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terward, I thought upon new means to
obtaine victuals, as well for our returne
into France, as to drive out the time
untill our embarking. These were
meditations of considerable difficulty.
The petty fields of the natives, never
contemplated with reference to more
than a temporary supply of food; —
never planted with reference to provi
ding for a whole year, were really in
adequate to the wants of such a body
of men, unless by grievously distress
ing their proprietors. The people of
Olata Utina had been moved to rage
in all probability, quite as much be
cause of their grain crops, about to be
torn from them, as with any feel
ing of indignation in consequence of
the detention of their Paracoussi. In
the sacks of corn which the Frenchmen
bore away upon their shoulders, they
beheld the sole provisions upon which,
for several months, their women and
children had relied to feed ; and their
quick imaginations were goaded to des
peration, as they depicted the vivid hor
rors of a summer consumed in vain
search after crude roots and indigesti
ble berries, through the forests. No
wonder the wild wretches fought to
avert such a danger ; as little may we
wonder that they fought successfully.
The Frenchmen, compelled to cast
down their sacks of grain, to use their
weapons, the red-men soon repossessed
themselves of all their treasure. W hen
Laudonniere reviewed hisharrassed sol
diers on their return from this expedi
tion, “all the mill that he found among
his company came but two men’s bur
dens.” To attempt to recover the pro
visions thus wrested from them, or to
revenge themselves for the indignity
and injury they had undergone, were
equally out of the question. The peo
ple of the Paracoussi could number
their thousands; and, buried in their
deep fortresses of forest, they could
defy pursuit. Laudonniere was com
pelled to look elsewhere for the re
sources which should keep his company
from want.
Two leagues distant from La Caro
line, on the opposite side of May River,
stood the Indian village of Saravahi.—
Not far from this might be seen the
smokes of another village, named
Emoloa. The Frenchmen, wandering
througli the woods in search of game,
had alighted suddenly upon these prim
itive communities. Here they had
been received with gentleness and love.
The natives were lively and benevolent.
They had never felt the wrath of the
white man, nor been made to suffer be
cause of his improvidence and necessi
ties. His thunderbolts had never been
hurled among their columns, and mown
them down as with a fiery scythe from
heaven. The Frenchmen did not fail
to remark that they were provident
tribes, with corn-fields much more am
ple than were common among the In
dians. These, they now concluded,
must be covered with golden grain, in
the season of harvest, and thither, ac
cordingly, Laudonniere despatched his
boats. A judicious officer conducted
the detachment, and stores of Europe
an merchandize were confided to him
for the purposes of traffic. He was
not disappointed in his expectations.—
His soldiers were received with open
arms; and a “good store of mil,” speak
ing comparatively, was readily pro
cured from the abundance of the In
dians.
But, in preparation for the return to
France, other and larger supplies were
necessary. The boats were again made
ready, and confided to La Vassieur and
D'Erlach. They proceeded to the riv
er to which the French had given their
name of Somme, now known as the
Satilla, but which was then called
among the Indians, the Iracana, after
their own beautiful queen. Os this
queen our Frenchmen had frequently
been told. She had been described to
them as the fairest creature,in the shape
of women, that the country had beheld:
nor was the region over which she
swayed, regarded with less admiration.
This was spoken of as a sort of terres
trial paradise. Here, the vales were
more lovely ; the waters more cool and
pellucid than in any other of the terri
tories of earth. Here, the earth pro
duced more abundantly than elsewhere;
the trees were more stately and mag
nificent, the flowers more beautiful and
gay, and the vines more heavily laden
with grapes of the most delicious fla
vour. Sweetest islets rose along the
shore over which the moon seemed to
linger with a greater fondness, and soft
breezes played ever in the capacious
forests, always kindling to emotions of
pleasure, the soft beatings of the de
lighted heart. The influences of scene
and climate were felt for good amongst
the people who were represented at
once as the most generous and gentle
of all the Floridian natives. They had
no wild passions, and coveted no fierce
delights. Under the sway of a woman,
at once young and beautiful, the daugh
ter of their most favourite monarch,
their souls had become attuned to sym
pathies which greatly tended to subdue
and to soothe the savage nature. Their
lives were spent in sports and dances.
No rebukes or restraints of duty, no
sordid cares or purposes, impaired the
dream of youth and rapture which pre
vailed everywhere in the hearts of the
people. Gay assemblages were ever
to be found among the villages in the
forests; singing their own delights and
imploring the stranger to be happy
also. They had a thousauk songs and
sports of youth and pleasure, which
made life a perpetual round of ever
freshening felicity. Innocent as wild,
no eye of the ascetic could rebuke en
joyments which violated no cherished
laws of experience and thought, and
their glad and sprightly dances, in the
deep shadows of the wood, to the live
ly clatter of Indian gourds and tam
bourines, were quite as significant of
harmless fancies as of thoughtless lives.
Happy was the lonely voyager, speed
ing along the coast, in his frail canoe,
when, suddenly darting out from the
forests of Iracana, a slight but lovely
creature, with flowing tunic of white
cotton, stood upon the head land, wa
ving her branch of palm or mytle, en
treating his approach, and imploring
him to delay his journey, while he
shared in the sweet festivities of love
and youth, for a season, upon the shore,
* cr ying with a sweet chant, —
“ Love you me not, lonely voyager
•—love you me not ? Lo ! am I not
lo\ ely; 1 who serve the beautiful queen
o Iracana.] will you not come to me,
01 a while!—come, hide the canoe
among the reeds, along the shore, and
make merry with the damsels of Ira
cana. I give to thee the palm and the
myrtle, in token of a welcome of peace
and love. Come hither, oh! lonely
voyager, and be happy for a season !”
