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governor pause until lie huliioeg .
prey in one of the strongest dungeons
of the A1 ham lira. He then sent down
a flag of truce, in military style, pro
posing an exchange of prisoners—the
corporal for the notary. The pride of
the captain-general was piqued ; he re
turned a contemptuous refusal, and
forthwith caused a gallows to be erec
ted in the centre of the Plaza Nueva,
for the execution of the corporal.
“Oh lis that the game V’ said Gov
ernor Manco.
ile gave orders, and immediately a
gibbet was reared on the verge of the
great beetling bastion that overlooked
the Plaza.
“Now,” said he, in a message to the
captain-general, “hang my soldier when
you please; but at the same time that
lie is swung off in the square, look
to see your notary dangling against the
sky.”
The captain general was inflexible :
troops were paraded in the l’iaza Nue
va, the drums beat, the bell tolled.—
An immense multitude gathered to
gether to behold the execution. On
the other hand, the governor paraded
his garrison on the bastion, and tolled
the funeral dirge ot the notary from
the Torre de la Campana, or Tower of
the Hell.
The notary’s wife pressed through
the crawd with her children, and,throw
ing herself at the feet of the captain
general, implored him not to sacrifice
t he life of her husband, and the wel
are of herself and her little ones, to a
point of pride.
You #nov* the too
well,” said she, in eoneiusiou, “to doubt
that he will put his threat in execution,
if you hang the soldier.”
The captain-general was overpower
ed by her tears and lamentations, and
the clamors of her children. The cor
poral was sent up to the Alhambra,
under a guard ; the notary was de
manded in exchange, according to the
cartel.
The once bustling and self-sufficient
man of the law was drawn forth from
his dungeon more dead than alive. —
All his flippancy and conceit had evap
orated. He looked as if he felt tne
halter round his neck. The old gov
ernor for a moment surveyed him with
a smile.
“Henceforth, my friend,” said he,
“moderate your zeal in hurrying others
to the gallows; be not too sure of your
safety, even though you should have
the law on your side; and, above all,
take care how you play otf your school
craft another time upon an old sold
ier.’’
(tatral (Bdrrtir.
PAULINE.
As the clock struck eleven, Emma
Carey, for a moment, moved from the
window where she had been sitting
listlessly gazing ever since she had lef;
the breakfast table. She had not been
enjoying the beauty of the freshly fal
len suow, and the trees bending with
their delicate burden; nor had she
been sympathizing with the merry lit
tle school-boys, and the unusually brisk
movements of the man of business;
nor with the shivering, thinly clad ot
her own sex ; nor with the disappoint
ed shoveiers, going from door to door,
in astreetabounding with men servants.
No—she was deliberating seriously
whether she should continue a piece ol
fancy work which was to be finished
buturc the and say'*’ en
gaged,” or receive callers.
A sudden blast of wind drifted the
snow from one side of the street to the
other; the cloaks were drawn tighter,
and the wearers braced themselves, and
walked faster.
Emma turned toward the glowing
fire in her own apartment, sank down
in her easy chair, and congratulated
herself that no necessity compelled
her to be exposed to the weather. She
took up her work, and, for ten minutes,
was quite industrious. Some little
difficulty perplexed her, and she con
cluded it was folly for her to spend her
precious time in such tedious employ
ment, and that Pauline might just as
well work the flowers as do the ground
work. No she would send it to some
bod v else—Pauline was not to be de
pended u >on; she had promised that
the piece she had taken should be sent
home the previous evening; it was
shameful to disappoint her so—and it
was very wrong in Miss Grey to re
coin mend one so unpunctual.
Emma moved aside her worsteds
and canvas, and put her feet upon the
fender, took up a Erench novel, con
taining much that was artificial and
distasteful, intermingled with some
pathetic scenes of suffering among the
poorer classes, read a few chapters, and
slept as soundly as one w ell could w ho
had been awake but three hours.
It was high noon as her aunt passed
her door, ller attention was attracted
by a moaning sound, and perceiving
the young lady was not comfortable,
she awakened her.
Emma started and gazed around,
and exclai med, “It was a dream after
all; but it was frightful.”
“My dear, are you not well?” said
her aunt. “What caused you to fall
asleep? do you know that your fire is
almost out?”
“Don’t ask me anything, aunt; 1 have
had a very strange dream.”
“What was it ?”
“I thought I was at Pauline Conte’s
house. Il was a dismal place ; there
was no furniture ih the room but a
red-hot stove, which gave me a dread j
ful headache, a table, and a bench, j
where Pauline was sitting by a dim
light, sewing on ray chair-cover; her
face was flushed, and she worked stead
ily like a machine. Then there was
a sound of bells, and a young man and
woman came in and begged her to take
a ride wdth them. She replied, no, it
was impossible; she had pledged her
word to Miss Carey that she would
finish her w ork that night; but when
she undertook it, she had no idea the
canvas was so fine. I looked at it—it
seemed to be close muslin. I tried
my best to tell her to go, but I could
not. They left, and she went on work
ing faster and faster. Suddenly the
fire went out, and the room was icy
cold. She turned deathly pale, and, :
instead of tears, blood streamed from
her eyes. I tried in vain to scream
and you must have heard me makine
the effort w hen you awakened me ; for
1 think 1 heard it myself. Now, aunt,
1 must go and see her, for it may be ,
true.”
horses.”
