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WHIM IMMII Ell®.
TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE.
(Original |Mftrtj.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
true love and false.
* fragment, R ROM A! * unpublished poem.
T
He that loves truly, fervently, and deep,
Whose soul in that wild worship hath not
been,
Slow, in itself, the fire to catch and keep,
Which on the heart’s shrine placed, is only
seen,
By the pure thoughts that tend it; and
which gleaa,
Their firmer aspect from it—cannot be
The creature of such cold fantastic mien—
He hath no thoughts to search, no sense to see,
Aught that may turn him from his heart’s di
vinity.
11.
She is the spirit worship, and he dwells,
Whate’er his place in the world’s devious
ways,
Apart from all, beneath her ruling spells,
His dream by nights, his spirit through the
days ;
Each sense its offering of devotion pays,
And knows no other duty, and he stands
Until she shines, like Memnon, when her
rays
Inspire the subject form, and breaks its bands,
Then comes the music forth, then speaks when
she commands.
111.
Deep is the homage love exacts from all
Who worship truly. ’Twas a poor con
ceit •
That made him but an infant, whimsical,
With spirit bold, and light and wanton
feel,
And foolish caprice moved. We should but
meet
Such deity with scorn, —and hold his rule,
Meet only for the sway of Cyprian street —
A toy —an idol—meant to play the fool,
When Time was yet a child, and Nature’s self
a school,
IV.
Love is a monarch truly !—but his throne
Is in the heart, whose impulses have made
The Tyrant which has conquered it, alone—
And not the urchin, who, in summer glade,
We trifle with and tortured—unafraid,
And find no danger in the wanton game,—
Not even with death is all our duty paid—
For, o’er the grave, his sovereignty’s the same,
His sway no fire can quell, no insurrection
tame.
V.
And who obeys this mighty regency
Hath lott his self-dominion, and no more
Can go forth ’neuth the broad and boundless
sky,
With the same freedom that he went be
fore—
Whate’er the change, his spirit must adore, —
He knows no other sovereign, and his sight,
dirt by a close horizon, can explore
No other rule than this—it is the light,
Whose rays are round him still, in sunshine as
in night.
VI.
Do his feet wander o’er the narrow bound,
His land-mark ; —does his spirit momently,
Spurn the contracted circles which surround,
His throne, and would he seem about to fly,
To shelter in some other sovereignty ?---
In vain—(he chain, so potent, will not break,
And, with stern sway, the ruler draws him
nigh,
Again to bend the knee and clasp the stake,
fling to the altar’s shrine, and every vow re
take.
VII.
And with a homage undivided still,
There must he worship,—and his prayer
must be,
Solemn, exclusive, —uttering forth no will,
Save that which leaves his will no longer
free,—
No other God than that he sees, to see—
No other faith than that he treasures now
To hold—nor bend at other shrine his knee—
But through all changes with unswerving brow
Though death and sharpe await, as now he
bows, to bow.
(T’lir ftort] (T’rllfr.
From the Message Bird.
THE PAINTER’S DAUGHTER.
A TRUE LEGEND.
BY THE LITERARY EDITOR.
CHAPTER I.
THE GIPSY.
1 lie golden sun of Italy slowly sank
u P°n the magnificent bay of Naples,
flooding the waters with yellow light,
and filling the air with that dreamy
luize which the painter so vainly essays
to transfer to his canvass, but which
forevermore is pictured upon the mem
ory of all who have once beheld it.—
the square sails of feluccas, creeping
laz ’ly towards the shadows of the land,
flittered like silver-winged birds, and
he white walls of villas lining the
Stores, the tall spires of churches, and
’ yen the rude roofs of fisher’s huts hi
hag in the lagunes, were bathed with
purple, more glorious than that of king
lv vestments. It was an eve of be
"'tehing loveliness, and thus thought
’hv youth and maiden who watched the
Sl H,ng sun, and from the gleaming web
their love wove hopes as bright as
the scene around them.
beautiful as a Madonna was the fair
? !| l whose dark, humid eyes now fol-
Jl| wed the wake of sunlinght on the
‘■vnter and anon fell with loving glance
i: P°n the bronzed face of him who stood
’vside her, his hand clasping her own,
ail d his gaze forgetting the bright hea
while it lingered proudly upon
I,s beloved. Ilis voice was low, and
!le earnestness of its tone brought
‘ lt e per flushes to the maiden’s cheek—
-Tiiuetti, soul of iny heart! in this
‘‘out- 1 e hajipy !”
And leave me, Lorenzo 1”
” Never—never I” cried the youth,
gliding suddenly and covering the
“ te hand which he clasped with hur-
Jl vu kisses. “ But, Oh, Annetti, lam
a Mai mm&k mwm m limsm, >m Mm mb seisras, mb tb siiiml imyaa
too happy. 1 dare not think of the
morrow, lest it awake me from a bliss
ful dream.”
“ Our love is not a dream, Lorenzo.
Look, dearest, the sun sinks, but it will
arise again, and many a blessed day of
love does it promise to our hearts!”