And seldom were these persuasions
unavailing. The lonely voyager was
commonly won, as was he who, sailing
by Scylla and Charybdis, refused to
seal his ears with wax against the song
of the Syren. But our charmers, along
the banks of the Satilla, entreated to
no evil, laid no snares for the unwary,
meditating their destruction. They
sought only to share the pleasures which
they themselves enjoyed. The benev
olence of that love which holds its
treasure as as of little value, unless its
delights may be bestowed on others,
was the distinguishing moral in the In
dian Eden of Iracana; and he who
came with love, never departed without
a sorrow, such as made him linger as
he went, and soon return, when this
were possible, to a region, which, among
our Floridians, realized that period of
the Classic Fable, which has always
been designated, par excellence, as the
“age of gold.”
Our Frenchmen, under the conduct
of La Vasseur and D’Erlach, reached
the frontiers of Iracana, at an auspi
cious period. The season of harvest,
among all primitive and simple nations,
is commonly a season of great rejoicing.
Among a people like those of Iracana,
habitually accustomed to rejoice, it is
one in which delight becomes exulta
tion, and when in the supreme felicity
of good fortune, the happy heart sur
passes itself in the extraordinary ex
pression of its joy. Here w r ere assem
bled to the harvest, all the great lords
of the surrounding country. Here was
Athoree, the gigantic son of Satouriova,
a very Anak, among the Floridians. —
Here were Apalou, a famous chieftian,
—Tacadocorou, and many others, whom
our Frenchmen had met and known be
fore ; —some of w T hom indeed, they had
known in fierce conflict, and a strife
which had never been healed by any of
the gentle offices of peace.
But Iracana was the special territory
of peace. It was not permitted, among
the Floridians, to approach this realm
with angry purpose. Here war and
strife were tabooed things,—shut out,
denied and banished, and peace and
love, and rapture, were alone permit
ted exercise in abodes which were too
grateful to all parties, to be desecrated
by hostile passions. When, therefore,
our Frenchmen, beholding those only
with whom they had so lately fought,
were fain to take themselves to their
weapons, the chiefs themselves, with
whom they had done battle, came for
ward to embrace them, with open arms.
“ Brothers, all—brothers here, in
Iracana ;” was the common speech.—
“ Be happy here, brothers, no fight, no
scalp, nothing but love in Iracana, —
nothing but dance and be happy.”
Even had not this assurance sufficed
with our Frenchmen, the charms of the
lovely Queen herself, her grace and
sweetness, not unmixed with a dignity
wich declared her habitual rule, must
have stifled every feeling of distrust in
their bosoms, and effectually exorcised
that of war. She came to meet the
strangers with a mingled ease and state,
a sweetness and a majesty, which were
inexpressibly attractive. She took a
hand of La Vasseur and of D’Erlach,
with each of her own. A bright, hap
py smile lightened in her eye, and
warmed her slightly dusky features with
a glow. Rich in hue, yet delicately
thin, her lips parted with a pleasure, as
she spoke to them, which no art could
simulate. She bade them welcome,
joined their hands with those of the
great warriors by whom she was attend
ed, and led them away among her dam
sels, of whom a numerous array were
assembled, all habited in the richest
garments of their scanty wardrobes.
The robes of the Queen herself were
ample. The skirts of her dress fell be
low her knees, a thing very uncommon
with the women of Florida. Over
this, she wore a tunic of crimson, which
descended below her hips. A slight
cincture embraced, without confining,
her waist. Long strings of sea-shell, of
the smallest size, but of colours and
tints the most various and delicate,
drooped across her shoulders, and
were strung, in loops and droplets, to
the skirts of her dress and her symar.
Similar strings encircled her head, from
which the hair hung free behind, almost
to the ground, a raven-like stream, of
the deepest and most glossy sable. —
Her form was equally stately and
graceful—her carriage betrayed a free
dom, which was at once native and the
fruit of habitual exercise. Nothing
could have been more gracious than the
sweetness of her welcome: nothin”
more utterly unshadowed than the sun
shine which beamed in her countenance.
She led her guests among the crowd,
and soon released La Vasseur to one of
the loveliest girls who came about her.
Alphonse D’Erlach she kept to herself.
She was evidently struck with the sin
gular union of delicacy and youth with
sagacity and character, which declared
itself in his features and deportment.
Very soon were all the parties en
gaged in the mazes of the Indian dance
of Iracana, —a movement which, unlike
the waltz of the Spaniards, less stately
perhaps, and less imposing—yet re
quires all its flexibility and freedom,
and possesses all its seductive and vo
luptuous attractions. Half the night
was consumed with dancing ; then gay
parties could be seen gliding into ca
noes, and darting across the stream to
other villages and places of abode.—
Anon, might be perceived a silent
couple gliding away to sacred thickets;
and with the sound of a mighty conch,
which strangely broke the silence of the
forest, the Queen herself retired with
her attendants, having first assigned to
certain of her chiefs the task of provi
ding for the Frenchmen. Os these she
had already shown herself sufficiently
heedful and solicitous. Not sparing of
her regards to La Vasseur, she had par
ticularly devoted herself to D’Erlach.
and, while they danced together, if the
truth could be spoken of her simple
heart, great had been its pleasure at
those moments, when the spirit of the
dance required that she should yield
herself to his grasp, and die away lan
guidly in his embrace.