“I can walk ; I feel so strong when I I
think of her weakness, and all for my |
inconsiderateness in asking her, when 1
: there was no necessity, to do in a week j
what 1 should not accomplish in a
month. Janet knows where she lives,
I and will go with me.”
Not until Emma had reached the
I humble abode, did the idea strike her,
j what Pauline would think on seeing
her.
The poor foreigner opened the door,
and exclaimed, “Oh, 1 know you have
come to upbraid me. My poor inoth
i er has had another illness and was so
I nervous last evening that J could not
I keep a lamp burning in the room. I
i have not wasted a minute; but filling
up takes more time than you would
think. You shall have it to-night.”
“Pauline, give it to me, will you? I
must have it to-day, and 1 will pay
| you well for what you have done.”
“\\ hile the gii 1 was out of the room,
j Emma looked around in vain for the
j stove, and wondered that she had for
| gotten Pauline had a mother; but she
was still so impressed with the reality
of her dream, that she could not help
asking whether she had ever been in
vited to take a sleigh ride? ’
“Oh, no, 1 should like very much to
go, but 1 should fear the show might
pain my eyes.”
Emma locked up, and saw they w ere
much inflamed.
“Do they ever bleed?” she inquired.
“Oh, no, ma’twn ; Xhq,-doctor says if
’[ could give up work for a while, they
could be cured ; but, you know that is
quite impossible.”
* * * * * *
Emma reached home before dinner,
with a healthier glow on her counte
nance than had been there during the
season, much to the satisfaction of her
aunt. She told her she had been to
see that excellent Miss Grey, who had
promised to send her brother, the doc
tor, to see the sick woman, before dark,
and that Pauline had bound herself,
for a consideration , not to use her
needle for a whole year.— Home Jour.
ENGLISH WOMEN.
We do not know how we can render
our fair countrywomen a greater ser
vice, than by copying for their serious
perusal and thought, the following ad
mirable description of English women,
from the March number of the Horti
culturist, by Mr. A. J. Downing. We
can corroborate from personal knowl
edge, all Mr. D. here says of their
greater breadth of education, and su
perior conversation —we mean more
particularly among the middle and
higher claves.
We well recollect, when in England,
passing a day at the country residence
of a distinguished officer in the horse
guards. There were sons and daugh
ters of nobleman present as guests.—
The ladies, in very common calico
dresses and thick shoes, walked over
the park and farm in the morning, criti
cising the stock, the crops, the scenery,
trees, shrubbery, and flowers, while the
gentlemen were out shooting in stout
fustian clothes, and thick, solid, hob
nailed shoes, such as our most ordina
ry farmers would hardly deign to wear.
But at dinner, which took place at 6 P.
M., all were elegantly dressed, the
conversation throughout the evening,
was easy and unaffected, but more in
tellectual, and embracing a much wider
range, than that which pervades in any.
except tne very best and most highly
educated American society.
The young English woman is less
conspicuously accomplished than our
young woman of the same position in
society. There b, perhaps, a little less
of the je fie suf# quoi, (1 don’t know
what,) that nameless gAce which cap
tivates at first sight, than with us, but
a better and more solid education,
more disciplined minds, and above all
more common sense. In the whole art
of conversation, includingall the topics
of the day with so much of politics as
makes a woman really a companion
for an intelligent man in his serious
thoughts, in history, language, and
practical know ledge of the duties of
social and domestic life, the English
women have, 1 imagine, few superiors.
But what perhaps, would strike one of
our voung women most, in English so
ciety, would be the thorough cultiva
tion and refinement w hich exists here,
along w ith the absence of all false del
icacy.
lhe fondness of English women,
(even in the highest rank,) for out-of
door life, horses, dogs, fine cattle, ani
mals of all kinds—for their grounds,
and in short, everything that belongs
to their home their real, unaffected
knowledge of, and pleasure in these
things, and the unreserved way in
: which they talk about them, would
| startle some of my young friends at
home, who are educated in the fash
ionable boarding school of Madam
gar,’ and ‘unlady-like.’ I accompanied
! the younger members of the family
here this morhing, in an exploration of
i the mysteries of the place. No soon
er did we make our appearance out of
doors, than we were saluted by dogs
of all degrees, and each had the honor
of an interview and personal reception,
which seemed to be productive ot plea
sure on both sides. Then some of the
horses were brought out of the stable,
and a parley took place between them
and their fair mistresses ; some favour
ite cows were to be petted and looked
; after, and their good points were des
canted on with knowledge and discrim-
I illation ; and there was the basse cour,
| (poultrp yard, we uppe e Mr. D. here
means, the word having several differ
ent significations,) w ith its various pop
ulation, all discussed and shown with
such lively, uuaffected interest, that 1
soon saw my fair companions were
‘born to love pigs and chickens.
