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(Original
Forth* Southern Literary Gazette.
TO BETTIE.
BY JENNIE ELDER.
| r; . he page with words for thee —
i on affection's language o’er,
j. caj* r ha te, yet still to me
Ali hackneyed forms seem cold and poor,
i ke to ilie mumnirings of the sea,
Which daily greet the sound.ng shore.
ae .-hore! Dost thou remember still,
When children,straying hand in hand,
l\ t* g ided seaward with the^ill,
And out upon the shining sand,
Aad picked the dainty shells at will,
Whose beauty mortal eye ne'er scanned ?
A .id how their tntiaic sounded sweet,
And how the clear tide rushing in.
I..tved brightly o’er our naked f
i*t peaii-l ke was the tender ;km.
And thou and 1, companions meet,
To ishell and wave seemed near akiti
Tiiou dost remember, dearest —all
The.-e memories live ior thee as me ;
Out from ilie Fust, sweet voices eall,
And scenes arb-e mo.-t lair to cee—
Tile aouiuls ot shell and wavelet tali,
L’cti as of old, on me and tiiee.
‘i iie winds of summer blandly swell,
Ami joyous loss my floating hair,
And summer warbliugs seem to tell
There is no winter of despair ;
And echo doth the free notes swell,
And murmurs faintly, “ No despair!”
V* e re severed, yet the same bee breeze
Waits melody to thee as uie ;
The murmur ug of the torcst trees
Types the gusli of memory free—
An! Nature in her power doth seize
Each pense—l sigh to he with thee!
Buckingham, Va.
(Original Sales.
For die .Southern Literary Gazette.
THE TRANSFORMATION;
QR, MRS. WOOD S VISIT TO HER COUN •
TRY RELATIONS.
BY SEM SOUTHLAND.
[cost Ll DtD FROM LAST WEEK.]
( IIAPI'EIi XII.
*• Now blame we most, the nurslings or the
nurse V *
••Well, you certainly have the kuaek
of entertaining children,” said Mrs.
Wood, rising up on the bed, as the last
of the children ran out of the room
to catch up with old mom Hannah. “I
envy you vour talent.”
“Do you ?” said Mary, slipping ofi’
her dress, and taking down her long
hair to re-smooth it before tile Doctor
f “H home. “Why don’t you culti
. .jfir, it Very miiy acquit etir
“Cultivate it!” cried Mrs. Wood,
with a countenance expressive of posi
tive dismay, “mercy on us, do you
think I’m going to make a drudge of
myself !”
Mary laughed, and went on arrang
ing her hair.
“Why Mary,” said Mrs. Wood, be
coming very energetic as she spoke,
“you don’t know all that I have to do
at home. \uti live such a quiet lit. 1
here, that you can t conceive of it. ’
“I know that you are very liable to |
interruption,” said Mrs. Howard, “but j
your children all go to school, do they I
mtf”
•‘Yes, but what of that? —company!
is calling half the day, and the other
half I am either out shopping, and pay- j
ing visits, or at home cutting and lit |
ting for the seamstresses. 1 have no I
time to be telling children stories, and j
if 1 had, it takes all the ideas I can rake j
and seiape together to entertain my ;
company.
Man was putting on her evening
dross, and made no reply, which her
cousin, construing into a tacit condem
nation • f her course, got quite nervous
about.
“Now, Mary,” she solid, fretfully,
“it’s no use to look grave about it,
children are too troublesome, any
how, and 1 am not going to take any
more trouble with them than 1 can
help.”
“Are your children very trouble
some?” said Mary , putting the finish
ing touches to her toilet, “they don t
seem so.”
“Because I wont let them be,” said
Mrs. Wood, stiil more energetically,
“if they worry me, 1 pack them oil in
to (lie nursery, and if they make a noise
after they get there, I lock them up un
til they get quiet.”
“And how do you manage about
all their little wants?” said Mary,
noiselessly moving about the room to
put everything to rights, “my children
arc constantly coming to me for some
thing or other, they have nowhere else
to go.”
“Oh, dear mercy !” cried Mrs. \\ ood,
“I suppose you think, I let them come
running to me all day ? Not 1 indeed!
They go to their nurse for whatever
they want, and if she can’t get it, they
do without.”
Mary was silent for several minutes,
at last she said—
“ Are you not afraid that their nurse
may not like trouble any better than
yen do ? llow can you be sure that
your children are not continually de
nied innocent g.antications, which they
might just as well be permitted to
have ?”
“1 dare say they are,” replied Mrs.
