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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