1 have said nothing about the garden,
because you know that it is especially
the lady s province here. An English
woman, with no taste for gardening,
would be as great a marvel as an an-;
gel without wings. And now, were I
these fresh-looking girls, who have so j
thoroughly entered into these rustic \
enjoyments, mere country lasses and j
dairy maids? By no means. J hey
will converse with you in three or four
languages; are thoroughly well ground
ed in modern literature; sketch from
nature with the ease of professional ar
tists, and will sit down to the piano
forte and give you an old ballad, or the
finest German or Italian music, as your ,
taste may dictate. And yet many of |
J of their
education—wholly intend
ed for the drawing room—is tar below
what 1 have described, would have
half fainted with terror, and half blush
ed w ith false delicacy, twenty times in
the course of the morning, with the
discussions of the farm yard, meadow,
and stables, which properly belong to
a wholesome country life, and are not
in the slightest degree at variance with
real delicacy and refinement. 1 very
well know that there are many sensible
educated young women at home, who j
have the same breadth of cultivation, j
and the same variety of resources, that ;
make the English .women such truly
agreeable companions; but alas, 1 also
know that there are many whose beau
ideal is bounded by a circle that con
tains the latest fashionable dance for
the feet, the latest fashionable novel
for the head, and the latest fashionable
fancy work for the fingers.
-♦ ♦
THE WORLD’S FAIR.
\\ e find, in a London magazine,
twenty tauciful definitions of the Great
Industrial Exhibition, furnished by as
many different correspondents. Some
of them are striking and beautiful,
while others are amusing tor their
: quaintness : • ■*
The world’s industrial parliament.
Yeast fermenting all the world.
The works of all nations in one vol
ume.
The harvest-home of thirty years’
peace.
Britannia giving a conversazione to
the .. • * ‘*
Ihe new public-house on the high
way of experiment.
ihe glass hive of the world, with In
dustry for the queen-bee.
A royal thought, framed and glazed
for all the world to read.
The world’s omnibus, travelling on
the road to Civilization.
A monster forcing-house for the arts
and sciences.
A laudable attempt to make the
whole world Family Friends.
A net spread by the mistress of the
seas to catch all kinds of fish.
A polling-booth, at which will lie re
ceived votes for Peace as representa
tive of the world.
lhe realization of Napoleon’s idea:
“The English a nation of shop-keepers.”
A coralline island thrown up, in a
brief space, from the depths of the
ocean of Progress.
People taking pleasure surrounded
by panes.
A public exposure of people’s busi
ness affairs.
The cradle of Peace, wherein the
child of war will be hushed to repose
by the sweet lullaby of Labour.
A grand overture and melange, com
posed by a Prince, and executed by an
unrivalled band of all nations.
The latest and most popular Enclo
pedia of the Arts and Sciences, written
by the people, edited by the Prince,
printed by the press of the Times, and
published by the Society for the Ditt'u
sion of Useful Knowledge.
A great work, illuminated with the
crystal of earth and the gold of hea
ven ; embodying a Prince-like thought,
illustrated by the universal taste and
talent of civilized man; to peruse and
catch the spirit of which, the philan
thropists of the world come from the
remotest regions of our globe.
LIONS?
A correspondent of an Ohio paper
j thus sketches several New York 010
’ brities:
“On last Saturday evening it was
my privilege and pleasure to be at one
of Miss Lynch’s i e-unions. There were
quite a number of Lions then and
there “visible to the naked eye,” among
whom was a real Baroness, (Madame
de Marguerittes,) and the author of
Proverbial Philosophy, who, by the
way, is a little compact, red-faced Eng
lishman, looking for all the world as
though he might love good ale and roast
beef You would scarcely conceive of
his eye in fine, phrenzy rolling, nor
have I ever seen any thing from his
pen which leads me to think it ever
did, for though he has written some
good things, they seem to be singu
larly free from that divine insanity
which Is the inspiration of all true
poesy, let critics prate as th“y will of
artist poets; not that 1 suppose a poet
can “ create and form and fashion forth
another world—another universe” out
of nothing, lie cannot be too well
cultured—knowledge, to quote a vul
gar but expressive phrase, will riot set
him back in the least; but his soul
must have been baptized with the dews
which are not of the earth, earthy. So
I think. On the evening referred to, I
had the pleasure of shaking hands with
Parke Godwin, of remarkable easy and
agreeable manners, at. 1 democratic in
dress—wearing stout brogans and no
gloves. I also touched one of the w bite
kids of Bayard Taylor. He is fast
loosing, if he has not already lost, the
Quaker simplicity of manner and dress.
“ Living in the city and keeping tip-top
company, as the comic almanac says,
has a wonderfully transforming power.
1 have been tuyself half-disposed to
“ Be at charges fur a looking glass,
And enteituin a score or iwo of tailors,”
since I have been somewhat among the
wise men of Gotham. 1 noticed R.
11. Stoddard leaning on his little white
hand pensively, and turning over some
capital illustrations by Darlev, who
was also there. Dr. Griswold, with
one black glove on and one off, polish
ed gaiters and white neckcloth, moved
about among the ladies with a good
deal of animation, and a voluble flow
of small talk. N. P. Willis struck me
as being almost the direct antipodes of
what 1 had previously imagined him.
He is still, to my thinking, decidedly
handsome —the light curls tailing about
his smooth forehead with boyish grace
fulness. lie was well, but unostenta
tiously dressed, is in manner cordial
and familiar—more like what we gen
erally consider western than eastern.
He is an interesting, but not a fine
talker—says what naturally suggests
; itself, without any etlbrt to show off.
There is, as he remarked, no sort of
I character that he has not seen, and lie
is consequently thoroughly satisfied
with seeing what is termed “the world,”
and longs for nothing so much as a
home in the country, and time to de
vote to his early love—poetry.
