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BDOTIEII HHIKAIT ffiMint TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. iViginnl for the Southern Literary Gazette. the grandmother. mOM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. Wake ’ mother of our mother, sleepeA thou ? In thy soft sleep before, thy mouth moved ever; ,r, like a prayer thy slumber seemed: but now, ■ o jj a . thine own Madonna’s marble brow, Thy lips are mute as her’s—thy breath comes never! Why dost thou bend thy head so low 1 Have WP pout wrong, that thou no more wilt heed our sigh ? L sink? the lamp ; the sparkling hearth, oh see! | iou no more wiit speak, the light will dee, “he tire itself consume, and we too d.e! There, dead beside thv hearth, thou’lt find us pale ; J, children deaf, in turn, to thy low wail: 1 , 4 t wilt thou say, then, in thy wild alarms, |, n long, in vain, thou’st press’d 11s in thine arms ? Show us the pictures of the holy child, 1.. golden heavens,the kneeling saintsso blue; l l lir manger,oxen, and the magians mild ; Li let ns read those latin pages too, Inch speak to G"<l in prayer for us and you. ||other ’ Alas! alas! The fire sinks low ; line joyous lights dance faint around the | stone: I -hadows, in tile cottage, come and go— I Wake from thy sleep ! Thou art the only one 1” j'< calm our tears! Oh, cease to pray alone! “Thou ha.-t told us of a beautiful region, where heaven—the grave—of life—like | so quickly fled'—of death. Is our despair I sc heath ! Alas! thou answ’rest not our ! cries!'” lus. lung, with bitter sobs, their grief was said, g dawn crept in—it wakened not the dead. I fine I’un'ral knell toll'd on the sighing breeze; And those who passed saw that sad even tide, I Beiore tlie holy book—the couch beside, fwe children lone, who prayed on bended knees. ROSE DU SUD. | lnrhston, August 24, 1850. Fertile Southern Literary Gazette. STANZAS. i. I If 1 turn mine eyes to thee, if to thee my steps incline, I frown not at my loyalty, ‘Tin, alas! no fault of mine. 11. Thou hast heard in Eastern song, 01 a spell that charms the sight— Leads the soul in heedless wrong, ‘Till its hopes are cross’d by blight! uu They have told of subtlest pow’r, Lurking in eye, Which, in heedless, hapless hour, Lures the wanderer on to die. IV. Ah 1 such cruel fate is mine, And the magic dwells in thee, Thou hast, with that eye of thine, Wrought the spell that ‘wilders me. v. Thus 1 follow where thou art, A hit a fatal, sad mischance ; M Oman's weakness in my heart, Woman’s fondness in my glance. vr. I Vs thou hast the serpent’s spell, Thus to charm the sense astray— ■lf my worship be not well, I Ise his deadly power to slay. CUrleston. S. C. liTljr ffarti (T’rlltr. from the London Literary Gazette. IIEGIPSEY GIRL; |\!.i: OF EDWARD THE FOURTH. I polished stairs, and along the I “ a, l “t Moorland, laden withflow ■'"unded a light and graceful figure. B’ :| igatthe oaken door of a turretted I 1 - Leonora Estrange tapped ILtening with bent head while l 'k*‘d. Hut moment after mo e"t by, and still the silence re unbroken. At last, opening the e °nora entered. ootu was filled with a faint gold us the sunbeams shone through utniitous folds of the draped • With one glance at the couch, which the crimson hangings il Buttering with the motion of “ng door, she advanced to a Lie. upon which stood an empty tilling this from a crystal gob bating herself, she began slow range her fragrant burthen. L nn hour passed ere she had fvd her pleasing task ; then, as -lied the last drooping leat trom !1, -r, she arose, and crossing to gathered back the silken cur bJ laid her hand gently upon w °f the youthful sleeper, say a low, sweet voice, “Sleeping ;ir lady, and the morning sun full i’ old r $ Leonora! dear Leonora, is it “mi-mured the half-awakened 1 must indeed have been weary s ' e pt thus.” And rising, she 1 “nisiin mantle around her, and lll g"idly into a cushioned chair. !° bent over the beautiful blos a murmur of delight as she uieir glossy leaves, and drew A ‘1 rose, tremulous with dew, ‘'ml it to her lips. eil, . v the hand that was busy I' 1 “ (, blen curls trembled violent -■eonora bent low, to hide the ’ “"biur of her cheeks, and the I i°g of her eyes. Udy Clare saw not the passion- ! 1 flitted across the beautiful ll ' r companion, for it had passed le looked up. “"-hour afterwards there arose ’ notes of a bugle, followed by ‘thin the paved court beneath 1 window. Soon the quick clat a Worse’s hoof was heard. A a rami wuMMi. mmw to wmms. mt Am am scmbs, am to smmi. taint colour came to the delicate cheeks ot the Lady Clare, and a warm smile to her lips, as site fastened the last fold of her riding-habit. She received her cap and plume trom the hand of Leono- Ira, but the feather was vibrating as if a sudden gust of wind had swept through i the open window ; and yet there was I not air enough a-tir to have lifted a leaf. As the Lady Clare touched the hand of j Leonora, it was icy cold. A shade of uneasiness overspread her placid fea tures as she said, kindly, “You are not well, dearest Leonora.” Hut the girl shook her head with a j faint smile, and turned away. The next moment the curtain was gathered back with a quick, eager motion, and Leonora,hall-enveloped within its folds, stood gazing down upon the group be i low. Hut not upon the proud steed, 1 the beautiful little pony, nor the gaily dressed grooms did she look. Her eyes were fixed upon the tall and grace ful figure ot a cavalier of some two and-twenty summers, who wore, with an air of indescribable grace, his sim ple riding-dress of Lincoln green. He. stood leaning carelessly against the wall which surrounded the ancient dwelling, halt castle, halt hall. The sable plumes of his hat, drooping low over his brow, concealed the upper portion of his face, leaving but the Grecian nose, and the chiselled lip, shaded by the dark ches nut moustache, exposed. Once or twice lie struck his spurred boot upon the stones beneath, with a vehemence that brought the drooping forms of the indolent grooms quickly erect, and oc casionally he pressed his hand upon his brow, as it some dark and troubled thoughts were crossing his reveries.