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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