I saw nothing of the fop and the cox
comb about Mr. Willis, but should
take him to be a man in no wise free
from the sufferings and sorrows that
attach in some sort to us all—one that
finds his chief enjoyment, whatever he
may seem to tiely power
of intellecOand k ,
As for the ladies, tHy were, of
I course, in every way chafing. Miss
Lynch, “as she appear. dv hen enjoy
ing, wore a dress of with
a closely fitting body, ai very <luut
sleeves, edged with ruffles of white lace. I
arms bare, with a yard or so of red ;
ribbon tied round either -Ist—alto- I
gether a pretty and beconnhg costume. |
(Drtgitml fenijß.
For the Southern Lit-*rarj Gazette.
ODDS AND ENDS,
From a Letter that came down from u
i distinguished Soph in College in town, j
to one oj his friends in solitary ease, !
some miles off, at a country place.
BY ISJA AVISTA.
My Dear Peter: I very much re- I
gret that you haven’t been able to join
us yet in our glorious lite in College,
j O! Pete ! 1 tell you it’s great to splurge
out here and luxuriate, splendid
seat of knowledge. I can’t tell you
* I
half of the fun we enjoy ! But look
here, my boy, you mustn’t stay there j
: like a dry uJd splinter, but come in !
town this very winter. Don’t you |
wait to rusticate, till 1 u’re crabbed
and cross and covered \ moss* but
come, 1 say, at the es day, and
uoply for myyclass;.s*!’ . ...- u
(if you don’t, you’re an ass, after /
could pass)-*-you then shall begin your
career the same day, by moistening
| your clay, in my room at a lunch, on
sandwich and punch, and l il have some
tobacco and pipes and sugars, and one 1
or two jars of preserves mj aunt sent j
me w ith kind regards, (now, Pete,you j
must come, you cannot resist,) and a
new pack of cards shall lie ready for
whist.
By the way, I niust tell you a sort
j of spree that some of us had the other
day. To be quite right, 1 ought to say I
night, as you soon shall see. This Col- I
lege life is not all fun to everyone;!
tor you probably know that we have |
1 some customs confoundedly slow; as, |
j for instance, to turn out an hour before j
I you can open your eyes —-I think it’s, :
medically,decidedly wrong—and,Pete,
: don’t you despise to got up so long— j
| a full hour—before the breakfast time? |
| It’s a horrid bore to hear the chime of
the vile old bell, ringing a knell to j
| your morning slumber. It’s out of all i
number and rhyme and reason—it’s i
the stupidest thing I ever heard—it’s i
| simply absurd, to expect one to rise at
such a season, when, perhaps, you’ve
been doing your duty all night, in help
ing your friends to keep up. the run of
rational fun till near day-light.
Well, a few of us went the other
night to fix the old bell in such a plight j
’ that she mightn’t be able to tell in the |
morning her horrid warning. Ho, with
a full hope that the bore would cease
for one morning, at least, and we’d
j sleep in peace, we shortened the rope
and then unhung the confounded tongue
.in tiimv it-nwiv, i bell
up, like a great punch Cup, and propped
her with sticks in a ticklish way, and
up to the rim of the very brim we
filled her with water, and then we
thought her in regular fix, and con
cluded whoever should next day come,
like a pitiful sneak, to make her speak,
would find it plain that she was dumb;
and he wouldn’t comp ain of being
dry if he gave a pull, like an ass, to
try to bring her to her position again.
After fixing the bell, as it seemed,
so well, we thought of some other use
| ful employment, combining industry
! with enjoyment, for we very well knew
to be idle was ill, for Satan still will
I find for such hands some mischief to
do. So we went to the stable, and
I shaved as clean as we were able, from
tail to head, the venerable quadruped
old'Prsex bestrides; and then, be
sides, to keep the faithful creature warm,
we fitted to his lanky form a coat of
tar; and painted, with much elegance
and grace, upon his pale grey face, a
many-coloured star. But we hadn’t
yet ended, for w e further amended our
elegant dressing of the excellent beast,
with a most prepossessing surcoat of,
at least, the contents of a large feather
bed, consisting of various plumages
blended, and stuck from the tip of his
tail to his head; and his tail, too, was
ended w ith a peacock’s, which graced it
w ith exquisite taste, and made him, 1
tell you, look splendid.
And then we carried him, for relax
; ation from his melancholy monotony
j of studying the botany of mouldy hay,
(he’s as learned a horse as ever was
born,) w ithout a ray of light from corn,
j to the moonshiny gloom of his learned
; master’s recitation room, and we left
j him there to meditate upon his magni
ficent transmogrification
But next morning, Pete, (only think
, what deceit!) the marshal of the Col
lege, (it’s a disgrace to any seat of
knowledge to keep such a spy!) with
his prowling eye, discovered that the
hell had had a trope, and the stubborn
old mule, like a timid fool, wouldn’t
pull the rope, but went and informed,
at which Prsex stormed, and sent him
round to each room to say-that the
I bell that day wouldn’t be rung, but
that thereby every young gentleman
was summoned at once to turn out; so
we just had to rout, I’m obliged to say,
(as shameful a thing as ever was seen—
an oppression most awful —I doubt if
it’s lawful by the Statutes of College—
but we had to acknowledge we’d proved
rather green)—we had to rout, 1 was
going to say, considerably earlier than
usual that day.
But, notwithstanding this vexation,
T ERA RY GAZ ET T E
we had a little consolation, when the
Prcex. with high state and nose elevate,
with the class at his heels, with a
lordly air, throws open, clear, the door
of his room, and sees what it leveals!