“Ah ! handsome Frenchman,” she
said to her companion,—“ You please
me so much.”
His companions were similarly en
tertained. Captain La Vasseur was
soon satisfied that he too was greatly
pleasing to the fair and lovely savage
who had been assigned him; and not
one of the Frenchmen, but had his share
of the delights and endearments which
made the business of life in Iracana.—
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
The soldiers had each a fair creature,
with whom he waltzed and wandered;
and fond discourse, everywhere in the
great shadows of the wood, between
sympathizing spirits, opened anew
idea of existence to the poor Huguenots
who, hitherto, had only known the land
of Florida by its privations and its
gold. The dusky damsels, alike sweet
and artless, brought back to our poor
adventurers precious recollections of
youthful fancies along the banks of the
Garonne and the Loire, and it is not
improbable, that, under the excitement
of new emotions, had Laudonniere pro
posed to transfer La Caroline to the
Satilla, or Somme, instead of May
River, they might have been ready to
waive, for a season at least, their im
patient desire to return to France.
Night was at length subdued to si
lence on the banks of the Satilla. The
sounds of revelry had ceased. All
slept, and the transition from night to
day passed, sweetly and insensibly, al
most without the consciousness of the
parties. But, with the sunrise, the
great conch sounded in the forest. The
Eden of the Floridian did not imply a
life of mere repose. The people were
gathered to their harvesting, and the
labours of the day, under the auspices
of a gracious rule, were made to seem
a pleasure. Hand in hand, the Queen
Iracana, with her maidens, and her
guests, followed to the maize fields.—
Already had she found D’Erlach, and
her slender fingers, without any sense
of shame, had taken possession of his
hand, which she pressed at moments
very tenderly. He had already in
formed her of the wants and sufferings
of his garrison, and she smiled with a
new feeling of happiness, as she eager
ly assured him that his people should
receive abundance. She bent with her
own hands the towering stalks; and,
detaching the ears, flung to the ground
a few in all those places, on which it
was meant that the heaps should be ac
cumulated. “Give these to our friends,
the Frenchmen,” she said, indicating
with a sweep of the hand, a large tract
of the field, through which they went.
D’Erlach felt this liberality. He
squeezed her fingers fondly in return,
—saying words of compliment which,
possibly; in her ear, meant something
more than compliment.
Then followed the morning feast;
then walks in the woods; then sports
upon the river in their canoes ; and
snaring the fish in weirs, in which the
Indians were very expert. Evening
brought with it a renewal of the dance,
which again continued late in the night.
Again did Alphonse D’Erlach dance
with Iracana ; but it was now seen that
her eyes saddened with the overfulness
of her heart. Love is not so much a
joy as a care. It is so vast a treasure,
that the heart, possessed of the fullest
consciousness of its value, is for ever
dreading its loss. The happiness of the
Floridian Eden had been of a sort
which never absorbed the soul. It lack
ed the intensity of a fervent passion.
It was the life of childhood—a thing
of sport and play, of dance and dream
—not that eager and avaricious passion
which knows never content, and is nev
er sure, even when most happy, from
the anxieties and doubts which beset
all mortal felicity. Already did our
Queen begin to calculate the hours be
tween the present, ainl that Which should
witness the departure of the pleasant
Frenchmen.
“ You will go from me,” said she to
D’Erlach, as they went apart from the
rest, wandering along the banks of the
river and looking out upon the sea.—
“ You will go from me, and I shall nev
er see you any more.”
“I will come again, noble Queen, be
lieve me,” was the assurance.
“Ah ! come soon,” she said, “come
soon, for you please me very much,
Aphon.^
Such was the soft Indian corruption
of his christened name. No doubt,
she too gave pleasure to ‘Aphon.’—
How could it be otherwise ? How
could he prove insensible to the tender
and fervid interest which she so inno
cently betrayed in him I He did not.
He was not insensible ; and vague fan
cies were quickening in his mind as re
spects the future. He was opposed to
the plan of returning to France. He
was for carrying out the purposes of
Coligny, and fulfilling the destinies of
the colony. He had warned Laudon
niere against the policy he pursued,
had foreseen all the evils resulting from
his unwise counsels, and there was that
in his bosom which urged the glorious
results to France, of a vigorous and
just administration of a settlement in
the western hemisphere, in which he
was to participate, with his energy and
forethought, without having these per
petually baffled by the imbecility and
folly of an incapable superior. In such
an event, how sweetly did his fancy
mingle with his own fortunes those of
the gentle and loving creature who
stood beside him. He told her not his
thoughts—they were indeed, fancies,
rather than thoughts—but his arm gent
ly encircled her waist, and while her
head drooped upon her bosom, he press
ed her hand with a tender earnestness,
which spoke much more loudly than any
language to the heart.