A MffiiLi MMAir, BM&m B iaI'MATBM, fM AMB SGUQMSS, MB TO AIM HffiiU.iMiwa.
Wood, carelessly, “but what of that ?
j Children’s sorrows are soon over, they i
1 fret one or two minutes, and then they
go at something else, and that is the
end of ft.”
“Not the end;” said Marv, more;
! plainly than she usually spoke, “dis
appointments an- hind things to bear
j up against at any time of life, and a
succession of them iu early childhood
is very apt to destroy cheerfulness of |
disposition altogether, and to produce j
1 a degree of despondency, or apathy, :
which can never aftc:wards lie wholly
I eradicated.”
Mrs. Wood started; an undefined!
suspicion that her children were some- \
how not as happy as they ought to be, I
! bad long been disturbing her mind, ;
land Maiy’s remark served to confirm !
I her suspicions, and to open her eyes;
i to her own unintentional agency in the
j matter.
\ unity, however, was a very pre
j dominant trait of her character, and I
! as usual, overcame ail her better feel-
I >ngs.
“I don’t want my children to be
I boisterous!” she exclaimed, jumping,
i pettishly down from the bed. “1 am
| bringing them up to be ladies and gen
tlemen, not country bumpkins.”
And completely the frivolous wo
man of the world again, she flounced !
j about, shaking down the folds of her
I dress, and re-arranging her disturbed
; ringlets as unconcernedly , to all ap
j pearance, as if no weightier matter
had ever occupied her thoughts.
But Mary’s remark had struck home.
In spite ot her assumed carelessness, she
was watching her children all the eve
ning, and when she saw them so quiet
and inanimate, w hile the others enli
vened everybody with their glee, she
felt that her mistaken management had
done more harm than enough, and that
if she ever expected to see her child
ren buoy ant and light-hearted again,
she must set about forthwith to reme- j
dy the evil whiih she herself had;
wrought.
Poor, unfortunate woman, she never
could see beyond the surface of things.
; and with her present view of tire sub
ject, she was as incapable of fathom
ing the depth of the evil, as she was
of providing the remedy.
Her idea was, that, somehow oroth- j
er, she was to undo all the mischief at
once. Her children—that it hud taken ;
eight, ten. and twelve years to Might
I into what they now were—were sud-
I denly, in a few days, or a week at
| farthest, to he transformed into bl ight,
i animated, hopeful characters, uucon-
I scions of a care, and strangers to sor
row and disappointment.
Vain hope. Life figurative once de
! stroyed is no more to be restored by
; mere human agency, than life physical.
| God’s spirit can work miracles and ofi
1 ten does; but in nine eases out of ten,
! those whose sympathies in early child
hood have been chilled and deadened,
| go from their cradles to their graves
[ the same dull, weary, hopeless victims
| of apathy and depression.
But Mrs. Wood, fortunately for her
j self, did not at first realize the full ex
tent of the work before her. Her
: children “were a little too highly pol
ished, and some of the polish must be
! rubbed off-—she had trammelled them
j too young with observances and re
i strictions, and they must be allowed
to run a little wild—she had consulted
their childish whims and fancies too
little, and hereafter they must have
whatever they wanted—she had not
petted and fondled them enough, and
henceforth she would hug them and
kiss them, and let them romp about
her all day. But, one thing she was
determined or. —they should be lively ;
they should skip and dance about the
house; they should be affectionate and
loving to each other; they should be
just exactly like Mary’s children, and
she would be a pattern of a mother.
Balls, concerts, and dinner parties
; were all for the time, thrown in the
Imck ground. She had made up a lit
i tie domestic paradise <>f her own, and
i she began to wonder at her own stu
! pidity in never having thought of such
a thing before.
Alas! she had only deserted one
extreme U> fall upon another. Her
ideas were as far removed from com
mon sense and sound judgement as
ever, and just as unlikely as her former
course to lead to a successful issue.
“Edward!” she exclaimed, when
they were all assembled in the parlour
after tea, “get up off that, sofa and play
with your cousins, 1 don’t like to see
you lounging about so all the time.
Now, Laura, put down that novel, and
move about. Lucy is the only one of
vou that ever plays like another child,
and she always does it with a sad sort
of face that is enough to make any
body else cry.”
Having thus inspirited the three,
Mrs. Wood proceeded to take especial ;
notice of little “Phil,” who, long accus
tomed to being quarantined in her \
neighbourhood, had of late learned to ;
look out for himself, and take comfort i
wherever be could find it. At present,
he was very agreeably esconced in the 1
arms of Lucy, with Lizzie and Willie
in the rear playing at “bo peep.”