“ Annetti, forgive me ! II Zingaro
loves thee as an angel, worships thee
as a spirit of good to guide his path—
but will thy father—will the Fiore
listen to the Gipsy’ suit ? will—
“ My father loves me, Lorenzo —he
will not deny our prayers.”
*‘ I fear me. What am I but the
child of his bounty—his dependent, his
servant, who hath no more value in his
eyes than the dull colours ere they glow
upon his canvass. The proud Colan
tine would spurn me from his threshhold
did he dream that I had dared to ”
“By San Geronimo ! thou speakest
rightly ! Slave ! dog of a Gipsy ! Is it
thus my kindness is repaid ? Villain !
begone! and thou—thou. Annetti,away,
ere I curse thy shameless ”
“Father, dear father!” murmured
the maiden, as the old man tore her vio
lently from her lover’s side, and placed
himself between them. “ Father, have
mercy ! 1 love him !”
The form of Colantine del Fiore
shook with swelling passion, as his
daughtersank upon the earth, and strove
to clasp his knees. lie thrust his
clenched hand into the face of the Gipsy,
who, with head bowed upon his breast,
had not yet stirred, nor spoken. “Thou,”
ho muttered savagely,—“thou, with thy
cursed Egyptian charms, hast worked
upon my child ! Thou, renegade—vag
abond—viper, whom I nursed and
warmed at my hearth—thou wouldst
turn and sting me !”
“O, my father ! Lorenzo is innocent!
he is good. Father, 1 love him as my
life !”
“ O, Sancta Haria ! has it come to
this? Away, Gipsy! quit my sight,
ere I plunge my dagger in thy bosom.”
And the old man, as he spoke, clutched
fiercely at his doublet, as if to grasp his
stiletto.
11 Zingaro tore open his own gar
ment, and lifting his head proudly, met
the master’s look. “ Here is my bo
som,” he cried. “ Strike—my crime
is that 1 love one whom the angels love!
Strike, and my last word shall be ‘An
netti !’ ”
Del Fiore paused, stayed by the
fiercer passion that Hashed from the
Gipsy’s eyes. At that moment, too,
Annetti raised her glance to her father’s
stern features, and then lovingly upon
Lorenzo’s noble form. For, indeed, as
he stood there, confronting the proud
painter, Colantine,he might have served
as a model for the most glorious image
of the Artist’s dreams. Perhaps Del
Fiore might have felt, as he looked
upon Zingaro, that, indeed, it needed
no Egyptian charm to win a woman’s
love tor such a man. His voice was
less angry, and his eye softer, when he
spoke again—
“ Lorenzo ! leave us! Annetti can
never be thine. Go! I forgive thy
daring, for, perhaps, thy wild blood hath
made thee think it but an easy task to
win her from her sire. Go ! I forgive
thy folly—but cross not Annetti’s path
again.”
II Zingaro cast one look upon his be
loved, a look of sorrow and despair.—
But ere he turned to depart, Annetti
had sprung from the ground, and with
a wild cry Hung herself upon his neck.
“ No ! thou shalt not go, Lorenzo ! we
must not part.”
Again the dark blood rose to the old
Painter’s forehead. He rushed wildly
forward, and grasping his daughter’s
arm, dragged her from her lover. Then,
raising his hand to heaven, he cried
aloud, —
“Away ! or I curse ye both with a
father’s malediction. Away! 1 have
sworn, and I will keep my vow!
None but abetter painter than my
self shall wed my daughter. May dis
honour cling to Del Fiore if he forgets
his oath!”
11 Zingaro turned, without a word,
and strode from the spot. He heard
his name murmured by his beloved,
but he looked not back. But, as he left
that garden, he struck his bosom with
his clenched hand, and cried aloud, —“I,
too, will make a vow !”
CHAPTER 11.
The Water-Carrier.
It was the grey of an autumnal morn
ing, when the air was yet heavy with
the night fog, and the dew clung thick
ly to the grass, when a weary and travel
worn man entered the Gates of Bolog
na, and took his way towards a convent
just within the walls, from the open
chapel of which t he chant of early ma
tins rose solemnly to Heaven. Min
gling with the few worshippers who
were performing their devotion, he
knelt reverently at a small altar, over
which beamed the placid features of a
Madonna, and became absorbed in si
lent prayer.
The head of this poor traveller, bend
ing low before the Virgin’s shrine, was
a well formed and noble one, w ith jet
Tlack curls falling in careless grace upon
his broad shoulders. The dust of the
road covered his garments, which were
not of the purest texture; but there was
an air of freedom and dignity about his
figure that at least betokened a mind of
gentle mould.
The firstj sunbeams began to steal
through the aerial casements, and play
upon the rich frescoes and glowing
paintings that adorned the convent
chapel. A ray brighter than the rest
trembled upon the brow r of the Madon
na, which hung above the kneeling
youth, and as he rrised his eyes, with a
murmured prayer upon his lips, the
Virgin seemed smiling a blessing to
cheer him on his path. He kissed the
marble altar’s foot, and rising, turned
slowly from the chapel.