O ! Pete! it wouldn't be discrete to tax
tit} invention in the attempt to men
tion— I can’t find a suitable word—but
we 11 say surprise, with which the
spread eyes of the Praises beheld that
remarkable bird ! Prtex couldn’t speak,
but someone in the crowd cried out
very loud, “If that ain’t unique! I’ll
bet, by Jo, that that’s the dodo!”
But, here 1 am, Pete, at the end of
mj sheet. Mind, the sooner you come
the better; and I’ve only to add, 1
should think your dad had better i.ot
see this letter.
Believe me still your affectionate
BILL.
_
Inntjitrn litters.
Correspondence of the Southern Literary Gazette.
High Briton, May, 1851.
Messrs. Editors: Even here, in the
back-woods, your paper is seen “semi
occasionally,” and is read with much
pleasure from the first page to finis on
tlie fourth. Although lam interested
in all it contains* I ticularly
pleased with the letters ulk” Isabel 4
Clinton.” Proni/the very first, it seem
ed as if 1 was IfcteifinV to an old friend
uttering the kind and cherished words
of days that arc past. But now 1
know her, and w ill recall some of the
pleasant scenes we enjoyed together.
About three years since, there a[>-
peared in our midst a lady, (and our
village is sufficiently quiet and dull for
one less fair than “ Isabel ” to have
caused a sensation,) who won all hearts
by her fair face and kind and gentle
manners. When we first, saw her, our
wondering gaze was attracted by a
1 large ring, set with a beautiful stone,
1 (something quite new to us,) and which
1 afterwards learned was a Corneiia-n.
Well! we young men held a consulta
tion, and it was determined, as I had
i travelled, (1 had once been to a neigh
bouring \ illage.) 1 should be. the first to
j call upon her. Accordingly, one eve-
I ning I put on my black coat and set
out to obey the commands which had
been given me. Asa matter of course,
I fell in love with “Isabel,” and when
the young people would lie teasing me
about her, I would attempt to turn it
off by saying it was merely a Christian
feeling of regard. I find, instead of
telling you of the seem s 1 witnessed
with her, I am telling you about tail
ing in love, so I must stop short and
; change the subject.
We spent many pleasant evenings
at our Salmagundi meetings, ’though
“Isabel” only makes a passing allu
sion to the society. It was laughable
to hear the attempts at wit in address
ing letters to “Miss Sally Magutidy,”
or commencing them with “ My, de/.r.
est Sal. 4 ’ You would have enjoyed
the evening, to have seen with w lmt
dignity and propriety we beaux con
ducted ourselves. We would usually
set off in one corner of the room, look
ing at our red jeans pantaloons, or ex
amining to see if our shoes looked
slick from the tallow we had rubbed on
them ; but now’ and then one would be
come sufficiently bold to venture across j
the room, and edging himself on a
chair by his “sweetheart,” pay her the
compliments of the evening by saying,
i “You look sweet as sugar,” or, per
i haps, “ Your hankerclier smells like it
bad cinnamon drops on it.” This was
our usual manner of passing the time
at our “ meetings.” One evening, how
j ever, we were surprised and delighted
: by a representation quite new to us.
j On the evening spoken of, the young
| ladies seemed to be excited by some
| thing which interested them a great
| deal. We wondered, but couldn’t guess,
what it was pleased them so much, i
Shortly after we had all assembled, we j
were greatly surprised at seeing two 1
old women enter, (each with a pipe in
her mouth, ’though no smoke issued
from them,) and seat themselves with
a very consequential air. We won
dered what they wanted, but said no
thing; but w hen they commenced talk
ing about their chickens, hanks o’ yarn,
how much each could spin, &c., Xc., we
j “men folks” heartily wished them gone.
The ladies seemed highly delighted with
the scene, but at length, getting com
pletely out of patience, I stuck un
hands in my pockets, and marching iq>
to Miss E , asked who they were.
She was so full of laughter sin- could
scarcely articulate, “Isabel and Jane.” i
Imagine, if you can, the surprise of the
young men. Think of a number of j
eyes nearly starting from their sockets, !
jaws almost dislocated from being
stretched by amazement, and you may
have some idea how the company look
ed when it was announced w ho the “old
women” were. I was “tuck in sum”
that time, but 1 shall long remember
the time I first saw a Charade acted.
Thus, you will see, we could pass a
pleasant evening and enjoy ourselves
as much as you “city folks” do with
your more refined amusements.
In her description of visits to moun
tains, “ Isabel ” has passed over one w e
made on a certain Fourth of July. \Ye
procured horses, and on a bright day,
many of the young people set out to
visit the same mountain where “Isabel”
had seen “old Sol ” rise in all his glory
from an ocean of fog. We passed the
day in a very pleasant manner, viewing
the scenery, playing whist, (we are suf
ficiently civilized for that amusement,)
conversing about the different moun
tains we had visited, and telling -ome
of the old legends connected with them.
After lunch, \e wandered about on the
mountain until we came to a lofty pre
cipice which had been named “Lovers
Leap.” Someone told the story con
nected with it, and wo lamented the
fate of the poor fellow. 1 proposed to
“ Isabel” that we should take the leap
together,and used all my eloquence to
be agreeable, but .-he would prefer the
coin pan v of others to leaping with me.
In our descent, we rested at a clear lit
tle spring, and, after moistening our
lips, we heard the ladies -iug some
beautiful mountain songs. It was grow
ing late, and we had to burry home.