Poor Mrs. Wood never could go
I right, she took the very time to re
i claim little Phil, when little Phil was :
perfectly content elsew here.
“Come here. Phil,” she said, going I
: up to him w ith her arms extended to 1
take hint.
“No!” cried Phil, jerking away,and j
holding tight to Lucy.
“Olt, you naughty baby !” cried Mrs. j
Wood, trying ‘whether or no’ to get j
| possession, “you don't know what!
; mamma has got f>r you, come Phil.” |
But Phil did’nt believe a word of it,
! be vociferated “no! no!” and held on j
j with all his might.
Poo? \tt* W ood looxei) conscience
j stricken. Her own baby would not
| come to her.
“Go to mamma, Phil,” said Lucy,
j coaxingly.
Phil loosened his hold, and looked
! around, but as soon as he taught sight i
of the ringlets and gew-gaws, his old j
reminiscences were too strong for.him, j
he drew back again and only relented j
on finding that the jewelled arms, and
ring-covered hands were actually ex
; tended beseechingly towards him.
\\ lieu at last he suffered himself to
! be taken, he seemed to be impressed
J with a conviction that he must be ex
! traordinnrily still, and not venture to
I move any more any more than he
could possibly help —after a while,
however, his associations began to w ear
| off, and when Lucy, kneeling at her |
! mother’s feet, took otf one of the giit
i tering bracelets, and put it on bis arm,
he looked at it with perfect delight, j
and cried out “pretty, pretty !” and the
i triumph was complete.
Mrs. Wood, in the rapture of her
; first success, grew quite young again,
and fancy ing that the work of reform
-1 ation would soon he achieved at all
j points, she went to bed that night
j quite delighted with hetself, and and ter
inined to delay her return home still a
week longer, that she might surprise
her husband with the sudden change
which had been wrought during her
short visit to the country.
CHAPTER XIII.
j “Os nil the numerous ills that hurt onr peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with an
guish,
Beyond comparison, the those.
That to onr folly or our guilt we owe.”
Full of her delightful scheme, Mrs.
Wood began as soon as she was awake
in the morning, to carry out her new
and untried plans.
Laura “mus’nt set at the foot of the
bed so long rubbing her eyes—she
must go down stairs—did’nt she hear
the children out in the garden ? Lu
cy !”
But Lucy had dressed and gone out
so silently, that she was down and out
in the open air before either her moth
er or sister were awake. This set Mrs.
Wood off on anew track ; she conclu
ded she would make haste and dress,
and then go down and see that Edward
and Lucy did their full share of the
playing. Accordingly she got Laura
into a perfect state of irritation by
hurrying her at her toilet; made her
self quite nervous by pulling on her
clothes wrong side out, and after all,
got down to the front door just as the
prayer bell rang, and children all
came flocking into the house.
It is quite useless to detail the num
berless plans that she hit upon for tor
menting her children into being merry,
suffice it to say her efforts only made
matters worse.
The children would not laugh and
play. Edwaid did’nt know what he
must lie all the time running about
for—Laura thought her mother must
be losing her senses —Lucy was as se
rene as ever, but opened her soft blue
eyes when ordered to wheel around
like a whirligig, and did not know what
in the world to make of it, w hen her
mother called on Edward and herself
to embrace each other. She put her
arms around Edward’s neck readily
enough, but Edward left her to do all
;she kissing, and seemed to be wonder
| ing in bis own mind, what he would be
j required to do next,
-Mrs. Wood laboured seduously for
I several days, but all in vain. The more
! she tried to make her children merry,
; ‘the more they would’nt be.’ At last
! she gave up in despair; before the ex-
I tra week was out, word was brought to
| Mrs. Howard at the breakfast table,
that Mrs. Wood “was sick, would’nt
| come down, and did not wish to be
; disturbed.”
The Doctor, professionally, insisted
on seeing her, and went into her room
! contrary to all prohibitions. He found
her in bed, her eyes swollen with weep
ing, and she herself, bordering on hys
| terics.
“My dear cousin!” he exclaimed,
j “why what is the matter with you ?
You have actually cried yourself into
\ a fe.ver. Come this wont do at all.
j You must stop it forthwith.”
CHARLESTON. SATLIULAY. MAY Si. 1851.
And he threw open a window to let
in the fresh morning air.
But it was no u-e. Mrs. Wood only
wept the more bitterly, and would give
: no clue to her sudden affliction.
The sound of his children’s voices
!on the lawn before the house was the
| first thing that threw a single ray of
’ light on the Doctor’s bewilderment.
