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I was most anxious to have an oppor
tunity of speaking to you, and knew
not otherwise how to procure it. Now
that I have succeeded, let me beg of
you to spare me a few minutes.”
“ Not at present—you must excuse
me—l want to see Mary, ’ stammered
out the agitated girl, as she attempted
to withdraw her hand, that he had al
ready seized and held between both his.
“ 1 will not detain you long,” said he,
“but indeed you must have patience
with me till I open my heart to you,
and tell you how completely my hap
piness is in your hands.”
“ Is this such language as would be
approved by the lady, a lock of whose
hair you have so long treasured up?”
asked Cora, fixing her eyes upon his
face with a scrutinizing look, her self
possession being immediately restored,
as a doubt of his ingenuousness entered
her mind.
“ Did you ever see that hair ?” he
asked, smiling. “ Shall l show it to
you ?”
“ I thank you, I have no wish to see
it,” she replied, coldly.
“ But I should like you to see it; I
am sure you never saw any more beau
tiful ;” and as he spoke, he took the lit
tle packet from his bosom, and unfold
ing the enclosure, held it out to her.
“ How is this—where was this ob
tained ?” exclaimed Cora in extreme
surprise, for she saw at a glance it was
a lock of her own hair.
“ Look on this side of the paper,” re
turned her companion, and turning the
envelope, she read in her own handwri
ting the words, “ Cora Milford’s hair.”
and immediately recollected it to be
the same that she had given to Mary
some time before, for a bracelet. “ I
found,” said the lover, “that after Mary
had got her bracelet, the remainder was
allowed to toss about her work-table
without any especial care, and therefore
took the liberty of placing it near a
bosom where you had already begun to
reign pre-eminent. Say then, lovely
and beloved Cora, will you not accept
a heart that was never before offered to
a human being.”
At this moment the door opened,
and Mary appeared, but seeing at a
glance that her entrance was mat apro
pos, she was about to withdraw, but
Cora, springing forward, threw herself
upon her neck and burst into tears.
“ Has Uncle Ned been frightening
you ?” asked Mary, playfully. “ Let
me hear what the naughty man has
been saying ?” The comic tone in
which she said this, turned the thoughts
of the agitated girl from herself, and
laughter succeeded her tears. “ I know
all about it,” continued Mary, as her
uncle, slipping an arm around the waist
of each, led them to a sofa. “It is all
my doing,” she added, with a look of
exultation ; “ I saw the hole you had
made, Cora, in my poor uncle’s heart,
but was sure he would never succeed
in making an impression on yours,
whilst surrounded as you were, in town
by a host of more pretending admirers,
and therefore, without explaining my
self to any one, I contrived to bring you
together here.”
“ It’s a complete take-in,” said Cora,
trying to look angry, whilst a smile
curled round her beautiful mouth;
“ and if this is your hospitality, I will
make haste and get home as fast as I
can.”
“ And I,” said Uncle Ned, “in imi
tation of one of the greatest men of
my profession, will hasten after you to
Philadelphia, and bring back my wife!”
(Prnmil (L-rlrrtit.
A TALE OF THE CAMP.
The advanced guard of the army, on
its way to Montery, had driven out of
the town of Marin a considerable force
of Mexicans, who had left their dinners
to be eaten by the Americans, when it
camped for the rear to come up. That
afternoon a portion of the Texas caval
ry occupied a vacant lot near the Pla
za. \\ hile drawing water at one of
the wells, which at first was supposed
to be poisoned, a dispute arose between
two young men named Barclay and
Rogers. At sundown, to Rogers’ sur
prise, he received a challenge, written
in lead pencil on a piece of dirty paper.
Rogers had no paper to write a reply
on, but he told the bearer of the chal
lenge that lie had no intention of wound
ing the feelings of his old messmate,
and begged he would except his verbal
explanation as an apology ; which he
did, and expressed his full satifaction
and pleasure at terminating the diffi
culty so happily.
The next day, however, Rogers was
astonished at receiving another commu
nication from an officer in the artillery,
stating that Rogers’ reply was not sat
isfactory to Mr. Barclay, and demand
ing a written apology. Rogers was on
duty that day, but as soon as relieved,
he mounted his horse and rode to the
tent of an infantry friend to consult
him and to ask his assistance in the
affair. Rogers related his story, and
told his friend, after what had passed,
he could never consent to give a writ
ten apology.
“I fear, then,” said his friend, “a fight
cannot be avoided ; but wait here a mo
ment and 1 will ride over and see your
adversary’s second. Lieutenant R., the
artillery officer.”
After the lapse of half an hour Ro
gers’ friend returned, and said, “ Well,
1 fear the meeting must take place ; I
can do nothing, and, besides, I regret
to inform you that, from the delicacy
of my situation, 1 cannot act for you in
this matter; but Lieutenant R., re
quests me to ask you the favour to call
on him to-morrow, as he thinks he will
be able to manage the difficulty.”
The brave and generous Lieutenant
R. was the pink of chivalry of the
Amercan army. He was always ap
pealed to by his brother officers in af
fairs of honour, and his decision was
received as final. The next day Ro
gers gallopped to Lieutenant R.’s tent,
and was kindly received. After a glass
of wine they talked the matter over,
but could not agree on settling the dif
ficulty.
“It is strange,” said Lieutenant R.,
“ you admit you intended no offence,
and have said so; but why not put it
in writing ?”