At the convent-gate, as he emerged,
a crowd of mendicants were waiting
for the lay-brother to distribute, as was
the usage of the time, a hundred loaves
of bread to the poor; and the sight re
called to the way-farer’s mind that he
had not tasted food since the previous
noon. At that period, it was no shame
for the indigent traveller to accept the
bounty of religioua houses, and our
youth gladly mingled with the rest, re
ceiving with grateful thanks, the pit
tance of the poor; for not a silver
groat had he to purchase wherewith to
stay his hunger, and among the good
citizens of Bologna he knew not of a
single friend.
The sun mounted higher in the hea
vens, and the sounds of busy life filled
the streets of the city. The young
stranger wended his way, jostled now
by a band of sturdy peasants hasten
ing to the market-place, and again
forced to the wall by a troop of gaily
dressed cavaliers riding forth to the
hunt, or a procession of pilgrims setting
out on a journey to some favourite
shrine. But he was alien in the midst
of all, and lonely in the crowds around
him.
A water-carrier, turning the corner*
with his brimming vessels poised upon
his head, ran against the youth, and
muttering a curse upon the obstruction,
continued his heedless way, crying, at
the top of his voice, the peculiar call
which, at the present day, is heard in
the streets of Italian cities. The stran
ger looked after him, at first vacantly,
but as the not unmusical cry grew faint
er in the distance, anew thought seem
ed to cross his mind. “Who need
starve, who hath strong limbs and an
honest purpose ?” he said aloud. “I,
too, will be a water-carrier !” And he
bent his steps te the market-place.
That day anew voice, loud and cher
ry, rang through the streets of Bologna,
drowning with its manly tones, the
monotonous cry of the other water
bearers. But the good citizens, as they
listened, and perhaps turned to look af
ter the erect form that strode past
them, knew not of the proud heart
swelling beneath that coarse tunic—the
heart of the Gipsy, beloved of Annetti
del Fiore.
CHAPTER 111.
The Painter.
“ Water!” The clear ringing cry
awoke the blooming serving-maids at
the matin hour; it broke cheerily
above the murmurs of the crowd, when
the midday sun fell upon the roofs of
the city ; it sounded musically while
the vesper bells were chiming, and the
twilight deepening along the streets. —
And the serving-maids knew well the
voice of 11 Zingaro, and gave him their
sweetest smiles, which he returned with
pleasant words, in spite of the lowering
looks of his comrades in the craft.—
Thus time went on till one day the Gip
sy’s cry was not heard in street or mar
ket-place.
But on that day, while Lippo Dal
massio, the great Bolognese painter,
sat amidst his students in his wide gal
lery, surrounded by the works of
mighty masters, and descanting on the
principles of his beloved art, a rough,
unshorn youth, in the garb of a water
carrier, presented himself before him,
and said boldly, “I would be a painter!”
Tho old artist smiled upon the free
spoken young man, and answered him
kindly, as if he were clad in a silken
doublet; and 11 Zingaro drawing a leath
er pouch from his vest, held it forth to
the painter.
“ Here,” said the Gipsy, “is gold ! I
have earned it by my toil, and for one
purpose only. Enrol me, 1 pray thee,
as a student of thy glorious art. Deny
me not, for I have vowed to Our Lady
that I would be a painter !”
A brave enthusiasm lit the dark eyes
of 11 Zingaro. It warmed the heart of
Lippo Dalmassio. “ Thou shalt enter
my school, 7 ’ said he. “ For the rest,
God alone can make thee a painter!”
As he spoke,’ Lippo put back with
his hand the leathern purse which the
Gipsy proffered ; but 11 Zingaro laid it
down before him, with a proud gesture,
and the good painter smiled again, for
he recognized the spirit of genius in the
water-carrier’s independence.
So Lorenzo 11 Zingaro became a stu
dent of the great Bolognese master,
and lisiened to his instructions among
the velvet-garbed youths around him.
But when the painter dismisssed his
scholars, and the gallery was closed at
vespers, again the loud cry of the wa
ter-carrier rung upon the soft breeze.
And thus, day by day, the Gipsy
mingled with the scholars of Dalmas
sio, enraptured with his art; but in the
mornings and evenings he might still
be seen in the streets, and his cry be
heard in the courtyards “ Water !
“ Water!”
Thus years flew swiftly on, and the
Gipsy grew in favour with Lippo Dal
massio, who honoured him above all
his pupils, and gave him studies to de
velop his genius, till at length Bologna
began to regard with wonder the star
that was arising in its school of art. —
And as the youth’s fame increased, the
noble and rich of the city flattered him
with their smiles, and prophesied great
ness for him in the future. And many
a beautiful and highborn dame looked
with kindly gaze upon the grave young
man with dark eyes and magnificent hair,
who sat painting in Lippo’s gallery,
with the glorious creations of his pen
cil looking down from the walls upon
him. But 11 Zingaro kept green with
in his heart the memory of Annetti del
Fiore*
*
But at length a master-piece was to
be painted, and Lippo gave to the
young man the divine subject of the
Madonna. II Zingaro remembered the
smile that had greeted him from the
picture at the chapel-altar, when hun
gry and weary he had entered Bologna.