— Suddenly there was astir, and the pony raised its head. At this Lord Francis Clairmont looked quickly up, for such was the name of the cavalier, and be held the Lady Clare, who came forth leaning upon the arm of her only sur viving parent, the old Earl of Moor land. A pleasant smile parted the lips of the lovely girl, a bright colour came to her cheek, as taking her hand the young lord bent low', saluting her with the graceful yet high-flown compliments of the day. The hand of Leonora was clenched as in sudden pain, while her dark eyes filled with a flashing light as she 1 teheld the graceful form of Lord Clairmont bend to the childlike being before him. The next moment, and Clairmont, having lifted the Lady Clare to the saddle, sprang into his own, while the whole party rode slowly forth. Scarcely, however, had they cleared the little bridge which separated the castle from the open country, when Lord Clairmont drew in his rein, and with a brief excuse, wheeled his horse to return. Riding quickly as he re crossed the bridge, he raised his eyes and beheld the white cheek and flashing glance of Leonora Estrange. Then a soft, winning smile flitted across his countenance; and her cold cheek grew warm, her eye lost its wild light, as she met the glance of those eyes, so large, so dark, yet so smiling in their beauty. For a moment they rested upon her; then there was a quick wave of his hand, as it raised his hat, falling im pressively on his heart. When he again rode forth with a light and easy seat, Leonora, though she watched him until lost in the di tance, grieved no more; but an expression of radiant happiness dwelt on her face. It was the evening of the same day, when Leonora might have been seen standing erect on a steep hill, with her eager gaze bent upon the muffled figure that came hurriedly up the ascent to wards her. The wild breeze of a com ing tempest swept through the dim forest, which lay like the background of some fine painting behind her. Far away in the distance, rose the grey tur rets of Moorland. She had stolen out, heedless of the lowering clouds, to meet the betrothed of Lady Clare, the young Lord Francis of Clairmont. Soon he gained her side, and placing one arm around her waist, he drew her yet deeper within the shade of the tall trees, whispering, “My own Leonora, have you come out this wild, dark night to meet me ?” He spoke in a voice of such fervent love and happiness, that the glowing cheek of the girl took a yet deeper hue. More than one hour passed, and still the young nobleman held the beautiful girl to his side, reiterating vows of pas sionate eloquence and unchanging love, both he and she forgetful of the dark clouds flying wildly athwart the blue sky, and the low inutterings of the dis tant, thunder. Suddenly there was a flash of lightning, followed by a crash, as if the heavens were rent in twain. It startled the young girl from her dream of happiness; it hushed the warm words upon the lover’s lips. Clairmont said hastily, “ Leonora, my beloved, let us hasten away ere the storm breaks. I will go with you to the castle gates ; none will recognize me in the increasing darkness. Come, dearest, lean upon me. Surely you will not fear, when Francis is with you. Would to God,” he continued, “1 might protect thee from the storms of life, as 1 may from the winds of Heaven!” “ First, listen to me, ere 1 go hence, Francis,” said his companion. “Be fore Leonora Estrange again leaves you, she must know if, evermore, like a guilty thing, she is to steal forth from yonder proud castle, treacherously to meet the affiianced of her generous benefactress. Oh ! Francis,” she add ed, passionately, “if you knew how bitter it is to look upon what she deems her privileged love for you ; to see her gttze and smile upon you as il the right alone to her belonged ; to hear her, day by day, speak ot you to me as her future husband, and press the very flow ers which thou hast given to me to her lips, murmuring fund and loving words, while 1 must stand coldly by.” “And does she indeed think of me thus ?” he replied, half aloud. “She is very lovely.” The hand that rested within his own was quickly withdrawn ; and ere the ull consciousness of his error came over him, his companion was speaking with an air and voice of more than queenly hauteur. “My Lord, the La dy Clare’s thoughts are doubtless often occupied with her betrothed. He will do well to think of her beauty and gentleness, forgetting,” she added, bit terly, “ her humble companion. It is not too late, my lord, to retrieve your error.” Lora moment he stood gazing upon her with astonishment, as she stood be fore him, her chiselled features glowing with excitement,her graceful head erect. 1 hen there mingled with his expression ot admiration a touching sadness. “Le onora, Leonora,” he said, in a low, mournful voice. 