“-tor the very cause,” replied Ro
gers, “that the verbal explanation was
eemed satisfactory, and accepted; and
now 1 should feel it a dishonour to be
oreed into a measure which I conceive
not warranted and unnecessary.”
“ W ell, then,” replied R., “name the
-our, and we will meet you —weapons
I suppose, pistols ?”
“No,” replied Rogers, “double-bar
relled shot guns —we are both good at
it—thirty steps ; but 1 have no friend
to act for me. Now, I am sure you
will not compromise the honour of either
of us ; so act for us both.”
“1 will, said Lieutenant R., after
having reflected for a moment, “on one
condition—that you will obey me in
every’ particular. I pledge you my hon
our as a soldier, not to compromise vou
in the least particular, and all I ask of
you is, to pledge me your word that
you obey me to the letter.”
“ Agreed, said Rodgers, “ you are
the triend of us both, and there can be
no dishonour in any course you may
take.”
“ W ell,” said Lieutenant R., “ meet
us on the bank of the river (the Rio
Alam), a quarter of a mile above the
camp, to-night, at nine o’clock, for the
moon will be some hours high, and we
will there settle the affair.”
They thus parted. Twilight soon
spread her gray mantle over the earth,
the sky was bespangled by a few bright
stars, while the watch-fires for miles
appeared through the gloom, and shed
a lurid light around thousands of tents,
which were stretched for some three
miles from Marin to the banks of the
river.
The hum of thousands of voices,
and the stir of busy preparation for
the coming morrow, had gradually
grown fainter and fainter, while the
moon poured down a flood of silver
light on the scene as the appointed hour
grew- near.
Rogers mounted his horse, passing
outside the lines, and rode to the ap
pointed spot. Ilis adversary, Barclay,
and Lieutenant R., were already on the
ground. Dismounting, Rogers, with
his gun on his shoulder, approached the
latter, who whispered in his ear.
“ Mind w hat I say, and obey me im
plicitly ; you may be sure all will be
right.”
The distance was stept otf, and the
parties were stationed at their places.
It was a lovely night; the moonbeams
danced on the rippling waters, and, as
they trickled on their way, their sweet
murmur was heard, deeply’ impressive
with the stillness of the hour. There
w as solemn beauty about the surround
ing scene, which served to call forth the
noblest, the most philanthropic feelings
of a man. A sentiment of sorrow and
regret seemed to prevail that the meet
ing had taken place—but it was then
too late. The barrels of their weapons
glistened in the silver light, and in a
few moments they were to risk the
chance of being hurried into eternity,
while one gave the other, or received
from him, satisfaction for his wounded
honour.
They had been placed at the distance,
when Lieutenant R. walked oft’at a dis
tance midway between them, and said,
“ Gentlemen, are you ready ?”
“ Yes,” was the response of both.
At the next word, which each thought
was big with the fate of one or both
of them, to their surprise the voice of
Lieutenant R. was heard ringing on the
air, “Advance fifteen paces !”
They accordingly advanced until they
met.
“ Shake hands !” said Lieutenant R.,
in a most imperative tone.
The combatants stood bewildered,
half doubting, but mechanically extend
ed their hands one to the other.
“ Now-,” said Lieutenant R., “ I de
clare this difficulty honourably settled,
and whoever dare to question it must
be responsible to me. Gentlemen, you
are friends ; mount your horses.”
The two parties again grasped each
other’s hand, and, with a look of grati
tude to their mutual friend, mounted,
and rode with him to his tent. The
night ended in a scene of joy and rev
elry, which twined their hearts together
for ever.
The memory of Lieutenant R., who
shortly afterwards fell at Montery-,
and his noble character, are cherished
in a thousand hearts. Os this gallant
American officer it was said that no man
was his superior; his w-ord was law
among his friends, and one no man
dared to question.
A SOUTHERN STATE.
The following sketch of the State of
Georgia is from the speech of Mr. Ste
phens, of that State. It will be read
with interest:
Georgia has her beds of coal and
iron, her lime, gypsum and marl, her
quarries of granite and marble. She
has inexhaustible treasures of minerals,
including gold, the most precious of
metals. She has a soil and a climate
suitable for the growth and culture of
almost every product known to hus
bandry and agriculture. A better coun
try for wheat and corn and all the cere
al plants, to say nothing of cotton and
tobacco, is not to be found in an equal
space ou this continent. There, too,
grow the orange, the olive, the vine
and the fig, with forests of oak and
pine sufficient to build and mast the
navies of the world. She has her
mountains for grading, rivers for com
merce, etc., water-falls for machinery
of all kinds without number. Nor
have these great natural advantages
and resources been neglected. Y oung
as she is, she is now- the first cotton
growing State in the Union. Her last
year‘s crop w ill not fall far short of six
hundred thousand bales if it does not
exceed it. She has, I believe, thirty
six cotton factories in operation, and a
great many more hastening to comple
tion —one of these has, or soon will
have, ten thousand spindles, with two
hundred looms capable of turning 8000
yards of cloth per day. I ler yarns are
already finding their way to the mar
kets of the North and foreign countries;
and the day is not distant when she w ill
take the lead in the manufacture, as
well as the production of this grant sta
ple. She has also her flour mills and
paper mills; her forges, foundries, and
furnaces, not with their fires extinguish
ed, as the gentleman from Pennsylva
nia said of some in his State, but in
full blast. Her exports last year were
not less than thirty millions of dollars,
equal to if not greater than those of new
England altogether.
