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withstanding appearances,she loved him
better than any other being in existence.
“ If so,” said George, very naturally,
“why do 1 find you in Godfrey’s chest?”
“ Don't 1 confess that appearances
are against me?” exclaimed Isabel, pet
tishly ; “what more would you have ?”
“1 am not unreasonable, Isabel: but
I shall certainly talk to Mr. Fairfax, on
this subject, before he leaves the house;
—on that, lam resolved.”
“No doubt you are; or to do any
thing else that you think will vex me.”
“ Nay, Isabel, you are too severe.”
“ Indeed,” said Isabel, “ l am quite
the contrary : it is nothing but the ex
cess of my foolish good-nature that has
led me into this disagreeable situation.
My frolic has cost me dear enough.—
That horrid Godfrey !”
“ Ilis conduct is atrocious; and 1
shall immediately mention it to the
Doctor.”
“ My father would rate him soundly
for it, 1 know ; and he richly deserves
a very long lecture: but ‘ forget and
forgive,’ George, has always been your
motto, and I think 1 shall make it mine.
Godfrey has been our companion for
years; and it would be useless to make
mischief, for a trifle, at the moment of
his leaving us; ’twere better, by far,
to part friends. Besides, after all,
poor fellow, one can scarcely blame
him,” added Isabel, with a smile, as
her eye caught the reflection of her
beautiful features in an old looking-glass;
“ even you, George, who are such an
icy-hearted creature, say you would go
through fire and water to possess me;
and no wonder that such a high-spirited
fellow as Godfrey —”
“ I feel rather inclined, Miss Plymp
ton,” interrupted George, “to shew that
my spirit is quite as high as his.”
“ Then be noble, George, and don’t
notice what has happened. It’s entire
ly your own fault: you know his ar
dour, —his magical way of persuading
one almost out of one’s sober senses,
and yet you can never contrive to be in
the way.”
“My feelings, Isabel, are too delicate
to—”
“ Well, then, you must put up with
the consequences. 1 am sure that some
people, even if one don't like them
much, influence one to be more coin
plaisent to them, than to others whom
one really loves; because others will
not condescend to be attentive. But,
come. —pray don’t look so grave : I am
sure 1 was nearly frightened out of my
wits just now, and J don’t look half so
sorrowful as you ; although. I protest,!
haven’t recovered yet. What are you
thinking of I”
“I am thinking, Isabel,” replied
George, “that, after all, 1 had better
speak to Godfrey ; for, if I do not,
when he discovers what has happened,
he will certainly accuse me of the sin
gular crime of stealing his sweetheart
out of his box.”
“ Well, that’s true enough: but we
must contrive to avoid an ectaircisse
ment. As the trunk is not perceptibly
damaged,suppose you fasten it up again
with the cords ; and, by way of a joke,
to make it of a proper weight, put in
young Squire Perry’s dog as my sub
stitute. Godfrey vowed to kill him,
you know, before he left us ; and lie
did so, not above an hour ago, while the
horrid creature was in the act of wor
rying my poor little Beaufidel. God
frey said he should leave him, as a lega
cy, in the back-yard, for you to bury
and bear the blame.”
“ I must confess,” said Wharton, “it
would be It pleasant retaliation : I cer
tainly should enjoy it.”
“Then fly at once down the back
stairs for the creature : nobody will see
you-go.”
“ Will you remain here?”
“ Fie, George! Do you think I
could endure the sight of the shocking
animal ?
“Well, well. —but will you see God
frey again ?”
“ Certainly not: I shall keep out of
the way. It is arranged that he shall
say I have the head-ache, and am gone
to my room ; so he’ll insist upon waiv
ing my appearance ixt ins departure.—
Do as I tell you, my dear George, and
we shall get rid of him delightfully.”
Isabel now tripped lightly away to
her little boudoir, where she was secure
from intrusion ; and Wharton proceed
ed to carry her ideas into execution
with such unusual alacrity, that he had
achieved his object long before the ar
rival of tlte wagon. He assisted in
bringing the trunk down stairs ; but
his gravity was so much disturbed, by
the very strict injunctions which God
frey gave the wagoners to be more than
usually careful with his property, that,
for fear of betraying himself, he was
compelled to make a precipitate re
treat into the house. As soon as he
was out of the hearing of his voung ri-
O J O
val, he indulged in an immoderate fit
of laughter, which was echoed by Isa
bel, who, peeping through the window
of her apartment, heartily enjoyed the
anxiety which Godfrey, by his looks
appeared to feel for the safety of his
chest and its precious contents. She
kept out of sight until young Fairfax
had departed ; when Patty Wallis was
struck speechless, for nearly a minute,
at being summoned by Isabel in person,
to dress her for dinner.
(.Concluded in our next.)
LOVE’S LAST REQUEST.