1 lie next moment she was weeping upon his bosom, murmuring, “Forgive me, Francis. It is but my love for you that makes me so wild and way ward.” - • lie spoke not but drew her arm gent ly within his own, hurrying her down the steep hill. Darker grew the night; and, with the fall of the fast descend ing rain, lie whispered, “ Are you not weary, Leonora ?” Her bl ight face was raised to his, as her sweet voice answered, “Was I not cradled within the forest ? What fears the gipsy girl when the loved one is beside her V Perhaps it was well that the darkness hid the shadow tnat cross- ; ed the young lord’s brow as she spoke; but it passed away, and they hastened on. “She shall be my own acknowledg ed wife, my fearless Leonora,” mur mured Clairmont, as he parted with her, for he felt that he had now a treasure, priceless indeed. Hut as he spoke he forgot the Lady Clare ; yet, at that mo- j nient, within her silent chamber, the heiress of Moorland was bedewing the i lading flowers before her with tears of j love and joy, guarding them as tokens 1 of his affection. Softly through hall and cotttage, amid joy and sorrow, sighed the low musical voice ot summer. Ruffling the blue waters of the Thames as it glided on amid the city bustle, with a soft and gentle sigli it lifted the droop ing curtains of a silent chamber, and murmured within the dying ear of the good old earl of Clairmont nature’s last farewell. “Francis,’ he said, faintly, “put back the curtains ; I would again look out upon the blue sky, the loveliness ot nature, ere I go hence.” Ihe son, obeying his bidding, again knelt beside him, pressing his lips to the cold hand clasping his own. Again the old man’s lips parted, and he mur “ l.uiii; I'lui'o l” r rom within the shadow ot the cur tains, w hich were gathered and twisted around the richly-carved posts, stepped forth, with pallid cheeks and tearful eyes, the heiress of Moorland. A change had come over her since we saw her last. Her young lip had lost its sunny smile,and her blue eye its bright ness. Sorrow and suffering had come to her, the favoured child of prosperity. The mourning robes, clinging to her fragile form, spoke of death, and told that her idolizing father had joined her other lost parent. “ Lady Clare,” he said, taking her hand within his own, while Francis of Clairmont turned away his head from that beseeching glance, “I cannot leave you alone in this cold world. Before 1 go hence let me bless you as my child! 1 would leave you to one who will love you even better than myself. Will you not grant me this boon ?” and he laid her hand within his son’s. The Lady Clare looked timidly up, but the face of her betrothed was turned aside, and she beheld not the struggle, but too vividly portrayed in the blanched cheek and quivering lip. Still, though the gentle pressure of her hand was unreturned, the Lady Clare dreamed not that aught but the mourner’s sorrow was hushing the voice that should have been whispering its love. The dying earl took this silence for consent, and seemed happy. The priest who had waited in the ante-cham ber was summoned, and the sacred rite was performed. Clairmont was taken by surprise. Powerless to speak, he listened to the holy words which bound him evermore to her kneeling by his side. All seemed to him a dream; but when all was over, there arose be fore him the beautiful face of Leonora Estrange. The old man’s hand was now laid upon the bowed head of the young wife, and in this last effort his spirit passed away. Clairmont would have turned awav with a world of wretched ness in his glance, but his young bride | laid her head upon his bosom, whis- I pering fondly, “ I will comfort thee : Francis.” He buried his face in his hands, the gentle, loving words cut him to the heart; yet he could not forget that he loved the poor gipsey girl better than the heiress; and he felt, for the mo ment, as if the latter had entrapped him into a union. But even then, by the corpse of his father, and in the first mo ments of his married life, he could not restrain himself. He shook olf, half angrily, the grasp es his bride, as she essayed gently to remove his hands from his face. “ Leave me—l would be alone,” he said. The Lady Clare knew not the terri ble secret of his love for another; but, I w ith a woman’s keen instinct, she felt ; that his affections w r ere not hers. No grief could else have rendered him so cold, so haughty, so angry in these lirst moments of wedded life. She turned sadly away, and left the chamber, hot, I scalding tears chasing each other down © © her cheeks. “ Oh, Father above!” she cried, “teach-me to win his love. Anything —anything will I suffer, if his heart may I only be mine at last.” While Lord Clairmont paces his apartment, now wrung with agony to find himself the husband of one he loves not, and now melting in grief, as : he thinks of the loss of his beloved pa- CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, SEPT. 7. 1850. rent; and while his bride prays alone in her solitary chamber, let us seek Le onora Estrange. She had heard of the death of the earl and of the marriage of the Lady Clare; but she seemed to remember only the last. “ Perfidious lover,” she cried, with pale cheeks artl clenched hands, “ and is it thus you have betrayed me. You told me that you loved not the Lady Clare; that you would beseech your father to release you from your engage ment to her; that, you would w r ed me. ! False, false, falser than hell itself!” she ! exclaimed, bitterlv. She rose and began to pace the floor, i Her hair, loosened from its band, fell in raven masses wildly over her should ers, and her dark cheek glowed like fire, with passion. ” Hut I will have my revenge,” she said ; “ I know where to strike ; and I will wait for my opportunity. Oh, Francis, Lord Clairmont!” she ex claimed, with a mocking laugh, “ you ! have not written to the house of Lan caster for nothing. 