She has six hundred and fifty- miles
of railroad in operation, at a cost of fif
teen millions of dollars, and two hun
dred more in the process of construc
tion. By her energy- and enterprise
she has scaled the mountain barriers
and opened the way for the steam car,
from the Southern Atlantic ports to the
waters of the greal valley of the West.
But this is not all. She has four char
tered universities—nay five, for she has
one devoted exclusively to the educa
tion of her daughters. She was the
first State, I believe, to establish a fe
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
male college, which is now in a flourish
ing condition, and one of the brighest
ornaments of her character. She has
four hundred young men pursuing a
collegiate course ; a greater number, I
believe, than any State in the Union in
proportion to her white population. —
You w ill find not only these things to
be so, but I tell you also what you will
not find. You will not find any body
in that State begging bread or asking
alms. You will find but few. paupers.
Y ou will not find forty thousand beings
pinched with cold and hunger, demand
ing the right to labour, as I saw it sta
ted to be the case not long since in the
city of New Y ork.
Mr. Sweetser interrupted and asked
if the factories in Georgia had not been
erected by Northern capital ?
Mr. Stephens said: No, sir, they
were built by Georgia capital. The six
hundred and fifty- miles of railroad now
in operation, to which l have alluded,
were built by Georgia capital. One
hundred and thirty--six miles, from At
lanta to C'hatanooga, on the Tennessee
river, which is one of the greatest mon
uments of the enterprise of the age,
was built by the State. But her pub
lic debt is only- a little over eighteen
hundred thousand dollars, while that of
the State of New- Y’ork is over tw-enty
millions, besides the fourteen millions,
owed by the city alone, and the‘debt
of Pennsylvania is forty millions of
dollars. The bonds of the State of
Georgia are held mostly by her own
people. You do not see them hawked
about in Northern or foreign markets
at a depreciation. But they, as well as
the stocks and securities of private com
panies, are held mostly by her own citi
zens, commanding premiums at home.
(Original |^ortnj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
FAINTING BY THE WAY.
One dark midnight, a poet sat within a lonely
room,
Watching the taper’s flickering light, with
thoughts of dreary gloom,
Weary and sad with mental toil, and aspira
tions chilled,
He thought how little was achieved of what
his spirit willed,
And he tnurmerred oft with feeble voice, faint
ed, yes I say,
Oh coward heart, thou’st fainted in the weary
march to-day.
“Poet,” breathed out a gentle voice, soft as a
half hushed sigh,
“Inheritor of golden gifts, bright treasures from
on high,
Shake off’ the shackles of despair, and strike
afresh thy lyre,
And let its glorious music breath that strength
ening word, aspire
The poet raised his wearied head, but his pale
lips seemed to say,
“Oh ! I have no heart for melody, I’ve fainted
by the way.”
“What poet! hast thou fainted on the threshold
of the door ?
Sunk wearied ’neath the burden of the treas
ure which thou bore,
What though the inarch be weary ; see the
temple is in sight,
Press on, the goal’s worth reaching, press on,
with all thy might,
The poet said in feeble tones, oh lead me there,
I pray,
For I fainted blessed angel, in my weary march
to-day.”
Then Strong Will, the mighty angel, with firm
unshrinking hand,
Urged on the wearied poet, till he reached the
highest land ;
And as he gazed adown the steep,and saw the
toiling crowd,
Pressing to gain the mountain’s height, though
almost faint and bowed,
He called aloud with cheering -"oice ; up,
brothers, up, I say,
And let no coward heart cry out, I’ve fainted
by the way.
Charleston. E. B. C.
For the Soathern Literary Gazet'e.
SONNET TO DESPAIR.
Pale wretch, that loves to wander, when the
night
Is darkest, and the storm cloud in the sky,
Sends the red bolt of vengeance from on
high,
Smiting the giant pine that braved its might!
Thou see’st the ruin, still unmoved of fear,
Sacred from danger, as no more it speaks
Os terror to the form whose pallid cheeks,
Betray the presence of a deadlier care!
The bolt is at thy heart, and thus thy head,
Braves the red danger of the blasting storm ;
Unconscious, while the tempest shakes thy
form,
Os terrors, which the common fear had fled ;
Sleep seek’st thou vainly, and the bolt denies,
The kindly office which had shut thine eves.
DELTA.
(Dnr Utters.
Correspondence of the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW YORK, Sept. 7, 1850.*
The great theme of the day is indi
cated by the Swedish flag which has
floated over the Irving House, since
the Swedish Nightingale alighted
there, last Sunday evening, amidst the
tumultuous welcome of thousands of
our people. Your senior editor, who
is in town, is as much “enthuzed” as
any of the mercurial multitude, by the
angelic Jenny, and will give you in his
own words, as he informs me, the ac
count of his introduction to the sweet
and gracious songstress. lie, of course,
leaves your correspondent in a worse
predicament than that of Ruth in the
field of Boaz, without a gleaning of the
rich harvest which he has gathered
and stored away, for the benefit of our
common readers.