The hour of separation came at
length. Three days had elapsed in the
delights of the Floridian Eden. Our
Frenchmen were compelled to tear
themsehes away. The objects for
which they came had been gratified.—
The bounty of the lovely Iracana had
filled with grain their boats. Her sub
jects had gladly borne the burdens from
the fields to the vessels, while the
strangers revelled with the noble and
the lovely. But their revels were now
to end. The garrison at La Caroline,
it was felt, waited with hunger, as well
as hope and anxiety for their return,
and they dared to delay no longer. The
parting was more difficult than they
themselves had fancied. All had been
well entertained, and all made happy
by their entertainment. If Alphonse
D'Erlach had been favoured with the
sweet attentions of a queen, Captain
La Vasseur had been rendered no less
happy by the smiles of the loveliest
among her subjects. He had touched
her heart also, quite as sensibly as had
the former that of Iracana. Similarly
fortunate had been their followers. Au
thority had ceased to restrain in a re
gion where there was no danger of in
subordination, and our Frenchmen,
each in turn, from the sergeant to the
sentinel, had been honoured by regards
of beauty, such as made him forgetful,
for the time, of precious memories in
France. Nor had these favours, be
stowed upon the Frenchmen, provoked
the jealousy of the numerous Indian
chieftains who were present, and who
shared in these festivities. It joyed
them the rather to see how frankly the
white men could unbend themselves to
unwonted pleasures, throwing aside that
jealous state, that suspicious vigilance,
which, hitherto, had distinguished their
bearing in all their intercourse with the
Indians.
“ Women of Iracana too sweet,” said
the gigantic son of Satouriova, Athore,
to Captain La Vasseur, as the parties,
each with a light and laughing damsel
in his grasp, whirled beside each other
in the mystic maze of the dance.
“ 1 much love these women of Ira
cana,” said Apalou, as fierce a warrior
in batttle, as ever swore by the altars
of the Indian Moloch. “ I glad you
love them too, like me. Iracana women
good for too much love ! They make
great warrior forget his enemies.”
“ Ha!” said one addressing D’Erlach,
“You have beautiful women in your
country, like Iracana, the Queen ?”
But, we need not pursue these de
tails. The hour of separation had ar
rived. Our Frenchmen had brought
with them a variety of commodities
grateful to the Indian eye, with which
they designed to traffic; but the bounty
of Iracana, which had anticipated all
their wants, had asked for nothing in
return. The treasures of the French
men were accordingly distributed in
gifts among the noble and women
of the place. Some of these Iracana
condescended to take from the hand of
Aphon. Her tears fell upon his offer
ing. She gave him in return two small
mats, woven of die finer straws of the
country, with her own hands —wrought,
indeed, while D’Enlch sat beside her
in the shade of a great oak by the river
bank—and “so artificially wrought,” in
the language of the chronicle, “as it
was impossible to make it better.” The
poor Queen had fev words—
“ You will come to me, Aphon , —
you will ? you will? I too much want
you! Come soor, Aphon. Iracana
will dance never to more till Aphon
be come.”
“Aphon” felt, at that moment, that
he could come without sorrow. He
promised that he would. Perhaps he
meant to keep hs promise; but we
shall see. The word was given to be
aboard, and the trumpet rang, recalling
the soldier who still lingered in the for
est shadows with some duskv damsel
%/
for companion. All were at length as
sembled, and with a last squeeze of her
hand, D’Erlach took leave of his sor
rowful queen. She turned away into
the woods, but soon came forth again,
unable to deny herself another last
look.
But the Frenchmen were delayed.—
One of their men was missing. Where
was Louis Bourdon ? There was no
answer to his name. The boats were
searched, the banks of the river, the
neighbouring woods, the fields, the In
dian village, and all in vain. The
Frenchmen observed that the natives
exhibited no eagerness in the search.—
They saw that many faces were clothed
with smiles, when their efforts resulted
fruitlessly. They could not suppose
that any harm had befallen the absent
soldier. They could not doubt the in
nocence of that hospitality, which had
shown itself so fond. They conjectured
rightly when they supposed that Louis
Bourdon, a mere youth of twenty, had
gone off with one of the damsels of
Iracana, whose seductions he had found
it impossible to withstand. D’Erlach
spoke to the Queen upon the subject.
She gave him no encouragement. She
professed to know nothing,and probably
did not, and she would promise nothing.
She unhesitatingly declared her belief
that he was in the forest, with someone
that “he so much loved ;” but she as
sured D’Erlach that to hunt them up
would be an impossibility.
“ Why you not stay with me, Aphon
as your soldier stay with the woman
he so rnnch love ? It is good to stay,
Iracana will love you too much more
than other women. Ah ! you love not
much the poor Iracana.”
“ Nay, Iracana, I love you greatly.
I will come to you again. I find it
hard to tear myself away. But my
people—”
“ Ah! you stay with Iracana, and
much love Iracana, and you have all
these people. They will plant for you
many fields of corn ; you shall no more
want; and we will dance when the
evening comes, and we shall be so hap
py, Aphon and Iracana to live together;
Aphon the great paracoussi, and Ira
cana to be Queen no more.”