‘Farewell, farewell,” 1 cried,
“When I return thou’lt be my bride—
till then be faithful, sweet, adieu—in
silence oft I’ll think of you.” The
glistening tears strained her bright
eyes —her thickening breath is choked
with sighs—her tongue denies her bo
som’s sway —“Farewell, —l tore my
self away. “ One moment stay,” she
stammered out: as quick as thought,
I wheeled about. “My angel, speak,
can aught be done to comfort thee
when lam gone! I'll send thee speci
mens of art from every European
mart —I’ll sketch for thee each Alpine
scene, to let thee see where 1 have
been. A stone from Simplon’s dread
ful height shall gratify thy curious
sight. I’ll climb s he fiery /Etna’s side,
to bring home treasures for my bride;
and O, my life, each ship shall bear a
double letter to my fair.” “Ah,
George,” the weeping angel said, and
and on my shoulder, fell her head—
“for constancy, my tears are hostage
but when you write please pay the
postage.
Hints to Housewives. —ln preparing
rhubarb tor tarts, puddings, <Ve., do not
skin the stalks. It j s more tender,
more juicy, and ot better flavour, with
the skin on, than when prepared in the
ordinary way.
(©cttrail (Bdrrtir.
ILLUSTRATIONS OF PROVERBS.
Never defer till to-morrow
The thing you may compass to-day,
Charles Sloinun.
Most towns possess characteristic
features as strongly marked as those of
the human race ; and whether they be
manufacturing or maratime, the seats
of learning or of pleasure, their out
ward appearance is sure to reveal the
character of their inhabitants. If you
pass through Rouen, Lyons, Brest, or
Strasbourg, and look about you, you
will quickly perceive what are the tastes
and habits of its denizens ; the history
of each population is, in fact, chronicled
in the streets.
The truth of our proposition is no
where more strikingly illustrated than
on visiting Rennes. When we con
template its large magisterial-looking
buildings, its magnificent squares, with
the grass growing between the stones,
and its solitary promenades, where a
few studious readers are occasionally
seen flitting about like noiseless ghosts,
we at once recognise the capital of the
ancient Dutchy of Brittany, the former
seat of the old Parliament, and the
town whither all the seriously inclined
young men of the Province come to
prosecute their studies. Gravity is the
main feature of Rennes: the whole
town is as calm and as severe as a tri
bunal ; in short, it is here that law has
set up its temple, and is surrounded by
its high priests and worshippers. Peo
ple come from the other end of Brittany
to ask advice, and to elucidate any
knotty point of jurisprudence. It
would seein as impossible to a native
of Brittany to come to Rennes with
out asking advice, as it would have
been to a Greek to pass the temple of
Delphos without consulting the Pytho
ness. This was as common a practice
towards the end of the last century as
now-a-days, especially amongst the
peasantry —a race rendered distrustful
by experience, and apt to be wary in
all their measures.
Now it happened one day that a far
mer, named Bernard, having come to
Rennes to conclude some bargain, and
having a few hours on his hands, when
his business was settled, took into his
head that he could not employ his spare
time better than by going to consult a
lawyer. lie had often heard of M.
Potier de la Germondaie, whose repu
tation stood so high, that people look
ed upon a law-suit as halt-gained, if they
could but secure his advice. The pea
sant inquired his direction, and repair
ed to his residence in the Rue. St.
Georges.
The great man’s clients were so nu
merous, that Bernard had to wait a Ion"-
time; but his turn came at last, and
he was shown in. INI. Potier de la Ger
mondaie motioned to him to take a
seat, and laying his spectacles down on
his bureau, inquired what had brought
him thither ?
“ Why, may it please you, Master
Lawyer,” said the farmer, twisting
about the hat he held in his hands, “ 1
have heard such good accounts of you,
that as 1 happened to be at Rennes, 1
thought 1 could not do better than take
advantage of it, by coming to consult
you.”
“ I am obliged by your confidence in
me, my good friend,” replied M. de la
Germondaie, —“and so, 1 suppose, you
have a law-suit on hand ?”
“A law-suit! Lord help you ! I hold
them in utter abomination ; and Pierre
Bernard never had a word with any
body on earth.”
“ Then you want, perhaps to wind
up your affaiis, or to make a division
of property amongst the family?”
“ Begging your pardon, Master Law
yer, my family have never made any
division at all; for we all feed at the
same trough, as a body may say.”
“ Well, then, I suppose you want to
have a deed drawn up for buying or
selling some land ?”
“Not 1, indeed! I am not rich enough
to buy, neither am I poor enough to be
obliged to sell.”
“ Then what do you want with me?”
asked the astonised lawyer.
“Why, 1 have already told you,
Master Lawyer,” replied Bernard with
a sheepish laugh, “ 1 want legal advice
—of course, 1 mean for money —be-
cause being here at Rennes, I may as
well make the best of the opportunity.”
M. de la G ermondaie smiled, and ta
king up his pen and paper, asked the
peasant his name.
“Pierre Bernard,” replied the latter,
delighted to be understood at last.
“ What is your age?”
“Thirty, or thereabouts.”
“ And your profession ?”
“My profesion! . . . . Oh, you
mean what 1 do—why 1 am a farmer.”
The lawyer wrote a couple of lines,
and folded the paper, which he handed
to his singular client.
“ What! is it done already ?” cried
Bernard. “ Well to be sure, you don’t
let the grass grow under one’s feet.—
And pray how much shall I pay for
your advice, Master Lawyer ?”
“ Three francs.”
Bernard put down the money with
out demur, and scraping a leg, retired,
highly delighted at having “ made the
best of the opportunity.”