It is a “sight for sair een” to look at
the mighty potentate, Julius Cajsar
Napolean Barnum, man unsurpassed in
the skill with which he plays on human
weaknesses, in his new capacity of mas
ter of ceremonies, and chaperon in
general, in the exciting pageant which
goes far before any of his previous en
gineering for popular amusement. He
enters into the spirit of the occasion
with infinite zest, and enjoys his own
little arrangements to add to the pres
tige of the occasion, as much as any of
the spectators. On the Sunday of Jen
ny Lind's arrival, for instance, he had
* This letter was intended for onr last, but the detention
of Uncle Sam’s Post Bags, on their way “down South”
prevented its reception in season. *
employed several men to erect trium
phal arches, covered with evergreen
and inscribed with appropriate mottoes
along the pier, where “ the Queen of
Song” was to land. An acquaintance
asked him, “who has got up these arch
es with so much taste?” Barnum
laying his hand on his heart, with an
unction peculiar to himself, and
with an unmistakable twinkle of the
left eye, replies, “ An enthusiastic pub
lic, sir! and enthusiastic public.”
It is no more than justice to say that
all his arrangements for the accommo
dation of the public are made w ith
great liberality and excellent, judgment.
In fact, no one is disposed to call into
question his ability to conduct this
grand episode in our American life,
with the greatest effect, or to wish that
the affair was in any other hands.
Burton has made a pretty good card
of it, in a piece brought out at his thea
tre, showing up Barnum, Jenny, the
Prize Song, Committee, and all
who could in any way be made service
able as a target to be peppered with
jokes. The piece has taken very well
so far, and will no doubt have a good
run w hile the Lind fever lasts.
The Prize of two hundred dollars,
for the best song to be sung by Jenny
Lind, on her first appearance, has been
awarded by the Committee to Bayard
Taylor. lam told there were nearly
seven hundred and fifty competitors, a
large number of whom must have been
boarding school damsels,and poetasters
in their teens. From all that I can
learn, the average character of the pro
ductions was not of a very high order,
and it is reported, though I cannot say
how justly, that a portion of the Com
mittee were in favor of putting all of
them by, as not equal to the occasion.
Over seven hundred persons, who were
certain of the Prize, will have to swal
low their disappointment, and no doubt
there w ill be not a little growling and
grumbling, though perhaps less than
usual in such cases, on account of the
remarkable popularity of Bayard Tay
lor, a young man who has troops of
friends every w here, and not an enemy
in the world. This he owes to his
frank, genial and sunny disposition, and
his rare freedom from self-seeking
traits, which form even more striking
features in his character than his bright
poetical temperament.
A clever jeu (V esprit entitled Bar
num’s Parnassus, makes its appearance
this morning, purporting to have been
obtained from confidential disclosures
of the Prize Committee. It consists of
decentish imitations of Bryant, Ilal
leck, Morris, Holmes, Willis, and some
other American bards, and will, of
course, help to put money in BarnumV
pocket. I fancy it is not of native
Gotham grow th, as it smacks strongly
of New-England humor, and has, a
certain polished irony, which is said to
be quite popular in Cambridge and its
vicinity.
The sale of tickets to the first con
cert took place at Castle Garden, this
morning. Not less than four thousand
persons were in attendance, and the
bidding had all the excitement of the
race course. The first ticket was
knocked off for The renowned
hatter, Genin, considered himself lucky
in being the purchaser. That point
settled, the thermometer rapidly- went
down to blood heat, —some two or
three hundred tickets selling from ten
to fifteen dollars each. The sale is still
going on briskly, in spite of a pouring
rain, but at the last accounts, the price
did did not range over five dollars.
In her personal appearance, Jenny
Lind is neither beautiful nor command
ing. Her light hair and clear blue eye
betrays her Northern origin ; her com
plexion is not rich, nor the expression
of her countenance especially attract
ive. In a large circle, judging from
one of the levees at the Irving House,
her manners are dignified,self-posessed,
and elegant. In more intimate connect
ion, you are struck with her evident
earnestness, simplicity, artlessness, and
quiet enthusiasm. She seems posses
sed of an admirable judgment, without
a particle of affectation, and bearing
the honours of her difficult position
with serene and beautiful propriety-.
We have received from Boston, this
week, anew edition of Edward Ever
ett’s Orations and Addresses, in two
large and handsome octavos, the second
volume consisting of Addresses, which
are now- collected for the first time. As
specimens of elaborate, ornate,classical
rhetoric, it would be difficult to match
them by- any example of native elo
quence. But they lack the sponta
neous, electric fire, which kindles the
heart of the reader, and melts an audi
ence in contagious enthusiasm. I was
glad to perceive an announcement in
the preface, that Mr. Everett proposes
to publish a work on the Law of Nations,
to which he has devoted many years of
careful preparation. lie is peculiarly
qualified to do justice to this subject,
and would probably produce something
to justify- his reputation for rare talents,
more than any of the writings which
he has hitherto given to the public.
A book of considerable interest is
Buckingham’s Reminiscences of the
Newspaper Press, which has just been
issued in Boston. The venerable foun
der of the Boston Courier is as famil
iar with all that pertains to the litera
ture of American journalism, as any
man living. This book has some racy
anecdotes and spirited sketches, but,
on the whole, I am disappointed in.it.
I do not beleive it will excite much in-
terest at a distance from the meridian
of Boston.
Richard Hildreth hasafourth volume
ofhis History of the United States, in
press, and it will soon be published by
the Harpers. It is devoted to the his
tory- of the administration of Washing
ton, and I understand, will contain
some important facts and documents,
which have not been incorporated in
the work of ony previous historical
writer. How correct this may- be, I
leave you to judge. T.
NEW-YORK, Sept. 14, 1850.