It was not easy to resist these plead
ings. But time pressed. Captain La
Vasseur was growing impatient. The
search after Louis Bourdon was aban
doned, and the soldiers were again or
dered on board. The anxieties of La
Vasseur being now’ awakened, lest
others of his people should be spirited
away. Os this the danger was consid
erable. The Frenchman was a more
flexible being than either the English
man or Spaniard. It was much easier
for him to assimilate with the simple
Indian ; and our Huguenot soldiers,
who had very much forgot ton their re
ligion in their diseased thirst after gold,
now, in the disappointment of the one
appetite w ere not indifferent to the'eon
solations afforded by a life of ease and
sport, and the charms which addressed
them in forms so persuasive as those
of the damsels of Iracana. La Vas
seur began to tremble for his command,
as he beheld the reluctance of his sol
diers to depart. He gave the signal
hurriedly to Alphonso D’Erlach, and
with another sweet single pressure of
the hand, he left the lovely Queen to
her own melancholy musings. She
followed with her eyes the departing
boats till they were clean gone from
sight, then buried herself in the deep
est thickets where she might weep in
security.
Other eyes than hers pursued the
retiring barks of the Frenchmen, with
quite as much anxiety ; and long after
she had ceased to see them. On a lit
tle headland jutting out upon the river
below, in the shade of innumerable vines
and flowers, crouching in suspense, was
the renegade, Louis Bourdon. By his
side sat the dusky damsel who had be
guiled him from his duties. While his
comrades danced, he was flying through
the thickets. The nation were, many
of them, conscious of his flight; but
they held his offence to be venial, and
they encouraged him to proceed. They
lent him help in crossing the river, at
a point below ; the father of the woman
with whom he fled providing the canoe
with which to transport him beyond
the danger of pursuit. Little did our
Frenchmen, as the boats descended’
dream who watched them from the
headland beneath which they passed.
Many were the doubts, frequent the
changes, in the feelings of the capricious
renegade, as he saw his countrymen
approaching him, and felt that he might
soon be separated from them and home
forever, by the ocean walls of the At
lantic. Whether it was that his Indian
beauty detected in his face the fluctua
tions of his thoughts, and feared that,
on the near approach of the boats, he
would change his purpose and abandon
her for his people, cannot be said ; but
just then she wound herself about with
in his arms, and looked up in his face,
while her falling hair enmeshed his
hands, and contributed, perhaps, still
more firmly to ensnare his affections,
llis heart had been in his mouth ; he
could scarcely have kept from crying
out to his comrades as the boats drew
nigh to the cliff; but the dusky beau
ties beneath his gaze, the soft and deli
cate form within his embrace, silenced
all the rising sympathies of brotherhood
in more ravishing emotions. In a mo
ment their boats had gone by ; in a lit
tle while they had disappeared from
sight, and the arms of the Indian wo
man, wrapped about her captive, de
clared her delight and rapture in the
triumph which she now regarded as se
cure. Louis Bourdon little knew how
much he had escaped, in thus becom
ing a dweller in the Floridian Eden.
Cfje Ini'rrii altar.
From the Episcopal Recorder.
In the evening, ye say. It will be fair weather, for the
sky is red. —Matt. xvi. 2.
Behold the opening clouds ! The sable sky,
Which the long day hath worn a funeral hue,
Gives though dispersing mists heaven’s gentle
blue
Unto the grateful vision ! —Scattering, fly
The heavy masses that but lately hung
Drearily o’er the world : for light hath flung
Her robe o’er dark, and gladness over gloom.
My clouds, (those spirit clouds) are parting
too ;
And the bright sun, out-bursting, doth illume
My being’s atmosphere. How sweet joy’s
hue
Stealing o’er clouds of sorrow ! O ! how fair
The rainbow tints of hope and happiness
Thrown on the sky, which seemed as it could
wear
But mist and gray ! God lives! and yet
will bless.
From the Christian Register.
GENTLE WORDS.
Hast ever seen the wind- wafted seed,
Dropp’d low in shady dell,
All silently awake to life,
As if by magic’s spell 1
Hast ever weighed each little word,
Breath-wafted on the air ?
And sought to know, of good or ill,
The import it would bear ?
As from the little seed, there springs
The bright-hued, heaven sent flower—
So gentle words their fruitage yield,
Joy gilding many an hour.
Lesson for Sunday, October 6.
JOB’S DESIRE.
‘‘Oh! that I knew where I might find him! that 1
might come even to his seat! I would order my cause he
fore him, and fill my mouth with arguments.—Job xxiii,
2,3.
This is the language of a pious soul,
under the hidings of God’s countenance.
Job had great trials, but exercised
great patience under them. Observe
here —
His Distressing State. He mourns
an absent God ; that is, he has lost for
a season the sweet sense of his presence.
How often is this the case with us ?
But whence does it arise ? Our iniqui
ties separate between him and our
souls, so that he hides his face from us:
they are as clouds gathering around us,
and obstructing our views of the Sun
of Righteousness. Our souls cleave
unto the dust, instead of soaring to the
skies.
His Anxious Wish. He desires to
find God. This is a good evidence of
a renewed heart. llow distressing is
it, when the believer goes from one or
dinance to another, to the Bible, the
field of meditation, the throne of grace,
the sanctuary, still exclaiming, “O!
that I knew where I might find him !”
Nothing will do as a substitute for God.
Without him the world is a blank, life
a burden, the Bible a sealed book,
and ordinances tasteless and insipid.
His Fixed Determination.
He would draw near. “That I might
come even to his seat.” He would no
longer keep at a distance. Thus the
Christian’s necessities urge him, the
goodness of God emboldens him, and
his desires make him eloquent.