1 w ill intercept one ot your letters. 1 will carry it to the king; and the monarch, incensed at your conduct, will send you from vour bride for life. Ha! Ha ! will I not have revenge !” Alone, half reclining upon a cushion ed couch, with his graceful form enve loped in a robe of crimson, lined and edged with costly furs, with an air of ennui and weariness, lay England’s king, the handsome and voluptuous Edward the Lourth. Scarce a token was discernible of the warrior king, in the languid form, the sunny brow, and small, voluptuous mouth, as he lav w ith drooping eyelids, dreaming, not of past victories, or stirring triumphs, but of the many bright beauties that graced his brilliant court. Presently his reveries were broken by the entrance of a favourite attendant. Edward looked dreamily up, as the page spoke. “A lady craves audience, my liege,” he said, “and will not be denied ad mittance.” “Is she old. or still in youth. Fran cois ?” “I should say far advanced, sire, were it not tor a white hand that gleamed out for a moment, as she drew her mantle about her, when iny Lords Hastings and Woodville came near.” li Then, in heaven’s name, admit her, without delay. We have not looked upon a new’ face this many a day.”— And in a moment the stranger entered. “ Throw back that envious hood,” the brow of our fair petitioner.” Fair indeed, he whispered, admiringly, as suiting the action to his words, he with drew the hood from the somewhat fright ened girl, disclosing the beautiful face of Leonora Estrange. She paused a moment, and then threw herself at his feet . Her cheek was of a marble hue as she extended a letter to him. Edward took it carefully, but as his glance rested upon it, he bent forward w r ith a kindling eye and frowning brow. Once or twice he read, and re-read ; then looking gravely dow’n upon the fair girl, he said, somewhat sternly, ‘ And how, pretty one, came you by this r “ Lord Francis Clairmont,” she said, “bade me destroy it, but knowing it to be of somewhat treasonable import, I have brought it to you, my liege, for safe-keeping.” “And what may my Lord of Clair mont be to you, that he should deposit letters of such high value in your care.” “ Nothing, sire,” answered Leonora, while the warm blood mantled her cheek and brow. “Come,” he said, smilingly, “1 can read the riddle : he loves thy fair face, and then, thou lovest thy sovereign bet ter.” “ There is no love betw’een us—once it were otherwise; but now the heart which he has betrayed knows no softer unction than revenge. Yes,” she add ed, in a deep, low voice, “ Leonora Es trange lives but for revenge. The deed is done. With your leave, sire, I will withdraw.” “ Nay, stay,” said the monarch, lay ing his hand lightly upon her arm to detain her, “ sit thee here, poor child, by my side, and we will see if we can not comfort thee,” he whispered, as he drew her to his side. “ Good heaven, he must be a craven,” cited the mon arch, “ that could be false to those bright eyes ! And now, pretty trem bler, say, shall not Edward comfort the poor heart that throbs so wildly ? Hy this token, he swears fidelity evermore to these lovely lips.” He would have pressed his own to those of the pale girl, but like lightning she sprang up, and stood with head erect,flashing eye,and crimsoned cheeks. “Stand back, my liege,” she said ; “the monarch of proud England forgets him self strangely, when he leaves it for one like me to recall him thus. 1 came not here to complain of Lord Francis of Clairmont, or to seek the love of England’s king—but to accomplish my destiny. My liege, fare-thee-well,” and she turned to withdraw. The monarch stood wrapt in mute admiration of the bold girl as she spoke; but when she turned, he sprang for ward, cry ng, “By my halidom, this proud spirit suits thee well. Bold, for sooth, must be the one that dares trifle with thy woman’s heart. But do you know, girl,” he said, as his eye again fell upon the paper within his hand, and he folded it, placing it within his bosom—“do you know that you have doomed your recreant lover to a trait or’s death?” Leonora sprang forward, and laid her small white hand upon the king’s arm, while her red lips grew pallid, and quiv ered with agony as she cried, “To death ! oh ! sire, you do but jest with poor Lenora ? Say it not again ; re call the words you but now have spoken.” Edward looked long and fixedly fixedly upon the agonizing brow up turned to his, upon which remorse had already stamped its iron signet. He laid his jewelled hand upon the pale brow, and bending low, whispered,“And if to thy prayer, I spare the life of Fran i cis of Clairmont, will Edward win the ; love of Leonora ?” But. no blush mantled the young : cheek; the life blood was pressing heavily upon her heart; for the truth had struck her for the first time, that it was not alone to imprisonment, but to death, and by her hand, that Clair mont was betrayed. Hence the mon arch’s words awoke scarcely a thought within that throbbing heart. Raising the long lashes, her glance fell coldly upon Edward s as she answered, “The love, the fidelity of the subject, 1 will bestow, and it mv sovereign be but just to himself and others, that will be enough. 