1 will not attempt to give you any
account of the two great events of the
week (of course I allude to Jenny
Lind’s first and second concerts,) as you
will be amply posted up from other
quarters, before receiving my letter.
You will find a variety of criticisms on
the artistic mind of the Swedish Night
ingale, all agreeing, however, as to the
marvelous power of her execution, and
the incredible effects of her magical
vocalization. There is not so great a
harmony of opinion concerning her
command of the deeper springs of
emotion, her power to melt and thrall
and convulse the heart in the delirium
of passion. I have no doubt, that she
has thus far, kept back her noblest ef
forts in the sphere of sentiment, for
the sake of at once showing the Amer
ican public, the amazing vocal capaci
ties which form the basis of her fame.
Tl e two pieces which have produced
the greatest effect on the mass of her
audiences, the Flute Trio, and the
Herdsman’s Song, and specimens of
musical pyroteehny, which leave no
room for any emotion but that of be
wildered astonishment, —pieces most
artistically adopted to illustrate the
force and versatility of voice, in which
every one agrees that her equal has
never been heard in this country. Her
performance of the Casta Diva, I should
judge, has disappointed the more ortho
dox devotees of the Italian Opera. But
for the present, I feel that the time has
not come for criticism. She has not
yet attained the self-possession, essen
tial to the full display of her glorious
powers, nor have the audience suffi
ciently recovered from the tumult of
delight and astonishment, to pass a
calm judgment on her artistic claims.
A little dialogue given in the Courier
des Etats Unis this morning, happily
touches off the musical sectarianism,
which begins to show itself, and per
haps, you may think i worth transla
ting for your columns.
“ Two young men were leaving Cas
tle Garden after the concert: one of
them ravished, transported ; the other
dissatisfied and sullen. ‘What an ad
mirable artist,’ said the first. What
fire ! What soul! What a touching
voice! And what miraculous execu
tion !’
“ ‘You are carried away by .your
imagination,’ replied the other. ‘There
is nothing in all this but a very ordinar
ry degree of ability, and surely a cer
tain mechanical skill cannot make up
for the want of style.’
“ ‘Ah ! I understand you perfectly.
Because Jenny Lind does not come in
a straight line from the banks of the
Arno, or the shores of the Adriatic,
you think she cannot be a first-rate
singer.’
“ ‘Your pleasantry is quite ill-timed.
Sentiment, comprehensiveness, method
are of all countries, and 1 should ap
plaud them in a Swede, as soon as in
an Italian.
“ ‘But you will, at least, confess that
she is full of grace, delicacy, and viva,
city —that she commands tones which
touch your heart!’
“ ‘Not at all. M’lle Lind does not
thrill me in the slightest degree. I
seek in vain for any passioned influence,
or profound experience. She is want
ing in the accents of the heart, as well
as in the refinements of coquetry.’
“ ‘You must then have no soul, no
ear, not to feel and understand the
marvellous qualities of such a great
artist.’
“ ‘On the contrary, it is because I
have both, that I seek in vain for the
infinite perfection with which she has
been endowed.’
“ ‘You talk like a fool—she is per
fect, she is incomparable, she is divine.’
“ ‘Why don’t you at once immolate
on the altar, the Crisis, the Persianis,
the Sontags. That would be the short,
est way. For me, she is a thousand
miles from those queens of song.’
“ ‘Ah ! this is too bad ! You are
only a barbarian.’
“‘And you are only one of-*-Bar
num’s sheep.’ ”
Madame Bishop has continued to
sing to large houses at the Broadway
Theatre in spite of the enthusiasm for
Jenny Lind. She has some faithful
admirers, who are by no means dis
posed to give in to the pretensions of
her Swedish rival. She takes her ben
efit this evening, and winds up the sea
son, which has been to her one of most
brilliant success.
The Broadway will be opened on
Monday night for its usual theatrical
entertainments, where anew comedy
by Broughand is to be produced.
The Ravels have drawn full houses
at Niblo’s, but anew company of
French pantominists is about to appear
at the Astor place, which will turn off
a portion of the favouring breeze from
the popular Ravels.
The Forrest affair has caused a fresh
excitement this week by the publica
tion of a part of the documents rela
ting to the suit just commenced against
him by his wife. The war is now car
ried into Africa. Mrs. Forrest has ob
tained an injunction from the Supreme
Court of New-York against the prosecu
tion of the divorce trial in Pennsylva.
nia, and against the disposal of any
part of his estate by her husband. He
is also placed under bonds for SIO,OOO
to abstain from personal violence,
which Mrs. Forrest certifies she has
cause to apprehend from his hands.
She brings specific charges against him
of the violation of the marriage law,
and at the trial, it is said, not a few of
fenders will find themselves compro
mised.
Dr. Griswold has at last brought out
the long talked of edition of Edgar A.
Poe’s “ Literati,’’ boasting to be an ex
pression of honest opinions about auto
rial merits and demerits. The whole
work is disgraceful to the American
press. It is introduced with a sketch
of the Life of Poe, in which he is pain
ted in the blackest colours, wicked and
malicious as Mepistopheles, without
the redeeming fact of his good manners.