It was four o’clock when he reached
home, and feeling tired, he determined
that he would rest for the day. But his
hay had been lying on the ground for a
couple of days, and was quite parched,
so one of the men came to inquire
whether it was not to be taken in.
“What, to-night!” cried the farmer’s
wife, who had come to welcome her
husband ; “where could be the use of
setting to work so late, when it can be
done to-morrow, without any trouble?”
The man observed that the weather
might change, that the horses were
ready, and all hands idle : his mistress,
on tne contrary, maintained that the
wind was in the right quarter, and that
night would surprise them before they
could finish. Bernard listenee to both
sides of the question, but could not
make up his mind to give the casting
vote, when he suddenly recollected the
lawyer’s paper.
“Stop a minute!” cried he, “I have
taken the advice of a famous lawyer,
and paid three francs for it; the deuce
is in it if that won’t help us out of the
scrape. Come, Thcrese, you can read
all sorts of hands, so tell us what it is
about.”
The wife took up the paper, and, af
ter some hesitation, spelt out the fol
lowing sentence —“ Never put off till
to-morrow that you can accomplish to
day .”
“ Does it say so ?” cried Bernard,
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
suddenly enlightened, “then let’s have
out the carts, and the lads and lasses,
and in the hay shall go.”
His wife had still a heap of objec
tions to make, but he declared that one
did not pay three francs for legal ad
vice to make no use of it, and th: tthe
lawyers opinion must be followed.—
lie accordingly set the example him
self, by joining his workmen, and taking
no rest till every bit of hay was safe v
stored away.
The event seemed to justify the wis
dom of his conduct, for during the
night, the. weather changed, an unex
pected storm burst over the valley, and
the next morning, the fields were flood
ed by the river, and the newly-mown
hay was swept away by the current. —
All the neighbouring farmers lost the
whole of their hay-harvest; Bernard
alone was saved from the general ruin.
The first experiment gave him so
exalted an idea of the lawyer’s advice,
that from that day he adopted it as his
rule of conduct through life ; and by
dint of order and dispatch, became one
of the richest farmers of his province.
He never forgot the service done him
by M. de la Germondaie, to whom lie
presented yearly a couple of his finest
fowls, as a mark of gratitude; and j
whenever his neighbours spoke of law
yers, he used to observe, that “next to
God’s commandments and those oft he
Church, nothing in the world was moiv j
serviceable than the advice of a good |
lawyer.”
BEN’S YARN.
BY CASABIANCA.
Comrades hear a brother sailor
Sing the dangers of the sea.
Dibdin.
It was a summer evening,when one of
his Majesty’s ships sailed slowly over
the vast waters of the Atlantic. The
day had been very hot, and the eve
ning breeze which now sprang up was
particularly delightful to the sailors,
who were lounging about on deck wait
ing “for all hands to be called below,”
when several approached tin old sailor,
whose bronzed and weather beaten coun
tenance told of long and hard service,
and who was sitting on a gun in appar
ently deep thought.
“Avast there ! Ben, don’t be keepn’
it all to yourself. Come, spin us a
yarn, my hearty : for you know ther’s
none abroad can do it-like you.”
“You are welcome to the best I can
give, messmates. What’s it to be?”
“Something about the ‘Flying Dutch
man !’” said a youngster, who had just
approched them.
“ Aye, aye,” replied several sailors
at once; “the youngster’s right. Let’s
have somthing about ‘ Mynheer.”
Now, anything of this sort is a fa
vorite subject for sailors, who are prone
to superstition. There is many a
hardy tar who would not flinch from
the hottest fire of an enemy, when com
rads were dead, and wounded, around
him, who would rather starve than set
sail in any ship on any Friday.
“ It is now more thau twenty years,”
began Ben, “since 1 set sail in the‘Syl
phide,’ as neat, clean-built a little
schooner as ever swam on salt water;
but she had a very devil of a captain ;
a hard man he was, and severe to all
who had to do with him. He left the
management of the ship almost entire
ly to the first lieutenant, whose name
was Cox, while he lay drunk in his
cabin. So overbearing was Captain
Hawkins, that the sailors would have
left the vessel, had it not been for the
lieutenant, honest Bill Cox, as they call
ed him, who was a good-hearted man,
and a very good sailor into the bargain,
who behaved well to all of them. Well,
it was a dark night that I am about to
speak of; the clouds,Mark and drear,
flew swiftly along the sky, the moon
was hid, and the sea began to rock,
which betokened a storm to be close at
hand. Everything was made snug,
and we waited for the approaching
tempest. Presently; a flash of light
ning darted from the sky, throwing a
fierce glare over the horizon, and
which was reflected in the water like
as in a mirror. It was followed, al
most immediately, by a crash of thun
der; the wind,which before had moaned
mournfully through the rigging, now
howled in fearful blasts over our heads;
the waters, too, changed from the si
lent rocking, into huge w aves, which
dashed with violence against the sides
of the weather-beaten vessel, which
creaked and strained hard, but stood
the brunt of the storm, nobly. Every
sail was taken in except one, which
was left to steady the vessel; but a
gust of wind came, there was a loud
report, and the sail was torn from its
hold into small strips, and scattered to
the winds. The storm seemed to in
crease, the thunder roared louder, and
the lightning flashed brighter; the loud
noise of the water, as it dashed against
the vessel, and the still louder roaring
of the wind, completed the fearful
scene, —scene, I say, but it could not
be seen , except by the frequent flashes
of lightning —it could only be heard.