1 have nothing else, mv liege, to give.” “ Then, by heaven, Clairmont dies ere another week has passed'.” answer ed the king. Leonora drew herself up. ‘Audi tell you, false king, false alike to honour and justice, that he shall not die.” And again, with flashing eye and dauntless mien, she confronted England’s king, and then suddenly turned from the apartment. Ihe word was spoken. The final sentence had gone foi th. Doomed to an ignominious death, on the breaking of another dawn, the young Lord of Claim ont sat in his dungeon. His head was bowed upon his folded arms; his cheek was pale with the spirit’s strife, and his dark eye had lost its wont ed fire. Ihe light ot his soul had ex pired when he learned that lie was be trayed, and by the hand of Leonora. Long he remained buried in deep and painful thought, until a lw, half-stifled sob fell upon his ear. 1 ncovering his tiiee, he looked tenderly down, where by his side the Lady Clare sat, with her head resting upon his knee. Sadly and caressingly he laid his hand amid those golden curls, clustering around the pale brow, and bending down fond ly, kissed the tear-laden eyes. As he did so, he said, “Thou alone, of all the world, art true.” Amid her tears she looked up, as these words, like blessed music, fell upon her ear. He had scarcely spoken when the door was gently opened, and a muffled figure stood silently gazing upon the scene. Directly she advanced with fal tering steps, and spoke in trembling ac cents. The colour came flushing to the cheek of Francis of Clairmont. ”My lord, she said, as she threw IffifKJmr *wrtki ;rs J theth fiance's red upon that beautiful face, now so wan and faded—“ my lord, Leonora has come to save the life which she has perilled. Will you not trust me ?” she asked, in a voice of touching sadness, as she knelt before him. Francis of Clairmont looked sadly down upon her for a moment, without a word ; then he spoke. “ Have you come here, Leonora,” he said, “to mock the doomed man with idle hopes and soft words —you, who have betrayed me to death ! Yet I thank thee, Leono ra, for the boon of thy presence. I would return the wrong thou hast done by mercy. Francis of Clairmont loved thee.” Here a low cry broke from the young wife; but he laid his hand upon her head, as he continued : —“I loved thee until thou didst betray me to infamy and death; then the wrung soul, in its agony, turned to a softer, a truer heart.” A shudder ran through the slight figure before him, and Leonora spoke, in a voice of sharp agony, that fell pain fully upon the listener’s ear. “ Not a truer, not a fonder heart,” she said.— “Francis, the poor gipsy girl would have sacrificed all but honour to have saved thy life. Behold here—she will still save you. Take this cloak and hood,” casting them from her as she spoke ; “wrap them around thee, and pass out. None will heed thee. At the foot of the stairs a boat waits, and with it those who will bear thee away in safety. And then, lady,” she said, approaching the Lady Clare, “ let me look upon the face which smiled upon my lone youth, and pray for pardon for all the wrong I have done thee.” She spoke hurriedly. Clai rmont moved not. She took her mantle, and threw it around tht young lord ; but a sharp thrill ran through her whole frame, as she touched the hand that so had fondly clasped her ow n. When the young nobleman felt the burning touch of those slight fingers, he raised himself, saying, “Andean you think, Leonora, that 1 will leave you to the revenge of a baffled king ?” “ Edward will not harm me,” an swered Leonora, “a night’s imprison ment will be all; and it matters little now,’’she murmured to herself, “wheth er the roof of palace or prison covers this blighted head.” Clairinont still hesitated,but she took i his hand and joined it to that of the Lady Clare, saying, “She is good and true —be thou so to her. Go, before it is too late.” The next moment she was alone. When the echo of Clairmont’s step had died away, she threw herself upon ‘ the couch, and drew the covering around her, so that, if the guard looked in, he might still fancy elairmont slept. The caution proved not in vain; for in a little while, the door opened, and a man’s head intruded. But in the dim light the guard beheld that motionless form; murmuring to himself, “He sleeps soundly his last sleep on earth,” he went on his round. Who shall tell the bitter and sad thoughts that swept across the soul of Leonora Estrange, through the hours of that long, dark night ? They were too deep tor endurance at last; for, when the first grey light of early morn ing filled the room, and the guards en tered to convey the young Lord of Clairmont to the block, they found only the corpse of a young girl lying quiet ly upon his pallet. Even the rough and hardened soldiers turned awe-striek en from the sweet pale face before them* Many eyes looked upon that lifeless form that day, and at last the tidings | reached the monarch’s ear. With a presentiment of the truth, he enterec the room, and bent over the dead.