If Poe was the unmitigated scamp
which he is described to be in this bio
graphy by his “ literary executor,” the
sooner he is handed over to oblivion,
the better, and I only wonder that any
clean-handed gentleman should have
been wiling to have meddled with
such a reeking mass of corruption. Let
us by all means have his productions,
which bear the unmistakeable marks of
genius—they are not difficult to be
come at, —but in the name of all de
cency and good taste, why rake and
dabble in the filthy kennels of vice, to
show that a man of great and peculiar
gifts was rotten at the heart. My ac
quaintance with Poe was so slight, that
1 am unable to say whether this revela
tion of the outrages of a drunkard, pre
sent any picture of the man in his bet
ter moments. Be that as it may, the
attempt to embalm such monstrosities
for the public gaze, is little better than
to hang up the body of the criminal to
day on the gibbet.
As to the criticisms of Poe, that are
here presented, some of them are suf
ficiently acute, and when concerned
with general principles, always inter
esting. But his personal remarks are
too evidently the product of spleen and
prejudice to have the slightest value.
Being anew bird of passage myself in
New-York, I can speak freely of the
manner in which he has spoken of au
thors, whom I know only by their
works. They strike me as superficial,
petulant, ill-considered, often malig
nant and sometimes infamous to the
highest degree. lam glad to find that
the work has fallen almost dead from
the press, and will probably cause no
sensation whatever. It can only be
regarded as a nuisance in the field of
all honest literature. T.
(glimpses of jOrtu ‘looks.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
From Beattie’s “Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell,”
lately published by the Harpers.
ANECDOTES.
I cannot dismiss the work without a
few- additional anecdotes of the Poet,
as he generally shone in the society
and conversation of his intimate friends.
The following, so far as I know, are new T
to the public, and sufficiently charac
teristic of the man.
******
The picture now known to the reader
as “Latilla’s Child,” was first exhibited
in Colnaghi’s window. Every morning,
on his way from Lincoln’s Inn Fields
to the Literary Union, Campbell had to
pass the window ; and, on coming op
posite, walked deliberately up “to have
another peep at the little roguish sprite,”
as he called it, He did not know- why,
but the picture was ever before his
eyes—it seemed to follow him ; and
when he sat down at night in his “lone
ly chambers,” the “ little minx” was
constantly looking at him—“ In short,
if ever poet was haunted by a painted
faery, I was. ‘ YVell,’ I said to myself,
‘ I think I can buy it; and it will be
pleasant company these long evenings;
a few guineas for such a piece of art
will be well spent.’ So I went boldly
in to Colnaghi, and asked the price.—
‘ Thirty guineas—oniy thirty !’ I came
immediately out, wishing I had not
asked the price—for thirty guineas , 1
can tell you, w ere no trifle to me at the
time. I went back to my chambers
with the sad conviction that much print
ing had left me nothing for painting. —
But still I could find no rest ; I was
fascinated —and in trying to pass the
shop next morning, the temptation was
irresistible. It was useless to plead
poverty —in I went; bought—paid for
it; and there the little sly minx (point
ing to the picture) has been laughing at
me ever since.”
******
One day that Colonel D and
another officer of the Guards were di
ning with us, the conversation turned
upon duelling—suggested, probably,
by a work which had just appeared.—
Our military friends contributed some
modern instance, in which both parties
w ere killed : “Served them right,” said
Campbell; “now I will tell you some
thing much better—an instance in which
neither party was killed. On my way
to Paris in 1814, I spent a few- days at
Rouen. Things were still in a very un
settled slate —national animosities ran
high; but, thanks to my Campbell
complexion, I was not taken for an En
glishman ; and as I spoke little, 1 heard
a great deal among the disbanded mili
taires, unsuspected of partiality to the
perfidious Angleterre.” He then de
scribed, in his dry humour, the charac
ters that frequented the cases and ta
ble-d’hdte,and continued :—“One even
ing we all met as usual at the supper
table—with a reinforcement of two
fierce-looking moustaches —very hungry
and very angry.
“ The questions of the day w T ere ta
ken up, one after another, and summa
rily disposed of. The events of the
last campaign w-ere criticised with great
acrimony; persons —facts—and achieve
ments were censured and distorted sum-
marily ; and even that admirable thing,
English gold, was treated as the basest
of metals. It was much respected,
nevertheless, by every person at the
hotel. Fearing no contradiction, each
spoke in his turn, and pronounced ve
hement philippics on the government
of England ; but I must do them the
justice to say, they allowed her army
to be second only to their own. All
this time,” continued the Poet. “ I was
an assenting party to this tirade; but
at length, as 1 did not join in the ap
plause which followed the speakers, my
silence, I saw, was looked upon with
suspicion. The truth was, 1 wanted to
get on to Paris : I had no mind to come
into collision with men whom mortified
pride had rendered desperate. But this
was impossible ; piqued at my silence,
one of the moustaches —determined to
have my concurrence—bawled out —
‘ N’est-ce pas vrai, Monsieur ?’ I look
ed him steadily in the face, and with
all the coolness I could assume, an
swered :— ‘ Non —Monsieur, ce n’est
pas vrai!’ (I think 1 may have said
something about mensonge—but no
matter). Never was orator taken more
aback. ‘ Pas vrai ?” He trembled
with rage —increased, no doubt, by the
discovery of my Anglo-French pro
nunciation. Every eye was fixed upon
me. Here was a pretty jix for poet!