He would open his cause. “I would
order my cause before him.” And if
he had said, I would unbosom myself
to him, and tell him the inward dis
tress and anguish of my spirit; I would
come, not to complain, but to beseech ;
not to dictate, but to submit ; not to
charge him with folly, but to take
shame to myself.
He would plead. “And fill my
mouth with arguments.” He would
remind him of his great name, his for
mer loving kindness, his promises, and
his power. Let us rejoice that God
is to be found of them that seek him.
“O that I knew the secret place,
Where I might find my God !
I’d spread my wants before his face,
And pour my woes abroad.”
ETERNITY *OF GOD.
Who the spirituality of his nature
places hi beyond the reach of our di
rect cognizance, there are certain other
essential properties of his nature which
place him beyond the reach of our pos
sible comprehension. Let me instance
the past Eternity of the Godhead.
One might figure a futurity that never
ceases to flow, and which has no termi
nation : but who can climb his ascend
ing way among the obscurities of that
Infinite which is behind him? Who
can travel in thought along the track of
generations gone by, till he has overta
ken the eternity which lies in that di
rection 1 Who can look across the
millions of ages which have elapsed,
and from an ulterior post of observa
tion, look again to another and anoth
er succession of centuries : and at each
further extremity in that seiies of retro
spects, stretch backward his regards
on antiquity as remote and indefinite
as ever? Could we, by any number
of successive strides over these mighty
intervals, at length reach the fountain
head of duration our spirits might be at
rest. But to think of duration as hav
ing no fountain-head ; to think of time
with no beginning; to uplift the imagi
nation along the heights of an antiquity
which hath positively no summit: to
soar these upward steeps till, dizzied
by the altitude, we can keep no longer
on the wing; for the mind to make
these repeated flights from one pinna
cle to another, and instead of scaling
the mysterious elevation, to lie baffled
at its foot, or lose itself among the far,
the long with drawing recesses of that
primeval distance, which at length
merges away into an uufathomable un
known ; that is an exercise utterly dis
comfitting to the puny faculties of man.
We are called to stir ourselves up that
we may take hold of God, but “the
clouds and darkness which are round
about him” seem to repel the enter
prise as hopeless : and man, as if over
borne by a sense of littleness, feels as
if nothing can be done but to make
prostrate observance of all his facul
ties before him.—- Chalmers .
cDrigitinl ndrtj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LINES.
“love is the aroma of passion.”
At golden morn, when dew drops shine,
The roses’ breath is most divine,
And the precious fragrance floating by,
Will tell where the azure violets lie.
The lilies pale, with od’rous smile,
Lead where their starry beauties dwell;
And tuberose, sweeter far than these.
Reigns queen of the enamor’d breeze.
And ev’ry odor rich and rare,
Blends with the smile of morning fair;
And the sweet air gathers the worship giv’n
And softly floats to yonder heav’n.
Return at eve—the flowers are dead !
But from their laded blooms is shed,
An essence faint, yet far more dear,
Than the rich scents, at morn, were here.
It tells of loveliness gone by,
Till mem’ry heaves a bitter sigh,
But sweetest Hope, with witching smile,
Steals to the lonely heart the while:
Whisp’ring low, to the list’ning ear,
In tones, the spirit thrills to hear,
“Weep not! for Beauty’s is the dow’r,
Os quick and resurrective pow’r.
The delicate perfume ling’ring nigh
Is fraught with richest prophecy :
The waste parterre again shall glow,
More bright than kingly pomp and show.”
So love—the fragrant bloom of life, —
But seems to perish mid earth’s strife:
Its sweetness, ling’ring, unforgot,
Tells the true heart, It dieth not !
ROSE DU SUD.
Charleston, Sept, 28th, 1850
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
TO ONE AFAR.
BY JENNIE ELDER.
0, could my soul, dove-like, unfold her pin
ion,
And through the waves of air like shallop
launch,
I’d speed me to that dear benign dominion,
Where grows for me the olive branch ;
Close to thy heart, dear friend, I’d fold my
wing,
And drink renewal from affection’s spring.
Dost ever think of me ? When evening shad
ows
Steal o’er the soft resplendence of the West,
Frowning on hill-tops—lowringin the meadows
Like troubled spirits o’er the regions blest—
This is the hour when strongest lives my spirit,
Dost thy soul, now, aught from the past in
herit ?
When the pale moon, though azure radiance
floating,
Casteth her glance serene upon the earth.
Like some heart-angel glancing in and noting
The springing beauties which therein have
birth :
This is the hour when swells the fount of feel
ing,
Say is its influence to thy soul appealing 1
When Night doth bend, like a fond mother,
hushing
Earth and her children to refreshing rest,
And air is silent, save with gentle rushing
Os angel watchers from dominions blest:
These are the hours I dream of joyful meet
ing—
Do thy lips then repeat dear fancied greeting ?
When, on the hill-tops glows the fair young
morning
In rosy radiance,flashing with bright smiles,
Fair, dewy wreaths her ample brow adorning ;
Bird-music waving her through earth’s dim
aisles:
This is the hour, I lean on hope’s frail an
chor—
Make real, my friend, those gift* for which I
thank her.
When, even as now, the letter thou hast writ
ten
Is in my hand, and mingled smiles and tears
Flit free and fast—the past’s deep fount is
smitten,
Yielding afresh the garner’d hoard of years,
To flee to thee my longing soul is sighing—
Say, wilt thou keep with me a faith undying ?