He remembered, too, the face of his be
lieved Annetti.
The work was finished, and the Bo
lognese thronged to behold it. Loud
were the acclamations of the multitude,
and with one voice the connoisseurs
awarded to the Gipsy the crown of a
master in the glorious art. Lippo Dal
massio kissed his forehead, and shared
in the triumph of his pupil.
But on the morrow', II Zingaro and
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, OCT. 26. 1850.
his picture were no longer in the city
of Bologna.
CHAPTER IV.
The Madonna.
When our story of the Gipsy open
ed, the sun was setting in Naples, and
the sin of II Zingaro’s life seemed to
have been clouded forever. But the
sun arose for him in Bologna, and light
ed his path to fame. Again let us look
upon Naples, at the hour of the zenith,
when the full golden flood of heavenly
light is shinining upon the palace of
the Princess Monechi, and streaming
through the high-arched easement, upon
a group of noble cavaliers and beaute
ous ladies, who stand before a pictured
Madonna in the gorgeous galllery. It
i3 the Madonna of 11 Zingaro.
M Send for my painter, —for Colan
tine del Fiore!” cried the Princess
Moneschi. “ I would have him look
upon this wonderful work, and join with
us in the meed of praise which is due
to him who painted it.”
And Colantine stood before the pic
ture, gazing with throbbing heart upon
the blessed countenance which smiled
so sorrowingly from the almost breath
ing canvas. Suddenly the old painter
started back. “It is she,” he cried—
“lt is my daughter’s face ! Who—who
is the artist ?”
A figure stood before him—a proud,
majestic form, with eyes of dark wild
ness, and cloudy hair.
“Art thou the painter?”
“ I am.”
“And thou art ”
“ 11 Zingaro!”
Colantine del Fiore fell upon the
Gipsy’s breast, and sobbed aloud, clasp
ing the young painter convulsively in
his arms. And when at length he re
leased him, it was to resign him to one
who was dearer than all the world to
11 Zingaro —the star of his life—the
original of his Madonna—Annetti “the
Painter’s daughter.”
BENEFACTORS.
BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.
The home of Lopez was only a cot
tage ; but it was situated beneath the
beaut iful sky of Andalusia, in the little
bishopric of Jean, at the flowery foot
of Sierra Morena. His daughter, Ine
silla, his only child—his gentle, his
lovely, his darling Inesilla—dwelt
with him there. lie regretted riches
only on one account. His loss of them
must interrupt the education of his
daughter.
“ Inesilla,” said he to her, “ I have
often rendered services; but no one
comes to render services to me. There
is no such thing in the w'orld as gen
erosity.”
“ The numbers of the ungrateful
would seem to prove the contrary,” re
plied Inesilla. “ Ingratitude would be
less common, if we knew how to ap
propriate our benefactions; but the
rich and powerful, hemmed in as they
are by mercenaries, parasites, and ad
venturers, are intercepted by this mob
of slaves from conveying to virtuous
indigence the noble kindness which may
relieve without degrading. We should
know the characters of those whom we
oblige , before we do them services. We
listen to our hearts, and are deceived.
You have yourself done this, and more
than once.”
“ I own it —I own it. I was in the
wrong.”
The conversation was interrupted by
a clap of thunder. A rapid storm
darkened the horizon. Lopez thought
no more of the ungrateful. All reso
lutions of future caution vanished. lie
flew to fling open the large gate of his
cottage yard, that the way-farer might
be sheltered beneath his cart-shed from
the tempest, whose roar was now’ re
doubled by the mountain echoes.
A brilliant carriage, drawn by six
mules, at once drove in. Don Fernan
do descended from it, had his servants
and his mules placed under the shed,
and presented himself at the door of
the cottage of Lopez. Inesilla opened
it, and Don Fernando paused with
wonder, to meet beneath the lowly
thatch a form so sylph-like, and a face
so refined. The courtly bearing of Lo
pez seemed to create no less suprise ;
his astonishmert, the earnestness of his
questions, the interest he seemed to
take in everything relating to the old
man, stimulated Lopez to tell the story
of his misfortunes, ending with the
moral which his daughter had deduced
from them.
Fernando heard him with rntense at
tention.
“ By the sword of the cid !” cried
he, “that daughter of thine is a philo
sopher ! ‘We should know the charac
ter of those whom we oblige, before
we do them services and I bless the
storm,” added he, the tears starting to
his eyes, “which has acquainted me
with thee and thine ; but we should al
so bear in mind another truth of which
thy daughter’s philosophy seems not to
be aware. We should also know the
character of those by whom we are
obliged, before we let them do us ser
vices.”
The words of Don Fernando sank
deep into the heart of Lopez. He felt
that he had at last found one with whom
he wished he could exchange situations,
merely that he could render so worthy
a man a service.
Don Fernando seemed to be anima
ted with a similar yearning towards
poor Lopez.
“But Lopez,” added he, “it is not
from words that characters are to be
learned. W e must look to actions.—
From these I would teach you mine.—
Lopez, I am rich, and 1 am not heart
less. You have bestowed on me the
only kindness in your power. Do not
be offended. I must not be numbered
among the ungrateful. Your fortune
must be restored. Deign, till we can
bring that about, to let me be your
banker.”