The lights of the village, as they danced
about through the trees, from our rapid j
pace, presented a beautiful but fantastic :
appearance, and made one imagine that
the ” Will o’ the wisps were holding
their revels ill the woods around us.
1 fear, Messrs. Editors, you are re
joiced that we have reached home, and
that long since you wished asleep
Your correspondent, W ai. r.
(T’jji’ ?niTfi! illtnr.
Forthe Southern Mtaran Qmtf.
*.
The Soul, too, as well as the Heart,
has its Gems ; and they are susceptible
of a far higher polish and a much richer
light. 1 heir polish is obtained through
sickness, trouble, sorrow and sea*lung
mortifications; but their light is the full
orbed brightness of the perfect day.— I
The shadow s that darkened their vision,
like the mists that cloud the advent of
twilight—the veil that hid their desti
ny, like the hills that intervene between
us and the rising sun, pass below its j
j disc- and reveal its power and its beau- 1
tv. it- treasures and it- usefulness, in
j ail their wealth and their plenitude.
Let ns endeavour to collect a few of |
them, along the highways and by-ways
| of life, to lighten the burthens of the ,
weary and cheer the sinking souls o
the heavy-laden. They are not the ex
clusive privileges of any class, hut
may be enjoyed by the rich, the middle
classes, and the poor. By the first,
where the possession of wealth liberal
izes the affections and renders it an
agent of extensive usefulness; bv the 1
o .
middle classes , when they feel a plea- j
sure in extending to others a share in j
the enjoyments that, surround them ; j
by the poor, w hen they eat their hum
ble meal in contentment; and to all,
when they enjoy, bestow and share the ;
good that providence sends, with a
i liberal hand and gratified heart.
Geneious acts and benevolent atlec- j
tions toward our fellow men, of every j
class, are among the richest jewels that j
j emblazon and perpetuate a name and
| stud the casings of a human soul, while.
its living image is only to be found in ;
j Truth. Puritst and. to <i'P e ‘
Man.
The Soii lof Man.’ its gems so pure!
What richer theme inspires the peri ?
It is a ruck, to firm endure,
1 tenter course, forever sure;
A heaven of stars, to light secure.
For suffering, fainting, sorrowing men.
The Soul of Man ! its lights so true !
\\ hat nobler thought- adorn the head?
Will mortal man, his choice to rue,
Seek out the false, neglect the true.
That brightly beams through yonder blue,
His bark to steer, his wayward course to tread?
Tlte Soul of Man! its destiny !
So clear the course, so bright the path !
\\ ill his firm foot forget the way,
And alter folly’s footsteps stray,
To darkness from tlte light of day,
w bile mercy kindly points its end in wrath !
Forbid it Heaven ! the bans forbid !
Nor let the soul, Irom bondage riven,
Be now again in troubles hid,
And all its light!extinguished,
In an oblivious, darksome shade,
But keep that soul firm fixed on Heaven!
P.
Lesson for Sunday. Jnnel.
ELI 11 I S ADVICE TO JOB.
| “Surely it is meet to be said unto God, I have borne elias
| lisemeut, 1 will no: offend any more: that which I see
not, teach thou me: if 1 have done iniquity. I will do
no more. —Job. xxxiv. 31, 3J.
The third petition in our Lord’s
i prayer is soon littered, but not easily
j felt—“lhy w ill be done.” It is more
difficult to sutler than to do the will of
God ; to lie passive at his feet, than to
engage in the active duties of religion.
We have before us a part of Elihu’s
advice to Job in his afflictions. The
sentiments it contains are worthy of our
notice.
Let us explain them. Here are
foui things.
It is the language of submission. The
word chastisement is iu italics which
shows that it is not in the original; we
may therefore refer tins act of sub
j mission to any of those crosses with
j which the Almighty vi-its us. We
i should de-ire not so much the removal
: ’* lu s'-i’oke as the sanctification of
i the trial.
It is the language of confession. This ;
is implied rather than expressed. “I
will not offend any more.” God shows j
us our sintiiliiess iu our Ruffe rums.
Some w ill not be brought to the full
confession ot their guilt without the
fiery trial of affliction.
It is the language oj promise. “If |
have done iniquity, i w ill do no more.”
Jims when the parent corrects the dis
obedient child, he not only requires of
him a confession of his faults, but a
promise ot future good behaviour.
It is the language of desire. “That
which I see not, teach thou me.” Pray
er is like an arrow that pierces the
dark clouds of affliction, and makes
them break, with blessings,on the Chris
tian's head; but the arrow will fall to
the. ground, unless the bow is strung
and bent in a dependence on the power
ol the Spirit. Our afflictions are sent
tor our instruction. There are many
things that we see not in the light of
prosperity, but which are clearly dis
covered in the darkness of adversity,
f mist has no disciple that is not intro
duced into the school of affliction.
Let us enforce them. The proprie- j
ty of such a course will appear
When we consider our deserts. —
Should the sinner complain because lie
is a sufferer? Is it meet for the diso
bedient ehild to upbraid hi- father when
he is correcting him for his faults !
When tee consider God's designs. It
is not for Ilia pleasure, but our profit,
that he afflicts us. Look at his power;
who cun resist him ? —his sovereignty;
who can question the order ot his ar
rangements! —his wisdom ; who can
dispute it ? The axe might be laid to
the root in justice, but the pruning
knife is applied to the branch in mer
cv. It i- a true sentiment, that God
orders all his blackest providences in
the world, like dark clouds, to be the
watering-pots of the garden ot hi
church, that the fruits and flowers of it
nifiv l>t* brought to maturity.