The elements seemed to be at war
with each other, creating a loud and
fearful din. That night 1 shall never
forget, nor will any other who witnes
sed it. Their expectations were a
speedy death, and that by drowning.
It appeared to be an awful one, to be
enveloped in the roaring waves, and to
have fora funeral dirge the howling of
the blast. Cox, in this trying affair,
appeared firm and cool ; and gave his
orders with collectedness ; and they
were all promptly obeyed. As for the
captain, he was drunk, as usual, in his
cabin, and knew nothing of the fearful
storm that was raging. Matters were in
this state,when Lieut. Cox,who had been
watching the horizon, suddenly shouted,
“By heavens! asail!” and immediately
snatched up a glass, and looked long
on a spec which was rapidly approach
ing. All watched it with eagerness;
its onwrrd progress was tremendous.
It did not swim, it glided over the wa
ters. Nearer and nearer it approached,
coming in a straight line with us.
“lie’ll stove us in!” again shouted
Cox, and grasping a speaking trumpet,
he roared out, “ Helm a lee; for your
lives !” There was no answer, and the
words were scarce out of his mouth,
before she was upon us. Her bows
almost touched us. It was an awful
moment; but suddenly, when we ex
pected the collision, by some unknown
power, her course was altered, and she
was quickiy lost sight of. It was like
magic. I could see her decks, quite
plainly. All her sails were set, but not
a living soul appeared on board. All
our men were stupefied. Their hair
stood as it were, on end, for we all
knew that it was “ The Phantom
Ship !
(Drigitinl j3optri).
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LI FE.
BY LAURA LINTON.
‘'A man’s life is a tower with a staircase of many
steps,
That as he toileth upward crumble successively behind
him ;
No goinf; back, the past is an abyss, no stopping, for the
present perisheth,
But ever hastening onward in the foothold of to-day.”
[ Tapper’s Proverbial Philosophy.
I dreamed of a tower, at) old stone tower,
With a flight of many steps.
And I marked a man, so lonely and wait,
Climbing those endless steps,
On, on he went, though Joy was spent,
No rest and no return,
For as on he flies, dull sounds arise,
And the crumbling stone has gone 1
He looks behind, he looks behind,
And the tottering stone is gone,
And the one he treads, he fearfully dreads,
Will slide if he goes on,
I No stop, no stay, for alas, to-day,
Its light is almost gone ;
The future, the past, all is o’er cast,
And the old man’s all alone.
Alas! old man ! thy life is a span,
With no continuing stay,
And thy heart’s quick beat, and thy weary
feet,
Are hurrying thee away!
As ye look below, old age’s snow
Is silvering thy dark hair ;
See thy wrinkled brow, and thy step so slow,
And thy pale elieek once so fair.
And the old man shivered, his pale form quiv
ered,
He paused in deep despair,
When a sweet low tone.’twas mercy’s own,
Answered his feeble prayer.
“ Frail child of clay,’’ did the sweet voice say,
“ Look upward, onward dare,
Hope thou in God, frail feeble clod,
Conquer by faith and prayer.
Behold yon goal, list the anthem’s roll,
Thy race is almost run,
Behold the prize, with faith’s clear eyes,
And victory will be won.”
And the Pilgrim grey, pressed on his way.
Tho’ storms did round him lower,
Still he forward pressed, with hopeful breast,
’Till he yielded to death’s stern power.
I waked, ’twas a dream ; but it still doth
seem,
A dream of wondrous power,
Warning me here, that I may not fear,
That dark and unknown shore.
Our life is to-day, ’tis fleeting away,
O Pilgrim awake, arise !
Improve to-dav, be wise while ye may,
And win thee a home in the skies.
The OldJVorth State, Sept, 1850.
ifljf lUuii'tntr.
WORDSWORTH*
Wordsworth was emphatically, the
Poet of Nature. He loved her in all
her varied manifestations and forms,
from the most stupendous to the most
minute; and she, ever lavish of her
favours to those who, with an unselfish
devotion, give their hearts wholly to
her, rewarded him with a larger meas
ure of her inspiration and a clearer in
sight into her deepest secrets, than
have fallen t’> the lot of any other poet,
ancient or modern. He showed him
self not unworthy of her special boons.
He did not squander, in an idle mood,
the treasures which her opulence
showered upon him, but has left them,
in the noble creations of his genius,
a priceless legacy to the world.
But with all his ardent love of Na
ture, Wordsworth never deified her.
To him she was not God, as to the
Pantheist, but from God, and he rec
ognized in mountain and lake, flower
and stone, sunshine and storm, acredi
ted ambassadors and mediators of the
King of king . He felt profoundly
the mysterious influences which spring
from this intimate relation between
Nature and Man. God smiled upon
him from the Summer skies, and whis
pered to him in the gentle breeze,
which, laden with a blessing,
“ Doth seem half conscious of the joy it
brings,”
and when lie wandered forth among
the hills, or along the lake shore,
“Trances of thought,and mountings of the
mind,
Came fast upon him.”