Farewell! Farewell! O, sadly, very sad! y,
This echo lives in my tenacious heart,
Grasping at fancies which still buoy me madly,
Whisp’ring we shall not ever live apart—
Say, when life’s waves upon death’s shore have
beat me,
Wilt thou above the wave and shadow meet
me?
J.unenberg. Va.
(T'lir fesnijist.
Forthe Southern Literary Gazatt*.
EGERIA:
Or, Voice* from the Wood* and Way*id*.
THIRD SERIES.
XV.
Fall and Spring. The English des
cribe as a provincialism of America,
the use of the term “fall,” to indicate
our autumn ; but how properly is this
word the antagonist to “Spring,” as
the indication of the opposite season
The Spring of the leaf and the Fall of
the leaf find their sources in a common
figure ; are equally pleasing and equal
ly proper. *
XVI.
Argument. Never argue with a fool,
The probability is he will never under
stand you, and if you understand him.
you are apt to gain nothing by it. In
all probability you will misunderstand
each other The very attempt of a fool
to argue, shows the possession of vast
self-esteem. This will always make
him suspicious of a superior. Your
very generalities will vex him as so ma
ny personalities, and he will be apt to
resent his own emptiness of head by
testing physically the strength of yours.
Risk nothing with this class of persons.
XVII.
Conventional Virtue. Conventional
virtue is only an outer barrier to that
which is intrinsic; but it is a barrier
never overthrown until the citadel
is prepared to surrender.
XVIII.
Fashions. A light and frivolous
people may do a thousand things with
impunity, that it will not be safe for
an earnest and impassioned race to
think of. When fashions, borrowed
from foreign nations, persuade a depar
ture from the customs of a people,
there is always some danger of a loss
of purity among them.
XIX.
Passion. What may be mere folly
to you, might be my madness. Your
safety lies in the rapidity with which
youpassfrom passion topasssion. With
me the passion must burn out first
before it passes. My lamp is of Nap
tha. I must beware how it meets the
flame.
XX.
Insects. There are certain insects
which we seek to brush away, but never
to destroy. If they perish in the ope
ration, it is due rather to their inferior
vitulity than to the purpose of the des
troyer. They have the satisfaction of
knowing that, in incurring their fate
they have provoked no bad feeling in
the breast of him who has been unwil
lingly their executioner.
XXI.
Executioner. I can readily under
stand how certain people merit the
gallows, but are slow to perceive why
I snould be Jack Ketch on the occa
sion.
XXII.
Weapons. The man’s plan of war
fare is always in correspondence with
his own nature. Filth is the natural
weapon of the hand that flings it.
(Dnr I'fttrrs.
Correspondence of the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW YORK, Sept. 28, 1850.
Your mails down South have got so
bejuggled that I was afraid to send
you a letter last week, fearing that
back numbers might so accumulate as
to choke up your columns. There was
nothing however, very important for
you to be apprized of, which you have
not already learned from your redac
teur en chef, who, I find, is still vibra
ting between the fascinations of New-
York and Philadelphia. You will per
ceive from the daily papers that he has
perpetrated a successful song, as a
welcome to Jenny, which,as performed
by the Quartette Club, went off with
not a little eclat.
Anew cause of excitement connected
with Jenny Lind, has just sprung up in
our musical circles, which calls forth a
plenty of party spirit, and promises a
good deal of amusement to the out
siders, who w T atch the game. I allude
to the plans of Mr. Bochsa to super
sede the Swedish Nightingale, by the
charms of the favourite Madam Bishop,
who, it now seems, has quite stolen a
march on Barnum, in securing the first
possession of the new Musical Hall.
Soon after Jenny’s first appearance, her
claims to the character of a great ar
tist were very peremptorily challenged,
and in spite of the overwhelming burst
of popular favor, the recusants to her
dominion have been constantly in
creasing. Mr. Bochsa, it is said, with
his usual adroit strategy, determined
to take advantage of this split in the
harmonic sphere,and as a master stroke
of policy, to prevent Jenny Lind from
appropriating the magnificent Hall,
which it had been universally taken for
granted would bear her name. Barnum
has always felt as sure of this building
as if he had already taken possession of
it, but he reckoned without his host,and
having made some delay in the execu
tion of the contract, Tripler ignores his
claims, with all the suavity of a sum
mer’s morning, and quietly guaranties
the first use of the Hall to Bochsa and
Madam Bishop. The effect of this
move on the future policy of Barnum
has not yet transpired. He is absent
on the Boston trip, and no one knows
what will be the next step of the Great
Defeated. Jenny, herself, I know, is
well satisfied with Castle Garden, and
on some accounts, would prefer it to
any other place. Its vast size suits her
“sympathy with the masses,” and the
musical effect is well adapted to her
peculiar style.
The Tripler Hall, as it is now to be
named, will be opened, it thought,
as soon as week after next. It is the
intention of Bochsa to commence the
campaign in the most vigorous manner.
The Orchestre, I am informed, is to
consist of one hundred and fifty instru
ments ; the chorus will be on an equal
ly large scale —the whole arrangement
comprising the best talent that can be
procured for money on, either side of
the Atlantic. A series of Concerts is
proposed, which will surpass any thing
of the kind ever yet attempted in this
country, and if successful, Bochsa is to
form a Musical Academy with the most
ample resources for thorough musical
education, and rivalling the great Con
servatories of Europe. There is no
doubt in regard to Bochsa’s remarkable
talents, his capacity for management,
and his bold spirit of enterprise, if
any man in New-York can put through
this gigantic plan, Bochsa is the person,
He is backed up by many powerful
friends, and will not fail for want of en
ergetic co-operation.