— For many moments he stood motion less ; then a tear was seen to gather in his eye, and fall silently amid the dark braids of the corpse, beautifu even in death. Fraincis of Clairmont,” at last, sait the king. “ Let her have Christian burial ; and let masses be said for her 50u1..” Taught by the bitter lessons of youth, Lord Clairmont was ever after true to his sweet wife. But both he and the heiress of Moorland often conversei sadly of Leonora Estrange, the poor Gipsy Girl. (frarral (Brlrrtir. BEETHOVEN. Mr. J. S. Dwight, the musical editor ot the Message Bird, speaks in the fol lowing enthusiastic terms of Beetho vens Second Symphony, in D major. It is one of the finest translations ol music into words that we have ever seen : “To come at once, then, to the mu sic. It is in the key of o major, the most splendid and triumphant key, which has been so much dedicated to | martial strains. The principal theme of the allegro, the tirce unbridled joy impulse, does not get out immediately; but is preceded by a marvellously grand and crowded passage in 3-4 adagio movement, in which all the countless streams of life seem to be rolling in their waves together, and all the solemn clouds to be moving in above, their edges silvered by the light of every star, while thunders roll and lightnings fly from one to the other (so 1 would interpret those swift, violin flights from massive chord to chord— one chord, as it were, lightening into another), and all the elements, and all the life and beauty and majesty of na ture are gathered into the intensity of the moment. One by one, in solemn chord-processions, had each mysterious and august presence kept arriving; and a simultaneous shout, a rush of many voices (transition to the key of B flat) had announced the splendid circle full, before the rushing, heaving, hither and thither swaying,tumultuous movement life, met face to face, is still with mu tual expectation. The principalities and powers of all the solar worlds sit still and solemn round, as if upon the eve to celebrate glories which the tongue of man would be palsied in pronouncing. A short consultation in an under-tone is heard between the vio lins and violoncellos (the melody is hurried triplets); they seem to come to an understanding; rich, hope-inspiring chords, crowned by the light-trilling flute, like the sunbeam of expression lighting up a countenance about to speak,Announce that the word is soon to go forth; and with an impetuous hound leaps from the goal the impatient thema, (allegro con brio), like live lightning: joy is no longer clogged by its own fulness: it scours the illimitable plains with resistless speed, scarce re membering to pause and w hisper the burthen of its mission, the short glad counter-theme, or second subject (in a) to here and there a listener by the way. How it is carried through, what sepa rate thoughts the successive phrases of the movement might suggest, we will not stop to consider. r l he very diffi culty of executing a piece of such breadth and energy and rapidity helps out its true expression. Just as your wrists and fingers, if you try to play it on the piano, begin to give out, the music itself falters and pants exhaust ed, then gathers itself up by short, broken efforts, to rush forward in a fuller stream. This is exceedingly char acteristic of Beethoven. What a de termined, head-long energy is in his movements! how his theme goes on, gathering up more and more force and fulness in its movement, piling chord upon chord, climbing, climbing, like accumulated waves, which break and all fall back; then gather themselves again for the onset, and climbing by half-tones through all the chords, burst through, and lo,! the sea is smooth, and we sail along in the sweetest buoyant measure, triumphing with the theme. After this first fury of joy has spent itself, the serene and thoughtful Lar ghetto commences, in the child-like, happy key of a major. The theme is given first by the delicious quartette of string instruments, which seems the full heart’s pious, cheerful hymn of gratitude, in a gentle, equable narrative style, as if recounting all its hidden bliss. Three or four, at least, new sub jects enter into the course of the move ment, all of exquisite beauty, like the blending of the winds and starlight I with our serenest, richest thoughts. — Some of the modulations by which new subjects are ushered in, or old ones in new keys, are solemn and im posing, as the shillings of the clouds : around the setting sun. The deepest ten- I derness and seriousness reigns through out; and faith was never blessed with fuller, purer utterance. “Can music laugh and jest'? Is there ; wit and humour, or aught answering to them, in its mystic sphere? At least, let none, unless the choicest, most re fined, and most imaginative, provoke t < mirth a mind composed to such se rene, sweet musings by the Larghetto. Yet the wild Scherzo must, bv the compensating power of nature, have its place. And here it is indeed Schcr zissimo ! It seems as if the motliest, queerest group of bacchanalians were assembled, all beside themselves with gladness, and disputatious with excess of joy. Every instrument must have its say in turn, and all so rapidly, they THIRD VOLUME—NO. 19 WHOLE NO 119. mingle and chime in in spite of them selves, and are whirled away in one hurricane of concord. Or does it seem rather as if ignes fatui were dancing and blazing through the air in all direc tions, now diverging, now rushing to gether into one great splendour, and showing through what oddest freaks of diversity the deep unity can maintain its law. And then, in the same breath, the rustic trio, of oboes and bassoons (in b flat) —what! Pun himself and all his satyrs come to join the revels!