As they broke out into a peal of
j laughter, poor Mrs. Wood covered her
j ears with her hands, aid buried her
j face in her pillow, and tlu* Doctor, who
| had been watching her proceedings for
; several days with considerable interest, |
| ..t once divined lion matters stood.
: and acted accordingly.
lie astonished the children by order
| ing them to tic other (-Eve o. the house,
I .'hen calico nrcfin v o : a -ilie -tiibie
•.* / c V |
on hiv t.Aounti liiiSi.N, .Allied L/ t
telling Mrs. Wood to cn. d\ for a!
ten miles ride as speedily as possible. !
“1 can’t. ‘ sobbed the poor woman, ‘
hardly able to articulate, “do go out |
; and let me alone.” .
“You get up and dress,” said the
| Doctor, moving towards the door, “it
j you chose to go without your breakfast
j 1 can't help it, but go you must.”
And he left the room calling to Ma- I
ry to “make haste for it was time to
be off.”
A moment after. Mart made her
appearance.
“Come Eliza,” she said “the Doctor
says you must dress, he wants to take
you with him to see son c of his poor
patients.”
“Do let me a lone,” cried Mrs. Wood,
] frantically disengaging herself from her
cousin’s kind grasp. “I’m not going!
I can’t! and 1 won’t!”
“YV ell, every body has to obey the j
Doctor in this house,”said Mary, quiet
ly, “and if you won't dress, he’ll come
himself to see about it.”
And as she spoke, she up her cou
sin’s cap, and brought the water to
bathe her swollen face.
“Here is your breakfast,’ she said
affectionately, putting her arm around
her to coax her out of bed, as old mom
Hannah came in bearin a well-filled
waiter, “make haste now and comb
your hair.”
And by dint of persuasion and force,
Mrs. Wood was fairly dressed and car
ried down to the front door, where the
Doctor with his two horses, and his
portable medicine case, was awaiting
4: r. - * - ...
How it was brought about “depo
i uent sayoth not,” but Mrs. Wood, in
stead of going back to her bed, and
enduring all the horrors of u nervous
attack, came home with a smooth face,
and a comparatively placid brow. She
had gone to the houses of the sick and
poor. She had looked in upon the fami
lies of the drunken and the destitute,
and had learned that if there were some
in the world who were destined to be
happier than her own children, they
were many that were called to endure
misery and deprivation, of which hers
could form no idea.
And now the reformation was begin
ning iu sober earnest. The mother of
the family was beginning to think—she
was beginning to understand the nature
of the evil against which she was to
combat, and, as a natural consequence,
she would begin to search out every
possible remedy, and to check the fur
ther progress of her former errors.
She felt that there was much which
she could not undo, but there was still
more w hich might be undone, and an
immeasurable deal which might be
prevented. Her younger, children she
was determined, should not suffer fiom
the same causes which had marred the
happiness of her first born, and if she
could not rekindle iu those of an older
grow th, the sparks which her own ne
glect had extinguished, she could, at
least, labour to uproot the false princi
ples of her own implanting, and to
substitute new and better ones in their
room.
Lady M. W. Montague say s that
“it takes us more than half of our lives
to unlearn the errors which wc have
b“ti taught to receive as indisputable
truths,” and her remark would pass for
wisdom, if she had limited its applica
tion to those whose education has beeti
left in the hands of incompetent, un
faithful, or mistaken guides. But there
i t not a truly well-educated family in
the w hole country, who could not deny
the truth of her assertion in its appli.
cation to themselves. Occasional er
tors all men must fall into, and the
most judicious guardian may err iu
: unimportant matters, but that wise and
! true-hearted parents “tench their child
ren to receive errors as indisputable
truths,” is a mistake w hich no woman
experimentally acquainted with the her
j editary virtues of ‘‘the generations of j
j the upright,” could ever have fallen ill j
to.
CHAPTER XIV.
“Cheerful omens give
I Hopes of happier days whose dawn is nigh.”
The remainder of Mrs. Wood’s visit
j was spent in watching her cousins, to
I learn, if possible, the secret of the.r
si c-ess in the management of their !
children. \
She foundMiat the Doctor had very
little, comrijftuively.to do with it. He
was constantly away from home, and
when preset* was liable to constant in- j
terruptioii. STbc whole “burden” of
the “training” fell on Mary, and it was
astoni-hiiigfhnw easily she managed
to bear it. IN ever weary, never inac
tive, she rfciiatqd the affairs of her
household .systematically, yet so un
obtrusively* that a casual observer
would have laid she did not manage at
i all. And ■ was the same thing with
regard to hcSchildren—she rarely found
fault withtlfcin never scolded, and yet
alwavs coi’ *”t v ’ to-have them under
pei t. . e< s'-
; The Ii ~ . she ky.pt her Senses
I afwh > . hv *. Ttud c 1 .Y bed evcY.
lliing wrong in the bud. Before most
j women would have found out that “all
S was not right,” Mary had not only
i found it out, but had remedied the evil,
i and that in a manner so affectionate
and gentle, that nobody was disturbed
by her interference, not even the par
ties principally concerned, except in j
cases where there hud been downright ;
culpability, and then she was grave and
decided enough.