Original pnrtrtj.
Kori li--So itLim Literary Gazette.
i'll . PIE.
BY !'JA AVINTA.
“ Goosek n v ■> so Southey Pting,
But ’twas w,ifii :ir was young
And verdant in his tastes.
Now the imperial thyme must loftiest swell
On eagle-wing Pindaric, while the Bard,
With song inspired, hastes
The glories of a greater pie t<* tell,
A pie ot toyal worth—
A pie of heavenly birth—
A pie all worthy of the world’s regard,
Whose name deserves to roll
From polo to pole,
Though every lyric mood and every metre, hard. ;
O! Goddess sing
What cosily tributes every varied elrme
Os thi- sphered earth doth bring.
As fi ting offering,
To the grand compound of this pie sublime :
()! Heavenly Goddess men
tion every indispen
sable ingredient that must combine
In harmony most sweet,
To make t'lir great inven
tion luliy meet
The most magnanimous inten
tion of die hand that forms it* compound
mass divine.
The sunny vales of France,
The verdant lulls of Italy and Spam.
Nourish the ciu-t ring grape,
That ripening smiles in gentle rain.
That glows m Sunlight’s glance,
1 And take at length the luscious raisin’s shape, ‘
Meet inmate of the pic.
The fervid sky
Os Araby and InJ perfection gives
To many spices hot;
Anil bless’d the lot
Os climes where luscious cane luxuriant lives, j
W hose concrete candid juices make
Ingredient essential, with larine
Os Ceres’ golden sheaves, and sparkling joy
Os II cchus ever boy ;
And other mystic elements partake
The honour great, 1 ween,
’ Os union in this pie, that might at prandi
utn he eaten, but at ae.ua set
‘Tis best; and don’t forget
In making it to add a swinging glass of brandy.
j Who—who can dare aspire,
Though of his harp each string
Were tipped with lyric fire,
i In glowing at: ains lull worthily to sing
This pic, this pie of pies!
Or in what harmonies
The muUitudinouscmtents declare,
W torch” ffi ■ffTTiportlons just
Commingled, will and must
Produce the compound dear—
Dear to the young and old—
Dear to the gods and men—
Dear as the precious golden dust—
Dear t<> the ages yet untold—
Dear to the poet’s ken—
That dear—dear—dearest pie,in feathery, well
baked crust.
Pie!
In the language high
Ot sounding classic phrase
Shall swell thy praise.
And epithets imperial shall be made
Thy praise to aid:
Thou shall be called henceforth Optissimus
G Ink ii tat ns . Bel t is/at os,
Aristatos
Augustus Augusti&simus !
And on the pastry throne,
Reigning unrivalled m full majesty,
Shall men and women of whate’er degree,
All lovers of the sweet,
V\ ith homage greet
Thy name, and proudly own,
With acclamation high,
W toll shouts that rend the sky,
None hut the Mince- —none but the Mince—
none but the MINCE, deserves the 1
throne!
All hail, Imperial Pie !
(£lnmitigo in tljc i'ilirarij.
Prepared lor the Southern Literary Gazetie.
MARKED PASSAGES.
TVItE, VENICE, ENGLAND.
Since the first dominion of men was I
asserted over the ocean, three thrones j
of mark beyond all others, have been
set upon its sands ; the thrones of Tyre.
Venice, and England. Os the First of j
these great powers, only the memory j
remains; of the Second, the ruin ; the
Third, which inherits their greatness,
if it forget their example, may be led
through prouder eminence to less pit
ied destruction.
1 he exaltation, the sin, and the pun- j
ishinent ot lyre have been recorded
lor us, in perhaps the most touching
words ever uttered by the Prophets of
Israel against the cities ot the stranger. :
But we read them as a levelv song, (
and close our cars to the sternness of
their warning: for the very depth of
the Fall of Tyre lias blinded u- to its
reality, and we forget, as we watch the
bleaching of the rocks between the
sunshine and the sea, that they were
as in Eden, the garden of God.
Her successor, like her in perfection
ot beauty, though less iu endurance of
dominion,is still (est forour U-holding,
in the final period of her decline,
gho-t upon tlte sands of the sea, so
weak—so quiet—so bereft of all but 1
her loveliness, that we might well
doubt, as we watched her faint reflec
tion in the mirage of the lagoon,
which was the City, and which the Sha
dow.
I would endeavour to trace the lines
of this image before it be forever lost. !
and to record, as far as I may, the
warning voice whic 1 1 seems to me to
be littered by every one of the fast
gainiug waves that beat, like passing
bells, against the Stones of V enice.
[itar/ttn. ;
UNIVERSAL GENIUSES.