— Then a long, loud burst—in unison on f sharp, with nil its chords reveberated in switt succession, and dying into a murmur, as if they had reached the acme of ma’d-eap enthusiasm and stun ning peals of merriment, and rough tu- . mult nous embraces, and tossing up of’ caps, could go no further. Another peal, and a return into the scherzo, and the grotesque revellers frolic off the stage as they came on. “The Finale (presto) is only a more serious freak of madness—joy so pos sessed and frantic, that it must vent it self or die. It reminds us of those states of mind, in our highest com munion with nature, when song and prayer, and inward still delight, and rapturous looks and words are not enong i, but it becomes an animal im pulse, and away we plunge through swamps and thicket, hill and vale, and run till we can run no more, and kind fatigue and sleep deliver us. It is verv despair of utterance, and ends with the acknowledgment, as it were, that faith can feel, but neither word nor action quite express the depth and riches of our life.” NEW ORLEANS THIRTY YEARS AGO. ADVENTURES OF A RRITISH OFFICER. “ Nota Bene,” in his last letter to the Concordia Intelligencer, quotes a para graph from the Boston Transcript about a gentleman who once narrowly escaped premature burial in this city during the yellow fever season, and then proceeds totell the following story: This reminds me of an incident that transpired a few weeks ago. Having dined at the Planters’, a first rate farni y hotel, kept by Murray, formerly of the Natchez Mansion 1 louse, and re >aired to the balcony, overhanging Ca nal street, to enjoy the sea breeze, I fell into conversation with a gentleman reg istered on the books as Major H*****t, ate of the British army. Like all others ot bis class he had seen much of the .‘-'iij,] and was courteous and communicative. He had served in In dia, in the Peninsula, in Belgium, in the war with this country, and, subse quently, was an aidd , ‘-— ~v,,f cto Bolivar I was at this Hotel, then known as Beale’s. It was in September, and the yellow fever was prevailing; but as I had long been quartered in the tropics, I felt no apprehensions. My vis a vis at dinner was Mr. Cameron, a young Scotchman in the prime of life, com mercial agent of a Glasgow house. For three days we dined and spent our evenings together. On the fourth he did not appear. While sipping my sherry after dinner, I sent for the land lord, and inquired for Mr. Cameron. “ Major,” said he, “your friend will never dine with you again, but when ever you please 1 will conduct you to him.” Struck with these words which,though uttered with a polite nonchalance, had something ominous in them, I rose from the table and in silence followed Mr. Beale. He threw open a small parlor, and there lay my young friend, with whom 1 had parted at two o’clock the previous evening dead! Sir, 1 have had my comrades cut down by a cui rassier at my elbow: 1 have seen whole battalions swept away by artillery ; 1 have seen a storming party torn into fragments by the explosion of a mine; I have seen brave men sink at sea and hundreds perish in hospitals by the wasting ravages of wounds and disease; but never have 1 been so shocked a..d apalled as by the livid corpse of that young Scotchman ! He had been seiz ed with fever immediately after leaving my room, and expired at daylight; and so little impression had it made, and so much was such a death within the every day line of incidents, it had not disturbed the business of the house, nor had the landlord, who knew our in timacy, nor the waiter, who attended us at table, and served us with cham pagne the evening previous, thought it of sufficient importance to name it to me. In those days, in New Orleans, resident gentlemen never appeared at breakfast. They took their coffee with a cher amie , hut if they were absent at dinner, you might, without further en quiry, apply for lette.s of administra tion on their estates ! My poor friend was already in his coffin, and even in my grief 1 could not avoid noticing its elaborate finish, solid mahogany, trim med with velvet, with a silver plate, his name and escutcheon beautifully en graved. 1 expressed my surprise that these could be procured when the sub ject had only been dead a few hours. “ Major,” said Mr. Beale, “that is ea sily explained. \Ye have an undertaker attached to this house. Cameron’s cof fin has been ready twelve months.” What sir, had he a presentiment of death ? “No Major, not at all. But in this city the march of disease is rapid ; our fevers kill in a few hours; mortifica tion immediately ensues, and it is the rule of my house, from July to Octo ber, to measure every man for his cof fin the moment he registers his name. The chances are ten to one he w.ll be dead in a fortnight!” As 1 looked incredulously at this statement, Mr. Beale continued: “I per ceive you do not credit this, Major, but follow me, if you please, and you shall be convinced.” He led the way to the attic of the house, and there, ranged around in grim array, stood sixty coffins of dif ferentfinishand dimensions,one for each boarder, with my own conspicuous among them, my name and coat of arms blazoned upon it ! “ Major,” said the landlord, “ your measure was taken the moment of your | arrival. You announced your inten tion to stay three months, and, while ; registering your name, my undertaker, who watches the arrivals, and is very adroit, applied his tape to you. I hope, sir, you are pleased. Inspect the her aldry. It is .