But even Nature cannot give fadeless
youth to man, or immortality to forms
of flesh and blood, and the Poet of
Rydal Mount, is no more with us. In
the words of an eloquent l iter in the
Eclectic Review: “The last of the
Lakers lias departed. That glorious
country has become a tomb for its
more glorious children. No more is
Southey’s till I form seen at his library
window, confronting Skiddaw—with a
port as stately as its own. No more
does Coleridge’s dim eye look down
into the dim tarn, heavy laden,too,
under the advancing thunder-storm.
And no more is. Wordsworth’s pale
and lofty front shaded into divine twi
light, as he plunges at noonday amidst
the quiet woods. A stiller, sterner
power than poetry has folded into its
strict, yet tender and yearning em
brace, those
“ Serene creators of immortal things.”
Alas ! for the pride and the glory even
of the purest products of this strange
world ! Sin and science, pleasure and
poetry, the lowest vices, and the high
est aspirations, are equally unable to
rescue their votaries from the swift
ruin which is in chase of us all.
“ Golden lads and girls all must
Like chimney-sweepers come to dust.”
Since the death of Wordsworth, so
many criticisms upon his genius and
poetry have been written and published
*The Prelude ; or Growth of a Poet’s Mind.
An Autobiographical Poem. By William
Wordsworth. New-York : D. Appleton &
Cos. 1850.
—criticisms emanating from the high
est authorities in the Republic of Let
ters, that, even if w e had space to de
vote to it, and felt competent to un
dertake tlie task, we should not deem
it advisable to attempt here anything
in the form of a critical analysis of his
works. All acknowledge his transcend
ant genius, admire his virtues, and
mourn his loss, lie died “full of vears
and honour,” his mission accomplished,
leaving a name which will live as long
as true poetry is appreciated and ad
mired. All we propose to do, there
fore in this article is to notice briefly
the poem, the title of which we have
made our text.
The Prelude is addressed to the
Poet’s early and intimate friend Cole
ridge, and its leading purpose is to ex
hibit the gradual growth or develop
ment of his mind. It was commenced
in the year 1790, and finished in 1805,
but w r as not published until after the
author’s death. It is a poem for the
few rather than for the many, not so
much because it does not appeal to
universal sympathies and feelings, as
because the sympathies and feelings to
which it does appeal tire dormant, or
are checked and smothered, in the mass
of mankind, by our too active and ob
jective life. It is psychological in its
character, and abounds in striking and
original thoughts, acute observations,
lofty flights of imagination and bril
liant imagery. It has, in fine, all
Wordsworth’s peculiarities of thought,
and of diction, and gives us a deeper
insight into his inner life, than any
thing else which he has given to the
w’orld, but we do not think it, as a
whole, equal to The Excursion.
The number of those who admire
and appreciate Wordsworth, is by no
means small, and is every day increas
ing, but his works are not, and cannot
be, in the ordinary sense, popular, in
this age. lie dwelt too much apart
from the world to be touched and
moved by its struggles, and its every
day aspirations. To use his own
words —
“ Not of outward things
Done visibly for other minds, words, signs,
Symbols or actions, but of my own heart
Have I been speaking, and my youthful mind.
* * * * *
To every natural form, rock, fruit, or flower,
Even the loose stones that cover the highway,
I gave a moral life : I saw them feel,
Or linked them to some feeling: the great
mass
Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all
That I beheld, respired with inward meaning.”
The few, “ elect to higher sympa
thies,” who are prepared to receive his
subtle communications, to understand
his psychological revelations, and to
appreciate his delicate harmonies, his
soothing tenderness, and his deep, calm
reflections, will deem the Prelude one
of the richest boons which god-like
genius has ever bestowed upon man.
To these we commend it, trusting that
their number will continually increase
till it embraces all who read and
speak the English language, in the four
quarters of the Globe.
The Prelude is divided into four
teen Books. The first six of these re
late principally to the author's School
and College Life, the seventh to his Resi
dence in London, the eighth to a Retro
spect, in which the poet shows how
love of Nature leads to love of Man,
the ninth, tenth and eleventh relate to
his Residence in Fiance, the twelfth and
thirteenth are devoted to the subject
of Imagination and Taste, and the
fourteenth contains the Conclusion.
No extracts that we could make
would give the reader a just concep
tion of the beauty and value of the
Prelude as a philosophical poem, but
we will make a few brief quotations,
illustrative of its general style and
tone. The following lines show the
tendencies of the poet’s mind in boy
hood. lie has been describing the
sports of himself and comrades on the
frozen lake, when —
“All shod with steel,
They hissed along the frozen ice in games
Confederate.”
and he thus closes —
“And oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning
still
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I,declining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me—even as it the earth had
rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round !
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Febler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep.
Ye Presences of Nature in the sky
And on the earth ! Ye Visions of the hills !