If Lizzie threw down her bonnet
when she came into the house, instead
of hanging it up, Mary didn't “read
her a lecture” on carelessness, neither
did she let ihe thing run on until it had
become a habit—she simply pointed
to it, or she locked at Lizzie and shook
her head.
If Charley came iu iu a passion, she
! smoothed the hair from his open brow,
and stood there playing with his soft
; ringlets, and talking to him until lu
got pleased again.
If Fred, after labouring for hours at
some incorrigible problem, at last threw
down the hook in despair, in a moment
Mary was at his elbow to bid him ‘try
again,’ and to suggest some plan for
conquering the difficulty.
Mrs. Wood watched her with perfect
amazement;*it seemed to her, that so
far from grumbling, as she had been
accustomed to hear some people do, at
having so much to occupy them, Mary
never regarded her own comfort at- all.
She actually “lived in others,” and
when questioned as to how she man
aged to get. through so much without
ever complaining, she laughingly re
-I’R‘- .‘ s **‘ not time to think of
it.” * —‘"-'—fj
And yet, easy as she seemed to make
it all, thare were few women who did
more, tjhe superintended the studies
ofherchiilren almost entirely, “cut and
fitted” fi.fr the seamstresses, “kept her
own keys,” and very often was com
pulled to attend to the Doctor’s busi
ness as well as her own; not to speak
of her numberless attentions to the
poor and sick of the neighbourhood.
Doubtless, there are some that do
more, but she did all that was acquired
of her, and that so serenely, and so
cheerfully, that no one ever would have
supposed that she was obliged to do
anything. Would that there were
more like her.
From observing Mary, Mrs. Wood
turned to bring up before her mind’s
eye all the former members of the old
gentleman’s happy and excellent house
hold.
She pictured them to herself, once
united under the same protecting roof,
now scattered in homes of their ow n
over a wide range of country. Some
iu out of the way places entirely sepa
rated from every thing that could be
called society, and others, taking a
more prominent part iu the active pro
gress of the day, but all enjoying life,
and each contributing their full share
to the happiness of others.
From this, she went on to think over
the days which she herself, had spent
among them all, w hen a lonely , penni
less orphan, she had sought where to
lay her head, and had found more than
welcome —affection and a home.
She remembered the unceasing care
of her good old aunt, to instil right
principles, and to promote love and
harmony —her never varying kindli
ness, and never failing industry.
She remembered how the old gen-
tleman laboured day by day to pro
vide food lor the family, and how,
when tired *‘to death” of out door
work, became in worn and heated, but
faithful to his duty, to gather the chil
dren, and to instruct them in such
learning as his own limited advance
nient permitted him to give.
She remembered how, when money
became more plentiful, new books be
gun to make their appearance, and
how carefully the old gentleman look
ed them over before he permitted
j them to pass into his children’s hands.
She remembered how, whenever
j they got anew book, they all assem
■ bled together in some out ot the way
; room, and pored over its contents, the
elder reading to the younger, and the
younger working diligently at their al
lotted tasks, that they might all “be
ready for mother when she eame iu.
She remembered that, when they
had all performed their part faithfully,
j no innocent gratification was ever de
nied them, and that it was only when
they deserved it, that they were ever
i reprimanded or found fault with.
Then came the day when she first
j went off to boarding school; the un
controllable grief at parting with her.
and the thousand little contrivances fur
making heivonifortable before she set
out, the vacant place when she was
gone, and the old lady’s efforts to re
strain her tears in the evening, and
make every thing s<fe|>i as pleasant as
usual.
Then after a long interval of chang
ing scenes arid scholastic discipline—
during which, first one and then an
other let! in>mc and were reunited amid
those who had preceded them—came
the time w hen they all returned from
school to be. present at Sarah’s wed
ding.
She remembered her own surprise
when she liist—after three years fami
liarity with city way s, and city dress
ing—discovered to her amazement,that
i *
; her venerated uncle and aunt were noth
ing more than plain, homely country
people, and how she compared their
children with them, and thought they
hardly looked like the same family.