* II right. \Ye consult the best authorities on the British peerage.” I was too much shocked to reply, but immediately retreated to my room, packed my baggage, and rang for my i bill, determined not to sleep another night in a city where coffins were made, and probably graves dug, beforehand. My bill was as follows : Major H , to Beale’s Motel, Dr. —Four days’ i board, at $3, sl2; lights, $1.50; se | gars, #1 ; paper, 25 cents ; wine. #2O; J coffin, #1.50; E. E., #36.25. I descended to the bar in no amiable mood ; threw down thirty-four dollars and seventy-five cents, but refused to pay for the coffin. I had never order ed such a thing; on the contrary, it was a liberty 1 should not excuse.— “ \ ery well, Major,” said Mr. Beale, with a low bow and one of his bland est smiles, “just as you please; it makes no ditFerance. The coffin was made in pursuance of a ride of my house. Had you remained a week, you would, most probably, have needed it, and, as we bury strangers before they are quite dead, had this coffin not been made, in the event of your death, your aristo cratic body would have been sent to the trench in a pine box ! Do not pay, Major. It is quite unnecessary. But your coat of arms—the escutcheon of the noble house of H*****t—is on that coffin, and the first pauper that dies shall lie buried in it.” 1 his was too much for m3* ancestral pride. I threw down the sovereigns, made a bonfire of the coffin, and the same evening hired a barge to carry me from a city where such dreadful customs prevailed. Imperative busi ness, continued the Major, brought me to New Orleans a few* days ago. B}* a singular sort of fascination, I was to the same hotel from which I tied thirty years ago; and, by a strange coincidence, my stay is of the same du ration, (I leave this evening,) and m3* bill is about the same. “ How, Major,” I exclaimed, “ has Murray charged you for a coffin ?” No, sir, not exactly that—it occurred in this way. W hile registeiing my name, I felt someone touch me on the shoulder, as I felt it thirty years be fore. Indignant that the same trick should be played upon me a secon i time, I wheeled, and atone blow knock ed the man down, and placed my foot Ciipiwmvui it ** ao ct 11 ‘atictl dant of the hotel in the act of brushing the dust off my coat. I felt much chagrined, and she least I could do was to ask the poor fellow’s pardon, and in sist on his accepting the same amount that I had paid for my coffin on a former occasion. Saying this the servant shook my hand and departed. Curiosity led me to visit the attic, but the rule of the house has been changed, and, instead of coffins, 1 found long rows of Sherry, Madeira, Port, Cognac, Holland, Old Jamaica, and Irish Whiskey, in bottles and demijohns covered with cobwebs, like old monks in their dark gowns, which Murray here hoards for his guests. The Major went up to Louisville on the last trip of the Magnolia, and our friend, Commodore Gyles, tells the fol lowing story, and if it be not true Charlie is responsible. The Major put up at one of the best boarding houses, and was delighted with the table, but at night found himself crowded into a room with two others. Ilis English prejudices were shocked, but finding there was no redress, he submitted like a soldier, and resolved to make the most of his situation. He took it for granted that his room mates were Yankees, and soon began to rally them on the reputed cunning and trickery of the breed. He even insisted that they should play him a Yankee trick. They begged off, professed to be drowsy, but promised to perform one before they parted. When the Major woke one of the gentlemen was off, and his patent lever, broadcloth, and portmanteau had disappeared likewise. He roused up the other who was or affected to be, in a deep snooze. “ Stranger,” said the man, rubbing his eyes, “ our room mate has robbed us. lam a ruined I man. My gold dust is gone. Let us | pursue the villain.” The Major assent ed with the alacrity of one who had lost his wardrobe and &1500 in sover eigns. After some delay they traced the fugitive to Shippenport, and ascer tained that a man of his description had left at daylight, passenger on a flat boat for New Orleans. They charter ed a skiff, and pulled into the current. About nightfall they overhauled the flat, and perceived their man on the j deck. He immediately hailed the ! Major, and invited him on board.— | “ Here,” he cried, “is your watch and portmanteau —all safe—it was only a Yankee trick !” Delighted at his suc cess, the Major’s good humour was res tored. He leaped into the flat, even took the hand of the Yankee, and ac cepted his offer to go and take a drink. Hut just as he stooped to enter the low cabin, the other jumped into the skiff, and with his comrade rowed up stream , leaving the Major to get off'as he might! It need scarcely be added that neither the portmanteau nor the rogues were heard of after wards.— X. O. True Delta. Vulgar People. —“ Those are not vulgar people,” says Dante, “ merely because they live in small cottages or lowly places; but those are vulgar who, by their thoughts and deeds strive to shut out any view of beauty.” There are rich vulgar men, as well as vulgar j poor men. Being poor is not a dis qualification for being a gentleman.— To be a gentleman is to be elevated above others in sentiment rather than situation. And the poor man, with an enlarged and pure mind may be hap pier, too, than his rich neighbour with out his elevation.