And Souls of lonely places ! can I think
A vulgar Hope was yours when ye employed
Such ministry, when ye through many a year
Haunting me thus among my boyish sports
On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills,
Impressed upon all forms the characters
Os danger or desire ; and thus did make
The surface of the universal earth
With triumph and delight, with hope and fear,
VVork like a sea 1”
lie records his impressions of col
lege life at Cambridge, in the following
strong and indignant language :
“ For, all degrees
And shapes pf spurious fame and short-lived
praise
Here sat in state, and fed with daily alms
Retainers won away lroin solid good ;
And here was Labour, his own bond-slave ;
Hope,
That never set the pains against the prize ;
Idleness halting with his weary clog,
And poor misguided Shame, and witless Fear,
And simple Pleasure foraging for Death ;
Honor misplaced, and Dignity astray ;
Feuds, factions, flatteries, enmity, and guile
Murmuring submission, and bold government,
(The idol weak as the idolater)
And Decency and Custom starving Truth,
And blind Authority beating with his staff
The child that might have led him ; Emptiness
Followed, as of good omen, and meek Worth
Left to herself, unheard of and unknown.”
11 is quarters at Cambridge are thus
described:
“The Evangelist St. John my patron was:
Three Gothic courts are his, and in the tirst
Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure ;
Right underneath the College Kitchens made
A humming sound, less tunable than bees,
But hardly less industrious ; with shrill notes
Os sharp command and scolding intermixed.
Near me hung Trinity’s loquacious clock,
Who never let the quarters, night or day,
Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the hours,
Twice over, with a male and female voice.
Her pealing Organ was my neighbour too ;
And from my pillow, looking forth by light
Os moon or favouring stars, I could behold
The antechapel where the statue stood
Os Newton, with his prism and silent face,
The marble index of a mind for ever
Voyaging through strange seas of Thought,
alone.”
lit the sixth book, he gives us the
following glimpse of Mont Blanc:
“ That very day
From a bare ridge, we also fir.-t beheld
Unveiled the summit of Mont Blanc, and
grieved
To have a soulless image on the eye
That had usurped upon a living thought,
That never more could • be. The wondrous
Vale
Os Chamouny stretched far below, and soon
With its dumb cataracts and streams of ice,
A motionless array of mightly waves,
Five rivers broad and vast, made rich amends,
And reconciled us to realities ;
There small birds warble from the leafy trees,
The Eagle soars high in the element,
There doth the reaper bi*d the yellow sheaf,
The maiden spreads the haycock in the sun,
While Winter like a well-tamed lion walks,
Descending from the mountain to make sport
Among the cottages by beds of flowers.
With these extracts we close our
desultory and very imperfect notice of
the Prelude. We have read it with a
pleasure and a feeling of satisfaction ,
which few works, either in prose or in
verse have given us. It is as full of
Truth as of Beauty, and to those who
love Beauty, and do not fear Truth, we
commend it. *
! cDttr i'rttrra.
■ ■
Correspondence of the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW YORK, Nov. 2, 1850.
You will rejoice to learn that the
statue of Calhoun has been recovered
at last, without any material damage.
It will at once be brought to the citv.
A strong desire is expressed that it
should be shown to the public for a
short time. Every one feels a curi
osity to see this memorial of a favour
ite artist to the fame of the illustrious
statesman. It is now over three months
since the occurrence of the disaster,
which has placed the statue in so much
peril. For the last few weeks, it was
generally feared that it could not be
recovered. Nothing but the greatest
energy and perseverance could have
made the attempt successful. Mr.
Johnson has been hovering over the
place with his yacht for several weeks,
but recently the sea has been so unfa
vourable that nothing could be done
until last Wednesday morning. After
great exertions, it was safely deposited
on the deck of the vessel, by about the
middle of the afternoon. It is almost
a miracle that it has sustained so little
injury. No stain rests upon the white
surface of the marble; it is as free
from scratch or speck as when it came
from the hands of the sculptor; and
the loss of a portion of the right arm
is not irreparable, as the fracture is
concealed by the drapery of the figure.
The officers and crew of the Revenue
Cutter have been constantly on the
alert, and have rendered effectual aid
to Mr. Johnson and Mr. Whipple, in
their bold and persevering endeavours.
The excitement produced by .Jenny
Lind does not abate in the slightest de
gree. Iler concerts in Triplet” Hall
have been a succession of triumphs. —
Even those who at first complained of
her carelessness and her want of pas
sion, are now profuse in their praises,
while her original admirers are more
enthusiastic than ever. No one now
pretends to deny that she is a consum
mate artist and a glorious child of na
ture. The performance last night was
the Oratorio of the Messiah. It exhi
bited her wonderful talents in anew
light. The audience was as large as
any of the season, and throughout the
concert gave the most unmistakeable
evidence of delight and admiration. I
understand that Jenny Lind will visit
Charleston on her way to New Or
leans and Havana, and vou need not
fear in the least that she will not re
ceive a cordial appreciation from South
ern taste. She has only to be heard in
your principal cities to be welcomed
with a jubilant enthusiasm which has
not been given to any other cantatrice.
You wiil find that you have not said a
word more than will be borne out by
your friends,but rather that your warm
est expressions will seem cold and in
adequate.
Our principal novelties of a literary
nature, within the last week or two,
are almost exclusively the Annuals and
Gift Books for the approaching holi
days. The most attractive that I have
seen, are from the press of the Apple
tons, who have really shown great good
taste, as well as enterprize, in their
Christmas offerings. They have gone
on the principle of giving his money’s
worth to the purchaser of their books,
and not palming off on him the worth
less trash which is often thought good
enough for a Magazine or an Annual.