“ Thei r is nothing I have to wish for
on my own account,” said Lopez ; “but
my dear girl there, though still in the
bloom of youth, has for a long while
been interrupted in her . education.—
Poor darling she has no associates of
her own age and sex about her—no
one to supply the place of a mother.
The warmest affection of a father never
can make up for wants like these.”
“ 1 have an aunt,” replied Fernando
“who inhabits C’azoHa with her two
daughters, both much about the age of
your Inesilla. In this family are blend
ed inexhaustible amiableness, enlight
ened religion, deep and varied acquire
ments. Deprived of the gifts of for
tune, they have nothing to live on but
a moderate pension, of which their vir
tures, the duties of humanity, and the
claims of relationship, concur in render
ing it imperative on me to force their
acceptance. Carzola is situated not far
hence; just on the skirts of the Vega
—a site of surpassing beauty. Go,
yourself, in my name. Find my no
ble relation. Confide to her your Ine
silla.”
Lopez, scarcely hearing him out,
caught his hands, and bathed them with
tears of gratitude.
It was not long before Inesilla was
conducted, by her father, to the aunt
ot T ernand >, from whom, and from her
daughters, she received a most affec
tionate welcome: while Lopez, disa
bused of his prejudices against the
world, regained his cottage, satisfied
with himself and others, and silently
and seriously resolving never more to
think slightingly of human nature, and
go often and see his daughter.
One day he was pondering on his re
collections of Fernando, on his delicate
liberality, and on his profound proverb,
when, casting hit eyes unconsciously
around, they rested upon a lowly tree,
where a poor little orphan Hove, left
alone ere the down had enough thicken
ed to shield it from the evening chill,
forsaken,as it was, by all nature, filled
its forlorn nest with feeble wailings.—
At that moment, from the mighty sum
mit ot the Sierra Morena, a bird of
prey, (it was a vulture !) outspreading
his immense wings, pointed his flight
downwards towards the lamenting dove,
and for seme time hung hovering above
the tree which held her cradle. Lopez
was instantly on the alert for means to
to rescue the helpless little victim,
when he thought he could perceive that,
at the sight ot the vulture, the infant
dove ceased her moan, fluttered joyous
ly, and stretched towards him her open
beak. In truth, he really beheld, ere
long, the terrible bird gently descend
ing, charged with a precious booty, to
ward his aaby protogte, and lavishing
on her the choicest nutriment, with a
devotedness unknown to vulgar vul
tures.
“Most wonderful cried the good Lo
pez. “ How unjust. I was ! How blind!
1 refused to believe in beneficence. 1
find it even among vultures!”
Lopez could not grow w'eary of this
touching sight. Day after day he re
turned to watch it. It opened to him
sources of exquisite and inexhaustible
meditation. He was enraptured to see
innocence under the wing—the weak
succored by the strong ; and the tran
sition from tlu> nest of the dove, to his
gentle Inesilla, in happiness at Carzola,
protected by one of the rich and pow
erful, was so natural, that he returned
home, blessing Don Fernando and the
vulture.
Already had the light down on the
little dove deepened into silvery feath
ers; already, from branch to branch,
had she essayed her timid flight upon
hernative tree; already could her beak,
hardened and sharpened, grasp its nour
ishment with ease.
One day the vulture appeared with
the accustomed provender. lie eyed
his adopted intently. The dove that
day looked peculiarly innocent and
beautiful. Her form was round and
full—her air delightfully engaging.—
The vulture paused. He seemed fora
moment to exult that he had reared a
creature so fair. On a sudden he
pounced into the nest. In an instant
the dove was devoured.
Lopez witnessed this. He stood
amazed and puzzled, like Gargantua on
the death of his wife Badebec.
“Great Powers !” exclaimed Lopez,
“what do 1 behold ?”
The good man was surprised that a
vulture should have eaten a dove, when
only the reverse would have been the
wonder.
The former association in his mind
between his daughter and the dove
rushed back upon him. He was almost
mad.
“My Inesilla, my dove,” shrieked he
to himself, “is also under the protec
tion of a vulture —a great lord—a man
of prey —hence ! hence !”
lie ran. He flew. lie repeated to
himselfahundred times upon the way —
“ We should know the character of
those by whom we are obliged , before we
let them do us services /”
And with this upon his lip, he arrived,
almost breathless, at Carzola. He dart
ed to the retreat where he had left his
daughter—
******
Reader! 1 see you are almost as
much pleased as Inesilla was, that Lo
pez saved his daughter!
During the hunting season, in Scot
land, the Laird of Logan was favoured
with many visitors. On one occa
sion, a party assembled at his house
more numerous than usual, and such as
to excite the fears of his house
keeper for accommodation during the
night. In this quandary she applied to
her master. “Dear, me Laird, what am
Ito do wi’ a’ thae folks? 1 wonder they
time nae mair sens han come trooping
here in dizens; there’s no beds in the
house for half o’ them!” “ Keep your
sel easy, my woman,” said the Laird;
“I’ll just fill them a’ fou,and they’ll fin’
beds for themsels.”