This universal capacity, wonder! ■
as it is, and higher fi; its flight. u:l
wider in its horison than the limitcß
and persevering faculty that dexunM
itself to a single pursuit, is not thß
best calculated, after all to coininau ■
the reward it deserves. The major/■
of mankind are apt to suspect >\M
soundness ot a universal genius, mid fl
run with the old adage, that ti.,. j aa ß
ot all-trades is master of none. L I
actor who possesses a talent for ada -B
ing himself to numerous unperson*!
tions, is never so great a favourite wi
the audience as he who alwavs discus I
ers the same peculiarities, and
the applause of the spectator In ucs>,B
going out of his individuality. ’ Thuja
is also this obstacle in the wav of tk.Bj
writer who addresses his piiblicthruUMM
so many different forms, that he invite,B
opinion and challenges investigation H
such a variety of subject , a> to breakß
up his fame amongst his readers, wh IS
however they may admire him in * miF l
respects, must be expected to liiJH
abundant occasion for dis-aiisfanß
with him in others.— Bentley. H
ACTORS BEHIND THE SCENES. B
Oh, while 1 live, let. me not bead-1
mitted (under special favour) toanac-H
tor’s dressing-room. Let me not seel
how Cato painted, or how CtesarH
combed! Let me not meet the prompt H
boys iu tins passage, nor see the liaif H
lighted Canutes stuck against
j walls, nor hear the creaking of nut- ■
chines, or the fiddlers laughing; n<>r I
j see a Columbine practising a pirouette B
in sober sadness, nor Mr. Grimaldi's B
I face drop from mirth to sadden nieluii II
! clioiv as he j lasses the side-scene, as jf H|
a shadow crossed it, nor witness the H
long-chimed generation of the panto- Bf
j mine sit twirling their thumbs, nor B
overlook the fellow w ho holds the can- B
’ die for the moon in the scene between B
j Lorenzo and Jessica! Spare me this B
! insight into secrets 1 am not bound to B
j know. The stage is not a mistress B
that we are sworn to undress. Whv ■
should we look behind the glass of B
fashion? Why should we prick the B
bubble that reflects the world, and turn B
;it to a little soap and water? Trust a B
little to first appearances—leave some- B
thing to limey.— Hazlitt. ■
human arrogance. 1
Alphonse X., Kingof Leon and Cas. I
j tile, once said, that “it God had con* I
; suited him in the formation of the I
; universe, he would have given him di- I
rections for a more perfect whole!”— I
The great French mathematician, La- 1
place, has stated in his writings, that if I
| the moon had been somewhat different- I
j iy placed, it might have been more I
useful for lighting the earth ! Black- I
stone quotes from a European prince I
of the middle ages, who commented I
one of his edicts as follows: “We, I
moderating the rigour of the divine I
law, do enact, Ate. ! Can any reader
refer to three more remarkable and
daring examples of heaven-scaling ar
rogance than these? How striking)}
iu contrast with the modesty ami hu
mility of the great New ton, who at
the close of a long life devoted to sci
ence, and crowned with discoveries
I that have rendered his name immortal,
declared that he was like one who had
been gathering a few pebbles on the
sea-shore, while the great •”
. truth !• M h.ffrm ivitlen
the mother.
It has been truly said—“the first br
ing that rushes to the reflection of a
j soldier or sailor, in his heart’s difficulty,
is his mother. She clings to his me
mory and affection in the midst of all
the forgetfulness and hardihood indu
eed by a roving life. The last message
lie leaves is for her: his last whisper
breathes her name. The mother, as
she instils the lessons of pictv and fil
ial obligation into the heart ot her in
fant son, should always feel that hei
labour is not iu vain. She mav drop
into the grave, but she has left behind
her influences that will work for her.
I he bow is broken, but the arrow is
sped and w ill do its office.”— Anon.
LITERARY humility.
Southey, to be sure, fancied that he
i tinted incense, and yet his published
works, and private letters are full of
self flattery. \\ bile, the public wen
bidding him to go and sit down lower,
he was placing himself in one of the
highest rooms. ‘1 his can never he de
i cent. Accius, the poet, a little man,
pm up a huge statue of the diminutive
original in the Temple of the Mu
ses, and though Accius had been Vigil,
the vanity of the act would have tar
nished his renown. “If,” remarks Drv
den, “a man speaks ever so little of
himself, in my opinion that little is too
much. “Ihe less you say of your
own greatness,” observed Bacon to
Coke, “the more I shall think of it.”—
Humility is the shading which gives
lustre to excellence. The actor who
applauded his own performance, would
run a risk of being laughed at. or his
sed by the audience.— Anon..
RIGHTS OF INDUSTRY.
Yes! that is the phrase which, for
the first time in the world’s history,
nas begun not only to claim, but com
pel attention. And it is a great step
to get the fact acknowledged, that in
dustry has any rights. Bights admit
ted, the great point of inquiry is. a> to
to what they are.— Hole.
• awn aw.n mr-rwr*. -*.
Ihe Salt Lake.—A traveller wife*
has recently visited the Salt Lake-gives
t he follow ing facts :
“The Lake is one of the greatest
curiosties 1 ever met with. The watei
is about one-third salt, yielding that
amount on boiling. I bathed in it, and
found that I could lay on my back,
roll over and over, and even sit up and
wash my feet without sinking, such L
the strength of” the brine; and when I
came out 1 was completely covered
with salt in fine crystals. But the most
astonishing thing about it is the fact
(as I was iufoimed by the gentleman
who was manufacturing salt there at
the time) that during the summer sea
son the Lake throws on shore abun
dance of salt, while iu the winter sea
son it throws up glauber salts in im
mense quantities. The reason of this
1 leave the scientific to judge, and also
w hat becomes of the enormous amount
of fresh water poured r.ito it by three
or four large rivers—Jordan, Bear, and
Weber—as there is oq visible outlet.”