Like the man in the play, I felt all the
while as if a cold iron skewer were pass
ing through my liver! I had indeed
fallen into an ambuscade, and never
was general more puzzed to devise a
retreat. As I said nothing more, the
fellow became infuriated —and stepping
up to me, said with a menacing air,
‘ Monsieur ! qui ites-vous /’ (Hang the
fellow ; 1 could have seen his head un
der his father’s guillotine when he ask
ed the question.)— 'Qui £tes-vous, dis
je ?’ he repeated, with a swaggering
emphasis.
“ And now came my turn. I started
to my feet—placed my back to the wall
—drew up my sleeves, thus—made a
step and a stamp in advance, and suit
ing the action to the word —and tin
look to both, — 1 Monsieur V 1 leplied, |
l je sou is Mail re d’ Esc rime—a rot re
service!’ Then, drawing myself up
with all my natural dignity, (and he
acted the scene,) I maintained a look of
defiance. But, thank heaven, the fel
low—struck, no doubt, by my glaliator
look—took me at my word and drew
back ; and, as Rouen was becoming too
hot for a poetical fenc ing-master , I pack
ed up my foils, started instantly, and
reached Paris in a sound skin.”
All this the Poet acted with a dry
humour peculiarly his own; concluding
with affecting triumph— ” You see how
a man of genius can get out of a
scrape. I hope it will be a salutary
lesson to you Guardsmen—it was the
most sanguinary affair 1 was ever en
gaged in !”
******
Speaking one evening of his visit
to Paris in 1814, tie dwelt w ith much
satisfaction on his having had the honour
of escorting Mrs. Siddons through the
Louvre, and of meeting John Kemble
and her at the house of Madame de
Stael. But one night on their way
home, after dining there, Kemble and
the Poet got into a warm dispute about
the respective merits of actors and au
thors. Kemble very kindly offered to
introduce him to Talma, whom he praised
as the greatest of living men. “I was
piqued,” said Campbell, ‘"for the honour
of my own craft, and told him frankly
that I had no great ambition for M.
Talma’s personal notice ; but if he had
any distinguished author among his
French acquaintances, I should be proud
of his introduction. ‘Talma, sir, is my
friend,’ said Coriolanus, with marked
emphasis. ‘Yes; but that does not
alter the question'—for we were both
in a humour to contest the point— * he
is not an author /’ In this way the con
versation went on till it came to ’Well,
then, you decline my introduction on
the ground that ’ *Yes,’ I interrupt
ed, ‘on the ground that he is an actor ,
not a constructor of dramas.’ * Par
don me, sir, this is personal: the car
riage, I fear, is becoming inconvenient
for two.’ ‘ Not at all; but if you find
it so, you can alight.’ ‘ ’Tis my car
riage, sir.’ ‘Oh, very well—l'll alight;
arritez!’ and in alighting the indignant
Poet turned round, saying, ‘This comes
of being over-intimate with players !’
“ Next morning,” said Campbell, “1
was astir very early, and with a faint
recollection of what had happened, 1
went immediately to my Roscius. The
great actor was just out of bed ; and
hearing my name, —‘Ah,my dear friend,’
he said, ‘ 1 am very glad to see you.
I was just sitting down to ask you to
dine with me.’ ‘To meet Talma, of
course ?’ ‘ Come and see.’ So I went;
and a most delightful evening we spent.
Not a syllable did he remember of hav
ing dropped me like a loose parcel in
the mud !*’
******
\\ hen complimented upon his poeti
cal fame, Campbell generally met the
speaker with some ludicrous deduction
—some mortifying drawback from the
ready-money reputation for which his
friends gave him credit: “Yes it was
very humiliating! Calling at an office
in Ilolborn for some information I was
in want ot, the mistress of the house
—a sensible, well-informed woman in
vited me to take a seat in the parlour;
her husband would be at home instant
ly, but if I was in a hurry, she would
try to give me the information required.
Well, I was in a hurry, as usual, thank
ed her much, received the information,
and was just wishing her good morning,
when she hesitatingly asked if I would
kindly put my name to a charity sub
scription-list. ‘By all means;’ and,
putting on my glasses, I wrote ‘T.
Campbell,’ and returned it with the air
of a man who has done something hand
some. ‘ Bless me,’ said she in a whis
per, looking at the name, ‘this must be
the great Mr. Campbell! Excuse me,
sir ; but may I just be so bold as to ask
if you be the celebrated gentleman of
that name ?’ ‘ Why, really, ma'am,no
—(yes, said my vanity)—my name is,
just as you see, T. Campbell,’ making
her at the same time a handsome boo.
‘ Mr. Campbell!’ she said, advancing a
step, ‘very proud and happy to be hon
oured with this unexpected call. My
husband is only gone to ’Change, and
will be so happy to thank you fer the
great pleasure we have had in reading
your most interesting work—pray take
a chair.’
“This is a most sensible woman,
thought I, and I dare say her husband
is a man of great taste and penetration.
‘ Madam,’ I said, ‘ 1 am much flattered
by so fair a compliment (laying the em
phasis on fair) : I will wait with much
pleasure ; but in the meantime U
1 forgot to pay my subsciptir,,,’ ■
handed me the book, and 1 p ut
just double of what I intended \\
had I ever so fair an excuse f O J. y,
ity ?