The Boston Post is responsible for
the following :
“Why is Jenny Lind like a leg of
well fed mutton ?”
“Because she is neither Orisi nor
Alboni.”
ilimpsts of lira ®unks.
CONGRESSIONAL PORTRAITS.
From Nash’s, “Reminiscences of Congress.”
HENRY CLAY AS SPEAKER.
Certainly, no one ever presided over
any deliberative body, in this country,
with more personal popularity and in
fluence than Mr. Clay. He governed
the house with more absoluteness than
any Speaker that preceded or followed
him. It was a power founded upon
character and manners. Fearless, ener
getic, decided, he swayed the timid by
superior will, and governed the bold
through sympathy. A chivalric bear
ing, easy address, and a warm heart,
drew around him crowds of admirers.
He cultivated—what our great men too
much neglect—the philosophy of man
ners. None know better than he the
wondrous power in seeming trifles; how r
much a word, a tone, a look, can ac
complish; what direction give to the
whole character of opinion and conduct.
There seemed nothing constrained in
his courtesy, not simulated; all his
manner was simple, unaffected, ardent;
if it were not genuine, he had early ar
rived at the perfection of art, and con
cealed the art.
As an orator, he was unequalled,
even in an assembly that boasted of
Cheves, of Lowndes, or Forsyth, and
others no less distinguished. His voice
was sonorous and musical, falling with
proper cadence from the highest to the
lowest tones; at times, when in narra
tive or description, modulated, smooth
and pleasing, like sounds of running
water; but when raised to animate and
cheer, it was clear and spirit-stirring
as the notes of a clarion, the house all
the while ringing with its melody.
Oftententimes he left his chair to ad
dress the house. A call of the house
would not have brought members in
more eagerly. Few, indeed could have
indulged in such frequency of speech,
and regained personal ascendency.—
But his influence seemed to increase in
strength, the oftener it was exerted. —
He had a wonderful tact, by which he
judged, as if by intuition, when the
subject, or the patience of his audience,
threatened to be exhausted ; and took
care always to leave the curiosity of his
hearers unsatified.
“ I was a member of the house du
ring the war,” writes a gentleman to
the editor of these papers, and was
present when Mr. Clay made his fare
well speech on resigning the Speaker
ship. It was an impressive occasion.
Not only were all the seats of members
occupied, but many senators attended
and a large miscellaneous crowd. The
war which he had been most active in
hastening, and most energetic in prose
cuting, lie was now commissioned with
others to close. lie was the youngest
of the commissioners, but sagacious far
beyond his years. The hopes of the
country tired of a protracted struggle,
grew brighter from his appointment.
“ Undoubtedly, at this time, even in
his youthful age, he had no rival in
popularity. His name was everywhere
known as ‘household words.’ Ilis own
bearing evinced a conciousness of his
favour in the country. I was struck
with his appearance on this occasion.
There was a fire in his eye, an elation
in his countenance, a buoyancy in his
whole action that seemed the self con
sciousness of coming greatness. Hope
brightened, and joy elevated his crest.
As, full of confidence, gallant bearing,
and gratified look, he took his seat in
the Speaker’s chair, his towering high
even more conspicuous than usual, 1
could not but call to mind Vernon’s de
scription of Henry, Prince of Wales, in
Shakspeare:—
“ I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thigh, gallantly armed,
Rise from the ground, like feathered Mer
cury,
And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropp’d down from the
clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
And wit'h the world with noble horseman
ship. 1 ’
“Age at this time had not withered
nor custom staled the infinite variety
of his genius. The defects of his char
acter had not beon developed; pros
perity had not sunned them ; and they
lay unsprouted in his heart; nor had
he committed any of the blunders of
his later life, which, in a political view,
have been pronounced worse than
crimes.
“After he had resigned his chair, in a
neat and appropriate speech, he came
down to the floor; and members sur
rounded him to express their great grief
at his withdrawal, —mingled, however,
with congratulations upon his appoint
ment, and with the expression of san
guine anticipation of the success of his
mission.”
MARTIN VAN BUREN.
A model presiding officer was Mr.
Van Buren. The attentive manner in
which he listened, or seemed to listen,
to each successive speaker, no matter
how dull the subject, or how stupid the
orator, the placidity of his countenance,
unruffled in the midst of excitement,
the modest dignity of his deportment,
the gentlemanly ease of his address, his
well modulated voice and sympathetic
smile extorted admiration from even an
opposing Senate; while the proper firm
ness he displayed on all occasions, the
readinesss with which he met and re
pulsed any attack upon the privileges
or dignity of the chair, the more con
spicuous in contrast with the quiet in
difference with which he entertained any
merely personal assault, gained him the
good will of all beholders.
