleasure of seeing “ \f r . I
tion and were highly gratifies ■ V
Tatum will very soon make a P u .
exhibition of his Machinery, * el t
expects to demonstrate its powe
be from 8 to 12 horse capacity.
enterprising Inventor has securer
privilege to patent this wondeitu
vention.