Jenny Lind’s reception in Boston
was even more extravagant than any
hing which occurred in New-York.
Give the demure Puritans a
none can get up a taller head J **
than they. The colloquy w j,-
place between the Mayor
Nightingale is one of the’riches!
on record. I can conceive of
more exquisitely comical tha
grave, formal, argumentative on,; a
of the starched-up functionary t
vince the divine Jenny tha*
enthusiasm of the Bostonians w
called forth by her distinction 7
artist, but by the virtues of her
character. There stood the J(
dignified as a crow-bar, pouri n „
solemn nonsense into her 10ng.*,,-:
ear, while poor Jenny, wholly
certed by such atrocious persona
accordingly deprecates any further
rage. The best of the joke U to |
the interview dressed up in the B
papers, as though the official flatt,,,
the City master of ceremonies v,
glorious specimen of social cordia
The Astor Place Theatre open,-
Monday night with a crowded 1
attracted by the farce of the new
ported Parisian ballet compatw
piece selected for the fi
was “ Ondine,” but i u .
too swift preparation, and on tl/
disappointed the audience. M
lestine Franck is the principal dan*
and displays talents which will
her a general favourite.
I see that Boker’snew Play has ;,
produced at the Walnut-street Th u
Philadelphia, with unbounded applai
It has been performed three time*,
with increased effect, at each repetit
This is alike creditable to the tast
the Philadelphia audiences, and to
power of popular adaptation oornni;
ed by the classical and refined auti
1 cannot but wonder that his ftn
play, “Calaynos,” which has had sue
brilliant run in London, has not b,
brought out in any American theat
It is a rare thing, 1 own, for Eugli
critics to do justice to the products
of American genius, but in this,- a *
they have risen above the influence
of national prejudice, and awarded
the highly gifted author, a more si
meed of praise than he has receive,;
the hands of his own countrymen
one who has read his “ Anne Bole,
can fail to perceive the elements of*
dramatic power.
Have I said anything to you a
the new English novel, if it so be
ed, entitled “Alton Locke ?” It ist
the pen of a clergyman of the E
lished Church, written in the p I
of a Tailor-Poet, and Chartist, an
ed with a wild vigour and pathos, I
English journals, I see, almost un
mously speak of it as one of the n
remarkable books of the dav, in -
of the unsparing hand with whi,
lays open the source of many j ,
ing social evils in the predomin.
of trade and the moneyed interest,
keen dissection of society has cm
atively little interest in this c ■
but ite masterly vigour of descr
and dialogue will make it rea l *
eagerness every where. I under*;:
that it is in press by the Harper*
will soon make its appearance.
A new work by Ik. Marvel. :
author of “The Battle Summer,
the spicy Parisian Correspondent
the Courier and Enquirer , is pas
through the press of Baker & Seri
It is said to be free from the dete*;
Carlyleisms which were patched
the main fabric of a good English*l
in his “Battle Summer,” and Ih-s; j
possess a great deal of life and ago j
description and dissertation of i j
You will find a specimen of it it I
new* number of Harper's Ma<yi\
which has just crept out to the >ui
day,—and a plenty of sunshine i'l
too, judging from the fact that it I
to forty-five thousand purchasers.
Anew Novel is out, calla l i
hame,” by the author of “Talbot A j
non,” which with a strange, far-fetJ
unnatural, and I may say imposl
plot, shows a fine descriptive taJ
and a very respectable power of “1
ing up the incidents of the narral
with artistic effect. Lamartines “
eveive,” translated by Fayette
inson, appears to-day.
Mr. James’ Lectures in Boston. M
been delivered to small audience:
pretty much “knocked into a cot ’
hat” I fancy, by the Lind mania.
After the battle of Essling. the L
soldiers were in a state of the -
destitution, without shelter, cloth
even food for the wounded Lari’
Chief of the Medical Stall, seize !
the spare saddle-horses that he Gotl
and converted them into soup
patients, the cuirasses of the 3
cavalry he used instead of pots. J
erals and Officers complained
Emperor,who summoned Lain,’
him. “ You have, ” said the go 1
presumed to make soup for
of my officers’ horses.” “1 ha” - ,
replied Larrey. “Well, sir, I
poleon, “I therefore promote } ||
the rank of Baron of the Lmp l
Courting in Andalusia. ! I
lage near Aracena, when a y° u!! - I
wishes to profess himselt the ’ ■
some fair maiden, lie proceed > ■
residence, bearing in his hand ■
staff’ used by the mountaineers- |
caehiporra , or, shortly, por ,a - j’ B
nounces his presence by a 1’ - fl
at the door. At the same ‘ ■
staff'is placed by the side ot 1 H
retires a short distance, P rt ' x 1 Km
claiming, u Porra within, oi ]> ( ' r ■
out f’ Should the maiden be o •: ■
to favour his suit, she app l * ■
removes the staff in-doors, 1 .1
verse, it is hurled to the ot .■
the street. Whereupon tla \. ■
derstands his fate, and wen *
back, dejected and disconso