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omirmrwio)w it w at mw r 1 a wtwwm d)'JJ JJ ii jQjljjii ! M i Jail illl i II ufi /iIMjIJi, TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM. IN ADVANCE, Original Forth* Southern Literary Gazette. AFTER THE TEMPEST. Night yields at last to dawn, Veinay not always grieve, Though, when the clouds are gone, Their shadows still they leave. The memory of the hour Which brought the soul’s worst pain, Uaiii still a mournful power Upon the troubled brain. The peace that follows slow. Is peace within the shade , Sweet, but without the glow That once our rupture made: A twih ut of the heart, V . dusk, nor partly bright; 9 \Y .* -••eth.'dav depart, driii. ( t ‘ S xVl ,v Fpon the trodoled sky, Soothe, like the music in a dream, And bless, even as they fly. The dawn that wakes the day, Brings the full sun no more, But, in its milder ray, We know the storm is o’er. That night of storm, whose wrath O’er Love’s glad vessel blown, Left strewed on memory’s path. The broken wrecks alone. We feel secure at last, In losing all our store, Since, blow whatever blast, Our hearts can lose uo more. Celer. Original (Tales. Fur the Southern Literary Gazette. LEILA FORRESTER. BY MISS SUSAN A. STUART. [CONCLUDED FROM LAST WEEK.] CHAPTER IV. *■ When sorrows come, they come not single spies, Hut, in butttrlions.” • I inti about to toll you something which 1 think will not be very pleasing to you;” suit! Miss Stella Lushington, to her voting cousins. “1 have heard, front good authority, that your father is about to be married, and to a young thing, not much older than yourself, Ella! How will you both like having a step-mother?” “If site lets me alone, . don’t fine,’ said the indolent Ella. “But who can it be, Stella ! Any one we know?” “1 shall like it very well,” said Lau ra; “if she is pretty and good, 1 will love her, and become —’ “For shame, Laura !” said Miss Stel la, und she drew her thin person up, and gave such a look from her e\ es as nothing but such atony ones could give. “For shame! Your own dear mother has scarcely been dead two years, and could you tolerate any one who would come into her place —assume Aer name —and use, as their own, everything that belongs to her.'’ And the crocadile took out her handkerchief to hide her dry eyes. “Yes, Laura, you ought to be asham ed,” said Ella. “I know 1 shall hate her, and will tell pa so; perhaps he will not merry. Eh, cousin ?” • No, dear Ella, ’tis useless; for the marriage is to take plaee next week, lie assured that everything has been saiii to your pa, by kind friends, that could be said, but in vain ; he w ill rue, when too late, that he did n ‘t take their advice. Your new mother is none other, than that stuck-up doll, Leila Forrester, who, when her father died, was actually too good to mix with common folks, and now, that she is poor, must needs come to disturb our happiness. 1 know she marries your i father, for nothing on earth, but because In- is so rich, she can Haunt about, and bring her beggarly pack of sisters to lord it over you all. Oh ! yes, 1 can see an inch beyond my nose, as well as other people. But, I’ll tell her, for my part, she shall never crow over me! 1 promised your mother, on her death bed, to stay with you, and I’ll let her >ee, she shall not impose on you.” By this time, she had worked herselt ; up into a considerable degree of tern- j per; imbuing with her own vulgar , and prejudiced views, the facile minds of the children, until they began to look upon Leila as their greatest ene my upon earth, and their cousin Stella • their only true and sincere friend. Stella Lushington was in the shady side of forty ; and with all the draw biu-ks of stony eyes, tawny skin, and a nose, whose sharpness, I actually be b.vc,would have splita raindrop should >t hive chanced to fall in it —had in her own mind, claimed Wm. Lushington lor her especial property ; and the loss of w hat she had so firmly believed to b® hr own, sharpened the edge of a temper, by no means angelic. At this crisis, Wm. Lushington him self, entered to announce his approach ing nuptials. Shall 1 paint him to you, reader, this husband-elect of our Leila —our queen like, gentle heroine —the beloved of an intellectual father—the idolized of her dear, little sisters ? Picture to yourself, then, a short, thick-set man; whose head, always A k'AMM MMAL, BMMMi Tii LiUM'SUM. ‘SM Km MB mMW, MB TO Oil MML miMSMCB. brought to your mind, the