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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 * fragment, R ROM A! * unpublished poem.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