“‘lndeed,’ resumed the lady. Slll ;
‘ I consider this a most gratify i,,..’
dent; but here comes my
John, dear, this is the celebrated
Campbell'.’ ‘ Indeed !’ 1 repeat,,|
boo, and in two or three minute
were as intimate as any three
could be. ‘Mr. Campbell,’ Nl ;
worthy husband,‘Why. I’m often
ing this way,’ said I, ‘and will dr.
now and then, just to say how 4
‘ Delighted, Mr. Campbell, <l,f hr
Your work is such a favourite wit
wife there. Only last night w, s
till one o’clock, reading it.’ -\
kind indeed —very. Have you th,,
edition V ‘No, Mr. C., oars') s th, P
What, thinks I to myself, forty \
ago ! This is gratifyieg—quite an’ 1
loom in the family.
“ ‘Oh, Mr. Campbell,’ said the
‘what dangers what— what
must have sufferer:! Do you think
will ever make Christians of them
rid Cannibals ?’ -No doubt of that
dear,’ said the husband, triumphal,
‘only look what Mr. Campbell has
already !’ 1 now felt a strange sin,
in my ears; but recollecting nn
ters from Algiers, I said, ’< >h.
there is some hope of them
‘We shall certainly go to hear you’
Sunday ; and I’m sure your set
will raise a handsome collection.’
By this time 1 had taken my hat.
walked hastily to the threshold.
Campbell! are you ill?’ inquir,
two admirers. ‘No—not quite
thinking of them horrid Canibals!’
no wonder—l wish we had said no;i
about them !’ *1 wish so too ; but.
good lady, I am not the celebrated
Campbell!’ . . . ‘What! not the g
missionary]’ . . . ‘No. . . I am
the great Twalmley !’ and so sa\i
returned to my Chambers, mini
guinea, and a head shorter than wl
left them !” The quaint, grave Inin
with which this was told was irivsist
******
Taking a walk with Campbell
day up Regent-street, we were a,
ted by a wretched looking woman i
a sick infant in her arms, and an
starved little thing creeping at its n,
er’s side. The woman begged td
copper. I had no change, and ( a
bell had nothing but a sovereign. ‘
woman stuck fast to the Poet, a> it
read his heart in his face, and 1 „
feel his arm beginning to tremble,
length, saying something about its
ing his duty to assist such poor
tures, he told the woman to wait:
hastening into a mercer's shop, ad
rather impatiently, for change,
know what an excitable being hr
and now- he fancied all business,
give way until the change was supj
The shopman thought otherwise:
Poet insisted ; an altercation en
and in a minute or two the m.
jumped over the counter and eol!
him, telling us he would turn us
out —that he believed we came I
to kick up a row- for some dish
purpose. So here was a pretty and
ma. We defied him, but said we v
go out instantly on his apologizii:
his gross insult. All was uproar, (.
bell called out “Thrash the fell
thrash him!” “You will not gi
then?” said the mercer. “No. ie
until you apologize.” “Well. \v< -
soon see—John, go to Vine.street
fetch the police.” In a few mini
two policemen appeared ; one w. i
close to Mr. Campbell, tin- othei
myself. The Poet was now in
breathless indignation that he c-ould
j articulate a sentence. I told the
, lieemen the object he had in a
change; and that the shopman
most unwarrantably insulted u<.
gentleman,” I added, by way of c!
“is Mr. Thomas Campbell, the di
guished Poet—a man who would
hurt a flv, much less act with tin
honest intention that person has in
ated.” The moment I uttered the r
the policemen backed away two or
paces, as if awe-struck, and said. “
G—d, mon, is that Mr. Camme
lord rector o’ Glasgow ?” Yes
friend, he is, as this card may con
you,” handing it to him ; “all this
motion has been caused by a ink
By this time the mercer had <
down to a moderate temperature
in the end made every reparati
his power, saying, he was very bn
the time, and had “he but know
gentleman, he would have cluing- I
sovereigns for him !” “My dear t* I
said the Poet, (w ho had recoven I
speeeh.) “ 1 am not at all offer l I
and it was really laughable to see I
shaking hands long and vigor
each with perfect sincerity and ml
forgiveness.
* * * * * ft
“Pray,” it was asked, “what “'i
Campbell said to Mr. B - I
other evening ?” “Nothing partial
only we were all disputing, I
who should lead the way, on i*w
the drawing-room. B m >ai-i
would follow. The Poet insisted
as usual, he should leud. ‘ “V-|
Campbell,” he said, “after you. ill
please.” “YYell,” he rejoined. 1
proves you are no son of Ab ■
Have you never read —*the m/W 1
before, the minstrels follow
And with this text the Poet dn-'l
singer before him into the dining- I
******
In the month of August, 1 V,, 8
the reader may recollect, ban*
went by sea to attend the great B
versary Meeting of the Printing fl
Edinburgh. On board the steal B
met a countryman who, happen I
mention the object of the nue
said it would be a fine sight, an I
mated his intention of being) ■
Campbell was of the same opi : ’
drily observed that much W"i< j
pend on the chairman, and “" |t
w ho would be invited to preside
occasion. “YY hy, haven’t you Hb
“No—” “Tom Campbell th- ‘B
has been asked, and no doubt
only too happy to accept the in’ j
—poets are so vain !” “Arc b
of that ]” “Quite sure,” said tm b
ger ; “it w-as in yesterday sC h ■
that ‘the Bard of Hope, and I
would take the c-hair.” “lndeo ■
then,’ said Campbell —with n- ■
sad disappointment —“it the - ■
Chronicle’ says so, 1 fear it is ‘
But between you and me. Id 1! ■
might have found a better nun
“Y'es,” —said the stranger, v , b
nificant look—“so thought L
losa will be their own. H