He had served an apprenticeship to
his high office by a senatorial career of
six years, and qualfied himself by the
proper discharge of the duties of the
other. The peculiar delicacy and de
corum which he had manifested during
that term of service, in times of high
party excitement, and in a decided mi
nority, had won him great renown, and
seemed to justify the general belief that
he was intended for a larger sphere of
action. Always self controlled, he nev
er uttered a word direct or by inuendo,
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 26 WHOLE NO 126.
either from premeditation or in the
heat of excitement, which need have
wounded the feelings of a political op
ponent, in open or in secret cession.—
Master of his own passions, he soon
learned to command those of other
men. By study of himself, he acquired
a knowledge of mankind. With a coun
tenance always open, and thought al
ways concealed, he invited without re
turning confidence. Indeed, the char
acter the great modern poet gives to
one of his heroes will serve as an epi
tome, mutatis mutandis , of Mr. Van
Burens’s.
“ He was the mildest mannered man,
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat:
With such true feelings of the gentleman,
You rarely could divine his real thought.”
JOHN C. CALHOUN.
The character of this extraordinary
man has been the theme alike of ex
travagant praise and obloquy, as zeal
ous friendship or earnest enmity have
held the pen. The sun has lately sunk
below the horizon; it went down in
all the splendour of noontide, and the
effulgence of its setting yet dazzles the
mind too much, to justify an impartial
opinion. But whatever may be the di
versity of opinion as regards his patri
otism, or the integrity of his purpose,
no one who respects himself will deny
him in the possession of the rare intel
lectual faculties ; of a mind capacious
and enlightened ; of powers of reason
ing almost miraculous ; of unequalled
prescience; and of a judgment when un
warped by prejudices, most express and
admirable.
On this, the greatest occasion of his
intellectual and political life, he bore
himself proudly and gloriously. He
appeared to hold victory at his com
mand, and yet determined, withal, to
show that he deserved it. There was
a strength in his argument that seemed
the exhaustion of thought, and a fre
quency of nervous diction most appro
priate for its expression. The extreme
mobility of his mind was felt every
where and immediate. It passed from
declamation to invective, and from in
vective to argument rapidly and not
confusedly, exciting and filling the
imagination of all.
in his tempestuous eloquence he tore
to pieces the arguments of his oppo
nents as the hurricane rends the sails.
Nothing withstood the ardour of his
mind; no sophistry, however ingenious,
puzzled him; no rhetorical ruse escaped
his detection. He overthrew logic that
seemed impregnable, and demolished
the most compact theory in a breath.
REMINISCENCE OF DANIEL WEBSTER.
The clerk of the Court of Common
Pleas for the county of Hillsborough,
New Hampshire, resigned his office in
January, 1805. Mr. Webster’s father
was one of the judges of that court; and
his colleagues from regard for him,
tendered his son the vacant clerkship.
It was what Judge Webster had long
desired. The office was worth $1,500
per annum, which was in those days,
and in that neighbourhood, a compe
tency ; or rather absolute wealth. Mr.
Webster himself considered it a great
prize, and was eager to accept it. He
weighed the question at the best, a
doubtful struggle. By its acceptance,
he made sure his own condition, and
what was nearer to his heart, that of
his family. By its refusal he con
demned both himself and them to an
uncertain, and probably harrassing fu
ture. Whatever aspiration he might
have cherished of professional distinc
tion, he was willing cheerfully to re
linquish, to promote the immediate
welfare of those he held most dear.
But Mr. George peremptorily and
vehemently interposed his dissent.—
He urged every argument against the
purpose. He appealed to the ambi
tion of his pupil ; once a clerk, he said,
he always would be a clerk—there
would be no step upward. He attack
ed him, too, on the side of his family
affection—telling him that he would be
far more able to gratify his friends from
his professional labours than in the
clerkship. “Go on.” he said, “and
finish your studies; you are poor
enough, but there are greater evils than
poverty; live on no man’s favour; what
bread you do eat, let it be the bread
of independence, pursue your profes
sion ; make yourself useful to your
friends, and a little formidable to your
enemies, and you have nothing to fear.”
Diverted from his design by argu
ments like these, it still remained to
Mr. Webster to acquaint his father with
his determination, and satisfy him of its
its propriety. He felt this would be
no easy task, as his father had set his
heart upon the office; but he deter
mined to go home immediately, and
give him in full the reasons for his con
duct.
It was winter, and he looked around
for a country* sleigh—for stage coaches
at that time were things unknown in
the centre of New Hampshire —and
finding one that had come down to mar
ket, he took passage threin, and in two
or three days was set down at his fa
ther’s door. (The same journey is now
made in four hours by steam). It was
evening when he arrived. I have heard
him tell the story of the interview. —
Ilis father was sitting before the fire,
and received him with manifest joy.
He looked feebler than he had ever ap
peared, but his countenance lighted up
on seeing his clerk stand before him in
good health and spirits. He lost no
time in alluding to the great appoint
ment —said how spontaneous it had
been made-how kindly the chiefjustiee
proposed it, with what unanimity all as
sented, &c. During this speech, it can
be well imagined how embarrassed Mr.
Webster felt, compelled as he thought,
from a conviction of duty, to disap
pointment his father’s sanguine expec
tations. Nevertheless, he commanded
his countenance and his voice so as to
reply in a sufficiently assured manner.
