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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.