Scenes too numerous to mention,
passed before her, and following them
out, she traced through them all the
same principle of untiling faithfulness
and love, and extending down even to
the third generation, and exerting its
incalculable influence wherever it went.
And from this, she turned to the
review of her own later life. What had
she. done ! w herein had she added to
‘he happiness of her fellow creatures, ;
or even contributed to the welfare of!
her family ?
Her children were all before her, liv
ing reproaches of her own want of
thought and care. She had decked
their persons, and ‘crammed’ their
minds, but trampled heedlessly on
their hearts, and neglected most culpa
bly their principles. Up to the present
day, her time, her thoughts, her sym
pathies had all been given to “the
world ;” but w hat a revolution the last
two w eeks had wrought. Her children
were no longer in her eyes “plagued
little torments,” *to be “huffed and
miffed” whenever she was in a hurry
to he off. but “precious jewels,” and
“household ornaments,” to be watched
over as her greatest earthly treasure,
and to be carefully guarded front every
injurious influence, or unnecessary af
fliction.
She left Dr. Howard’s with new!
views of life, and returned to M a
changed woman.
Those wh > had known her as dressy,
frivolous, and pleasure seeking, saw her
transformed as if by magic, into a so.
ber-minded, home-loving, sensible wo
man.
Mrs. Vane grew quite tired of her.
Mrs. Aimesworth began to seek her
company, and ere long, Mrs. Wood,
formerly “Mrs. Vain’s intimate friend,”
“co-leader of ‘ton,’” “the greatest
dasher in M ,” and “the most tri
fling creature in existence.” was
“A really lovely woman”—“a most
devoted mother”—“one of the best of
wives;” and, to quote the words of
her indignant neighbour, and quondam
ally —
“One of those hateful, home-staying,
self righteous ‘exclusives!’”
The moral of my story is contained
in two inimitable lines of “Hood's,”
i which ought to travel far and wide,
i and should be placarded before the
: eyes of every household,
“Evil is wrought by want of Thought,
As well as by want of Heart.”
Independence in Dress.— A contem
porary remarks a change iu public sen
timent, which struck us some time
since, and which we intended to speak
of. Indeed, we should have done so;
but it seemed so generally conceded,
that we scarcely conceived it striking
enough to comment on :
European touiists,in their “notes by
the wav,” have frequently alluded iu
terms of condemnation to the humilia
ting deference which is paid throughout
America to the conventionalities of
dress. This exhibition of our national
weakness has at length brought us to
the adoption of European tastes and
customs, which for once have the merit
of being in accordance with common
: sense. The tyrant Fashion is losing
his sway, and each man dresses as ca
price dictates. In our own city we a;e
pleased to observe this independence
manifesting itself. We now see one
: with straps to his pants, another with
■ out, one with a blue, another with a
! brown, green, or black coat—one with
i high, another with low heels to hi>
b<hits —one with a short another with a
|i,n<r vest, and so on to the end of the
catalogue.
The change is very marked. We
remember when one could not wear
| a moustache without risking insult .
at every step; and a pair of pantaloons
of a different shape, or style of goods,
from those worn by everybody, would j
have ensured a mob, and furnished the
wearer w ith a “tail” as long as a High
laud chief'*. —Parker a Juurnul.
fourth volume-no. 5 whole no. 157
(T’iir f\m\ frllrr.
A TALE OF i iIE ALUAMBua
There is no part of the Alhambra
that gives a more complete idea of its
original beauty and magnificence than
the Ratio ile los Leones, or Court ot
Lions; for none has suffered so little
from the ravages of time.
Its architecture, like that of all the
other parts of the palace, is churactei
ized by elegance rather than grandeur;
bespeaking a delicate and graceful
taste, and a disposition to indolent en
joyment.
“When one looks,” says Washing
ton Irving, “upon the fairy tracery oi
the peristyles, and the apparently fra
gilc fretwork of the wails, it is difficult
to believe that so much has surviveu
the Wear and tear of centuries, th>
violence of war, and the quiet, though
.no less baneful pi.ferings of the tastc-
I lul tiaveiler, it is almost sufficient to
•tr.'S-nron; stint—rtc. 1
w hole is protected by a magic “harm.”
Earthquakes have shaken the foun
dations of the Alhambra, and rent its
ludest towers; but not one of the slen
del-columns ot the Court of Lions has
been displaced—not an arch of the light
and fragile eolonade lias given way ;
and all the fairy fretwork of the domes,
up arently as unsubstantial as the crys
tal fabrics of a morning’s fiost, yet
exist after the lapse of centuries, al
most as fresh as if from the hand of the
Moslem artist.