The works they have issued for this
season are productions of real literary
merit, and do not rely for success on
gaudy engravings, or still more gaudy
rhetoric. They cannot be accused of
corrupting the taste of the public by
artistic or literary extravaganzas. Their
most splendid work is “ Our Saviour
with Apostles and Prophets,” edited by
Rev. Dr. Wainwright, and distinguish
ed for its chaste and simple elegance.
The descriptions, illustrative of pas
sages in Sacred History, are by a dif
ferent accomplished clergyman, and
without exception are well-written and
free from bombast —no small praise
this, I am ashamed to say, in a work of
this kind.
Another of Appleton’s Gift Books
is entitled “ Evenings at Donaldson
Manor,” by Maria J. Macintosh, who
lias previously won a well-earned fame
by her charming lictions. This is a
series of stories called forth by a
Christmas visit at the delightful coun
try house from which the volume takes
its name, and abounds with the plea
sant sketches of manners and livelv
conversations, which flow with such
graceful ease from the pen of Miss
Macintosh.
The editor of the Albion, William
Young, has issued a translation of two
hundred select songs from Beranger, on
which he has bestowed infinite pains,
and certainly has succeeded in perform
ing a feat of remarkable literary dex
terity. The manner in which he has
overcome the intrinsic difficulties of
the task, does honour to his ingenuity
and fertility of resource, lie adheres
very closely—as closely as possible—l
think, to the original, and how lie has
escaped from transmuting the fragrant
flowers of Beranger into lifeless petri
factions, is more than I can imagine.—
lie certainly has preserved the fresh
ness and spirit of the original to a
wonderful degree —he has done what
any one would have predicted was im
possible —he has reproduced the pecu
liar rhythm, the melody, and often the
quaint, felicitous phrases of Beranger,
with a fidelity that gives you anew
idea of the versatility of the English
language. Still the English Beranger
is not the genial, bird-like, spontaneous
Frenchman, who has thrown around
you such a spell with his native en
chantments. llis translator has done
all, I believe, that a translator could do,
and I am not disposed to complain that
he cannot work miracles.
The theatrical novelty of the past
week is the appearance of Sir W. Dorr,
who made his debut on Monday night,
at the Broadway, in the character of
John Duck, in Buckstone’s “Jacobite.”
lie is a tall, skeleton-like figure, over
six feet in his stockings, and he makes
every inch of his extreme attitude an
aid to comic effect. He enters into the
spirit of his character, with evident en
thusiasm, but without “overstepping
the modestv of nature.” In genteel
comedy, he bids fair to be a universal
favourite.
Charlotte Cushman closed her en
gagement on Saturday evening, as
Claude Melnotte in the Lady of Lyons.
She played the part to admiration, be
fore a very crowded house. Her per
sonation of masculine characters calls
out the most effective phases of her
talent, and seldom fails of entire suc
cess.
The Italian Opera has been gaining
gold and good opinions throughout the
week, and may now be regarded as se
cure in its popularity for this season.
Bertucca and Trufti have surpassed
themselves. Parodi, as you have seen,
arrived in the Pacific last Saturday,
and makes her appearance on Monday
night as Norma. She is said to have a
magnificent person, as well as one of
the richest voices in Europe, with no
small powers as a tragic actress. The
excitement is already boiling over,
though not so frenzied as on the arrival
of Jenny Lind. The seats in the Opera
House were taken with a rush, at two
dollars and a half, and by r Thursday
not a ticket was to be had. No doubt
Maretzek has made a lucky hit this
time, and will recover some of his lost
dollars. He is in fine spirits, and is
confident of a brilliant triumph.
You have seen that Jenny Lind gave
a dinner party to Parodi and Charlotte
Cushman, at the New York Hotel. —
How ,t went off, I do not know. With
most rival celebrities on such an occa
sion, it must have been rather an awk
ward affair. Trust Jenny Lind, how
ever, for all emergencies. Her sovoir
faire cant be beat. T.
Sap of Plants. —Knight teaches that
the sap of plants ascends through the
white wood, and descends down the
bark, depositing the matter of the new
wood in its descent, but without be
coming changed into it. That the mat
ter absorbed from the soil and air, is
converted into the true sap or blood of
the plant wholly in the leaves, from
which it is discharged into the bark;
and that such portions of it as are not
expended in the generation of new
wood and bark, join, during the Spring
and Autumn the ascending current in
the wood, into which it passes by the
medullary processes. As the Autumn,
approches, however, and the ascending
sap is no longer expended in generating
new leaves and blossoms, or young
shoots, that fluid concentrates in a con
crete state in the sap wood of the tree,
as in the tuber of the potato, and the
bulb of the tulip, and joints of the
grasses, whence it is washed out in the
Spring, to form anew layer of bark
or wood to form leaves, and feed the
blossoms and fruit.
In very.remote islands there are but
few plants and no trees, which are origi
nals. There are also no animals, but
such as have been conveyed.
€\)t txirrrii illtor.
From the Olive Branch.
MOTHER, SING JERUSALEM
The last itords us a beautiful boy, who died u
ajeic years ago.
A child lay in a twilight room,
With palid, waxen lace;
A little child, whoso; tide of life
Had nearly run its race.
