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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