1 lie Court of Lions measures one
hundred by sixty feet. Formerly pavt-o
with marble, it has been, iu later times
converted into a garden. It is sur
lounded by a eolonade of one hundred
and forty elegant while marble pillars,
which are nine feet high, and eight
inches and a half in diameter. They
aie very irregu.arly placed: semetime.-
lliey are single, and sometimes in
groups of two or three. The walls, up
to the height of lilteen fi-et from the
ground, are covered with blue and y el
low mosaic tilings. The peristyle
j and ceiling are beautifully ornamented
| with arabesques and fretwork in the
most exquisite taste.
Not the siual.est representation ol
animal life can be discovered amiUsi
tile varieties of foliages,grotesque, and
stiange ornaments.
T he tine taste of the Arabs delighted
in the sparkling purity and reviving
freshness of water, and they erected,
as it were, altars on every side to that
delicious element. Most of the halls
ot the Alhambra have anciently been
beautified by fountains. But now many
ot the basins, where the fountains once
threw up their sparkling showers, arc
dry and dusty.
In the centre of the Court of Lions
are twelve ill-made lions, muzzled,their
fore parts smooth, their hind parts
rough, which bear upon their backs an
enormous basin, out of which a lessei
j •■**“ li-t.ivs Still
shed their diamond drops; and the
twelve lions cast forth their crystal
streams, as in the days of Babodil. It
is said that this fountain was made al
ter the model of the brazen sea which
Solomon placed iu his qpmjile.
I I Upon tile laim-r basin there is an
(inscription, consisting of twciity-tbui
Arabic- verses to the following effect :
“O thou who beholdest these lions
fixed iu their places, consider that they
want nothing but life to be perfect:
and thou who iuheritesl the kingdom
and this palace, receive them from the
hands of the nobles without making
use of violence!
“May God preserve thee for the
sake of the new work which thou hast
peiforiiied iu order to embellish me—
and may thine enemy never revenge
himself on thee!
“May the happiest praises dwell up- ■
oil the lips which bless thee, O Mo
hamed our king! .or thy soul is adorn
ed with the most amiable virtues.
“God forbid that any tiling in the
world should surpass or equal this
ehaimiitg performance, the image of
thine excellent qualities! But it is thou
that embellishes it: it is limped water
that glistens in my bosom, and that
bubbles up like molten silver.
“The whiteness of the stone, and
ihat of the water which it contains, are
equal.
“Examine attentively this basin, if
thou wLbest to distinguish the water;
for it will appear at first sight that
both are liquid, or that both are solid.
“Asa captive of love wnose lace is
bathed with the tears extoiled by the
envious, so the water appears jealous
of the stone which holds it, and the
basin, in its turn, seems to envy the
crystal water.
“Beautiful is the stream that issues
from my bosom, thrown high into the
tir by the profuse hand of Mohamed.
His generosity excels the strength of
the lion!’’
Iu former times there ruled, as gov
ernor of the Alliambia, a doughty old
cavalier, who, from having lost one
arm in the wars, was commonly know n
by the name of El GobernadorManco.
or “the one armed governor. ’
Governor Maneo was exceedingly :
proud and pUuctillious, and teuaeiou-;
of all his piivileges. Under his sway |
ihe immunities of the Alhambra, as a !
royal residence and domain, w ere rigid
ly exacted. As the hill of the Alham
bra i ises from the very midst of the
citv of Granada, it was ‘omewhat iik
some to the captain general who com
manded the province, to have thus a
j.etty indepeudant post iu the very
Centre of his domains. It was render
ed the more ga ling from the irritable
jealousy of old Maneo, which took
lire on the least question of authority
and jurisdiction.
One of the most fiuitful sources of
dispute oetweeu these two rivals, was
the right claimed by the governor to
: have a.I things passed (tee ot duty
| through the city, that were intended
for the use of himself or his gairison.
ffy degrees tins privilege had given
iiiseto extensive smuggling. A nest
ii f contrabandists took up their abode
i iu the bowels of the fortress, and the
numerous caves in its vicinity, and
drove a thiiving business under the
■on ni vance of the soldiers of the gar
rison.
i lie vigilance of the captain-general
was aroused. He consulted his kgal
adviser and factotum, a shrewd med
dlesome ascribauo, or notary, who re
joiced in an opportunity of perplexing
the old potentate of the Alhambra.
He advised tije captain general to in
sist upon the right of examining every
convoy passing through the gates of
his city, and he penned a long letter in
vindication of the right.
Governor Manco was a straightfor
ward, ent-and thrust old soldier, who
hated a notary worse than the devil.