Most holy robes the angels brought
By holy spirits given,
Ready to wrap the child in them.
And carry him to Heaven.
And shining wings, with clasps of light
Two shining wings they bore, ’
To fasten on the seraph child,
Soon as the strife was o’er.
Perchance their beauty made him think
Os some harmonious word,
That often from his mother’s lips
The dying one had heard.
It might be, for he whispered low,
“ Sing, mother, sing,” and smiled.
The worn one knelt beside the eouoh
“What shall I sing, my child 1”
“Jerusalem, my happy home,”
The gasping boy replied,
And sadly sweet the clear notes ranc
Upon the eventide:
“ Jerusalem, my happy home,
Name ever dear to me !
When shall my labours have an end,
In joy, and peace, and thee ?”
And on she sang, while breaking hearts
Beat slow, unequal time ;
They lelt the passing of the soul
With that triumphal chime.
“ Oh ! when, thou city of my God,
Shall I thy courts ascend !”
They saw the shadow of the grave
With his sweet beauty blend.
“ Why should I shrink at pain or woe,
Or feel at death dismay 1”
She ceased—the angels bore the child
To realms of endless day.
Lesson lor Sunday, November 10.
WAITING ON GOD IN ORDINANCES.
“Waiting for the moving of the water.”—John v.3.
The narrative related in the context
is highly interesting. We have all
heard of the pool of Bethesda, and of
the angel who troubled its waters. It
is a just representation of our waiting
on God in Divine Ordinances. Here
is—
A figure ro explain. The blessings
of the Gospel are set forth by a variety
of comparisons; bread to satisfy our
hunger, milk to nourish, meat to
strengthen, wine to cheer, water to
quench our thirst. They are com
pared to water —
Because of its cleansing quality.
Sin has overspread our soul with its
contaminating influence, and nothing
can purify us but the blood of Christ,
the waters of salvation.
Because of its healing properties.
Some waters have medicinal qualities;
and individuals afflicted in various
ways, travel to a great distance, in or
der to derive the benefit they are cal
culated to afford. There is a river,
w hose springs can heal us of our spiri
tual maladies.
Because of its reviving influence.
llow refreshing is water to the faint
and languid pilgrim ; and how exhilar
ating are the waters of salvation to the
weary drooping sinner ! Its blessings
are in him as a well of water spring
ing up into everlasting life.
A TRUTH TO ILLUSTRATE. it is tWC
fold.
The inefficiency of human instrument
ality. I mean apart from Divine influ
ence. The angel must trouble the wa
ters, or there was no virtue in them;
will not this apply to ordinances!
Without the Spirit’s aid they can profit
us nothing —there will be a dead still
ness.
The efficacy of Divine Agency.
When the Angel of the Covenant
comes down and moves and agitates
the waters, how glorious are the effects
produced! Sinners stepping in are
made whole, and the influence extends,
not as here, merely to the individual
who was fortunate enough to descend
first, but to all who are anxiously wait
ing for the moving of the water.
A Duty to enforce. “ W ait.
How ? Wit h earnest prayer, confident
expectation, humble dependence, and
continued perseverance.
Prayer Reconciled to God s M ill.
—“ How does your ladyship, said the
famous Lord Bolingbroke to Lady
Huntingdon, “reconcile prayer to
God for particular blessings with
absolute resignation to the Divine
Wiii r
“ Very easily,” answered she, ‘*j ust
as if I was to offer a petition to a mon
larch, of whose kindness and wisdom
have the highest opinion. In such a
case, my language would be : 1 wish
you to bestow on me such a favour;
but your majesty knows better than 1
how far it would be agreeable to you.
or right in itself, to giant my desire.
1 therefore content myself with hunih .’
presenting my petition, and leave tue
event of it entirely to you.
A God— A Moment—An EtersHV
—How sad it is that an eternity, * •
emn and ever near us, should imp re '’
us so slightly as it does, and he
much forgotten ! A Christian tr< iu
ler tells us that he saw the follow mg
religious admonition on the subject
eternity, printed on a folio sheet, am
hanging in a public room of an inn
Savoy ; and it was placed, he nm*’
stood", in every house in the pa'i*
“ Understand well the force of 1
words—a God, a moment, an eternity•
a God who sees thee, a moment why
flies from thee, an eternity w c
awaits thee; a God whom you s(
-o ill. a moment of which you so iff 1
profit, an eternity which you bazar ‘
rashly.”
Natural Curiosity. —A white
was takeh in the Eastern part of
city last week, by Mr. John O- (111 ,
Two of them w ere seen togethci,
fired ujxm ; and a wing broken. >t
taken alive. It was purchased by
Alonzo Butler, who had its wing *
and it is now in a thriving con '. lltl 'j
This bird is truly a rara
comes pretty near being sonithing ! A
under the sun. “As black as a
A'ill no longer answ r er for an and u ;’
tion. The white crow is not °iff
unknown in natural history hut it
stranger bird than Poe’s raven, y.
Butler has refused SSO for this .
men. — Kennebec Journal.
thousand five hundred *
man residents of Philadelphia I
publicly announced their sec
from the Roman Church, wit i ,
pastor the Rev. Mr. Guistiniau't
their adoption of Protestant doc