He spoke gaily about the office, ex
pressed his great obligation to their
honours, and his intention to write
them a most respectful letter; if he
should have consented to record any-
body’s judgements, he should have been
proud to have recorded their honours ,
&c. He proceeded in this strain, till
his father exhibited signs of amaze
ment, it having occurred to hi n final
ly, that his son might all the while be
serious—“ Do you intend to decline
this office ?” he said at length. “ Most
certainly,” replied his son, “ I cannot
think of doing otherwise. I mean to
use my tongue in the courts, not my r
pen ; to be an actor, not a register of
other men’s actions.”
Fora moment Judge Webster ap
peared angry. He rocked his chair
slightly', a flash went over his eye, soft
ened by age, but even then black as
jet, but it disappeared immediately,
and his countenance regained its usual
serenity'. Parental love and partially
could not after all but have been grati
fied with the son’s devotion to an hon
ourable and distinguished profession,
and seeming confidence of success in it.
“ Well, my son,” said Judge Webster,
finally, “ Your mother always said you
would come to something or nothing,
she was not sure which. I think you
are now about settling that doubt for
her.” The Judge never afterwards
spoke to his son on the subject.
dSratral (Bdcrtir.
THE NIGHT’S ENGAGEMENT.
The ship had been made snug, the
guns secured, and the watch below had
gone to their hammocks, an example
I was meditating following, when, as I
cast my eyes to windward, 1 fancied l
saw a towering mass looming through
the darkness.
“ What is that away there ?” I asked
of the master who had relieved my
watch. I pointed to the spot indicated;
he looked earnestly.
“ A vessel, by J upiter !” he exclaim
ed. “ The pirate, as 1 live ! All hands
on deck; call the captain; beat to
quarters.”
“ He’s standing towards us,” I ob
served.
“Ay, and will be right down upon us
too,” answered Green.
The captain and first lieutenant were
on deck in an instant. They looked at
the advancing vessel, now growing eve
ry instant more distinct.
* “ Run out the guns and give him a
broadside,” shouted the captain through
his speaking trumpet.
“ He intends to pass under our stern,
and rake us in passing, I think, sir, ’
observed the first lihutenant.
“ We’ll give him our larboard guns
and then keep away, replied the cap
tain. “By heavens ! no; he’s round
ing to and will be on board us. Lar
board gun.-. —fire, men—now fire !”
Ouc whole broad ide was discharged
into the approaching stranger within
pistol shot of him. The fire blazed
forth, and the loud crashing of the shot
was heard as it tore through the planks
and timbers of the enemy. Loud
shriekrs and cries then rose high above
the howling of the blast, but still the
stranger came on.
“ Boarders, be prepared to repel
boarders!” shouted our commander,
ere the terrific tumult had ceased. The
seamen rushed for their cutlasses. —
Crippled as we were, it was difficult to
avoid a collision whenever the enemy
chose to board us.
The towering mass approached ; a
tremendous crash was heard ; the sides
of the two vessels ground together;
grappling irons were hove on board us,
and a hundred fierce countenances ap
peared in the nettings and lower rig
ging, lighted up by the flashes of pis
tols and swivel guns, with which they
endeavoured to cover their attempt to
board. They were to be met, however,
by British seamen, fellows not easily’
daunted by the ugliest visages under
the sun.
Boarders, follow me !” shouted our
first lieutenant, flourishing his cutlass
and leaping into the main rigging. He
was there met by so strong a party of
pirates that he was thrown back on the
deck with a number of our men, and
full fifty of the enemy leaped after
him with the wildest shrieks fury could
call forth.
Our marines, meantime, who were
stationed on the poop, were clearing
the after part of the pirates vessel,
while our two foremost guns were
blazing away into her bow, and knock
ing the foremost ports into one.
On seeing the fall of our first lieu
tenant, I hurried to his assistance with
the men nearest to me. He was unin
jured, and was up in a moment, and lay
ing about him with such right good
will—an example well imitated by our
people —that half the miscreants were
cut to pieces on the deck, and the re
mainder were either driven back into
their own vessel or overboard, where
they were crushed between the sides
or perished miserably in the boiling
sea.
Never have I heard more infernal din
—the crashing of the bulwarks of the
two vessels as as they ground together
the tearing and rending of the shot as
they went through the pirate’s bows —
the thunder of the guns, and the sharp
report of the muskets and pistols —the
howling of the storm —the lashing of
the waves—the wild shrieks and hoarse
shouts of the combatants —the cries of
despair and agony —mingled in one
deafening and terrific discord.
As my post was forward, I had no
opportunity of boarding, but the first
lieutenant, backed by the master, after
defeating the attempt of the pirates to
board, succeeded in getting on the decks
of the schooner, when they were met
by my amigo, Don Diego Lopez de
Mendoza, who, to do him justice, pirate
as he was, behaved like a brave man.
He fought desperately for some time,
till at last Green gave him a blow on
the head which brought him to the deck,
and some of our fellows who had been
of the boat’s crew', and recognized him
as chaplain, got hold of him and hauled
him on board as a prisoner.
While Upton was carrying the fore
part of the schooner, Green fought his
way aft, w’here a strong stand was made