“What!” said he, curling his mous
tache licreely ; “does the captain-getter
and set his mail of the pen to practise
contusions upon me? I'll let him see
hat an oJ soldier is not to be baffled
by school-cruft.”
He seized his ‘ien. and -crawled a
—lh*.* 1 ■+,“-> wchv
to enter into argument, lie instate* on
ihe riglit of transit free of search, and
denounced vengeance upon any cus
tom-house officer w ho should lay hands
on any convoy protected by the flag of
the Alhambra.
\\ bile this question was agitated be
tween the two potentates, it so hap
pened that a mule laden with supplies
ti>r the fortress, arrived one day at the
Gate of Xenil, by which it was to tra
verse a subtiib of the city on its way
to the Alhambra, ihe convoy was
headed by an old corporal, who had
long served under the governor, and
was a man after his own heart. As
hey approached the gate of the eitv,
the corporal placed banner of the A1
hunilua on the pack saddle of the mule,
and drew himself up to a pet feet pet
|ieiidicular, ready for whatever might
transpire.
“\\ h>* trues there ?” said the sentinel
at the gate.
• homier of the Alhambra,” said the
corporal.
“What have you in charge?”
“Provisions tor the garrison.”
“Proceed.”
The corporal marched straight for
ward, followed by the convoy, but had
not advanced many paces before a
posse of custom-house officers rushed
out of a small toll-house.
“Halloo, there!” cried the leader.
“Muleteer, halt, and open those pack
ages.”
The corporal wheeled round, and
drew himself up in battle array.
“Respect the flag “'f the Alhambra,”
said lie, “these things are for the gov
ernor.”
“A fig for the governor ! Muleteer,
halt, I say!”
“Stop the convoy at your peril!”
cried the cotporal, cocking his musket.
“Muleteer, proceed.”
The muleteer gave his horse a hearty
thwack ; the custom-house officer sprang
forward-and seized i UisJulLF : where
upon the corporal levelled liis piece
and shot him dead.
The street was immediately in an
uproar. The corporal was seized, load
ed with irons, and conducted to the
city prison; while his comrades were
permitted to proceed with the convoy,
after it had been well rummaged, to
the Alhambra.
Old Manco was in a towering pas
sion when lie heard of this insult to
his flag, arid capture of Ins corporal.—
For a time he stormed about tlie Moor
ish halls, and vapoured about the bas
tions. Having vented the first ebulli
tions of his wrath, he despatched a
message, demanding the surrender of
the corporal, as to him alone belonged
the right of sitting ill judgment on the
offences of those under his command.
The captain general, aided by the pen
of the notary, replied at great length,
arguing, that as the offence had been
committed within the walls of his city,
and against one of his civil officers, it
clearly within his proper juri>die
tion. The governor rejoined by a rep
etition of his demand ; the captain
general gave a surrejoinder of still
greater length ; the governor became
hotter and still more peremptory in
his demands, and the captain-general
cooler and more copious in his replies,
until the old soldier absolutely roared
with fury at being thus entangled iu the
meshes of legal controversy.
In the meanwhile the nota'y was
conducting the trial of the corporal,
lie was convicted of murder, and sen
tenced to be hanged. Vain were the
remonstrances and menaces w hich the
governor sent down from the Alham
bra. The fatal day was at hand, and
corporal was put “i/i cnpellu that is
to say in the chapel of the prison, as is
always done with culprits the day be
fore execution, that they may meditate
..n their approaching end, and repent
them of their sins.
Seeing tilings drawing to an extrem
ity, the old governor determined to at
tend the affair in person. For this
purpose he oidered out his carriage of
state, and, surrounded by his guards,
rumbled down the avenue of the Al
hambia into the city. Driving to the
house of the notary, he summoned
him to the portal.
The eye of the old governor gleamed
like a live coal at beholding the man
of law advancing.
“What is this I hear?” cried he:
“that you are about to put to death
one of my soldiers? ’
“All according to law—all in strict
form of justice,” said the notary; “1
can show your excellency the written
testimony in the ease.”
“Fetch it hither,” said the governor.
The notary bustled into his offi< e,
returning with a satchel full of papers,
which he began to read. By this time
a crowd had collected, listening wilh
| out-stretched necksand gaping mouths.
“Prithee, man, get into the carriage
1 out i's this throng, that 1 may better
hear thee,” said the governor.
The notary entered the carriage,
in a twinkling, the door was dosed,
tha coachman sm.nked his whip—
mules, carriage, guaids, all dashed off
at a thundering rate, leaving the crowd