idea of his having swallowed his throat—if ’twere ; possible for any oim to perform that feat—with a florid complexion, heavy look, and presenting altogether the ap pearance of one, who did not care to ! he looked upon as a French pititmni : tre. He seemed rather at a loss to j know’ how to begin; but, when at | last, lie screwed his “courage to the ! sticking place, ’ he was totally unpre ! pared for the tears, entreaties with ] which he w'as assailed, in fact, being I rather a silent, diffident man, and not J much gifted w ith eloque ee, he became j quite-embarrassed, lie disliked, and shrank from speaking of his love for the beautiful girl—she being scarce ! eighteen—and he, not being quite ■’ i ‘’ ‘ „ - * So, as I told you, he knew not very | well v.hat to say, but sat twirling Ins fingers and thumbs, looking with a blank face from one to the other mem bers of the family conclave, till he be came angry, and bis vulgar nature got tile better of his usually stolid demean our, as he got up to leave, saying em phatically— “l don’t care a fig how much you may say or dislike it. lam my own master, and I’ll marry whom 1 choose, and when 1 choose, without asking your leave or license. If you don’t like it, you may dislike it, for it is all the same to me.” Ah! poor Leila, what a paradise is in prospect before you; and what a guardian angel to protect you. Call you indeed, be lured on by the love of the “vile yellow dross,” as Ileber calls it, to marry this creature ? Must there not he some more powerful incentive to urge on the pure-hearted, self-deny j ing girl, whom 1 have tried to portray in the preceding chapters. Step be hind the scenes, with me reader, and we shall see for ourselves, about a ; I fortnight prior to tile conversation, be , ; tween Miss Lushington, and her young cousins. i | It is a small chamber, but neatly fur ; ! nished with some of the loved cottage furniture—bringing, as the eye rests on them, sad feelings, for they are asso ciated with other days. The blinds j are closed, for Leila, who is lying down, I has been suffering acutely with head- ; ache, and she cannot bear, as she was j wont, to have the sunbeams come ! dancing into her presence, mocking her j with their brightness, as in happier days. Ah ! grief has been there as I well as physical suffering ; that is too j plainly shown by the deadly pallor of I the countenance. A blush, betokens nothing—a thought—a look, may call it into existence; but when the warm blood curdles around the heart, leaving the cheek wan and cold, rest assured that something of deeper moment is at work within. Near the head of the couch sits Mrs. Alton, with Fanny, leaning against her sister, looking up into her lace w ith the teuderest pity. Near the dour, sew ing, is the faithful servant, watching like a mother, her young mistress. “My dearest Leila, 1 do not know what to advise,” said Mrs. Alton. “1 i am afraid you will think 1 speak from ! selfishness. And yet, 1 know you are well aware, how gladly 1 would share j the little 1 possess with you and your sisters. But, dearest, none of us know how long God, in his mercy, may spare my lite; and then—l shrink lion l the future. 1 have always heard Mr. Lush ] iugton spoken of as the best of hus bands to his first wife; and 1 have no doubt, wealthy as he is, but what your sisters w ill find a home, and a protec tor, when they need it. But still, I cannot advise, may God direct you.” “And pity me, too,” sobbed out the suffering girl. “Oh ! my father! — 1 What shall 1 do? clasping tightly her small hands, and lifting her eyes. — Direct me, Father of the fatherless, for 1 know not what to do.” What sobs of agony echoed around that little chamber; and the trembling | lips, and tearful eyes ot i'amiy, showed j how much she was frightened ut this vehement manifestation of grief as she glanced from her sister to Mrs. Alton, and again at the weeping nurse. “Do you think; say, my dear Mrs. I Altou, do you think,” at length, gasped | out Leila, “under all the cireuinstnn ces —you know more than 1 have told you —do you think that my dear moth er and father would wish me to make this overwhelming sacrifice. 1 must call it so, this once, dear friend. May, is it my duty to my sisters, that 1 should marry Mr. Lushington. Tell me, and I will do it, whatever it may cost me, j if God will give me strength.” Mrs. Alton cooid not, at first, answer j this appeal. Mhe saw the agony, the pleading look for mercy in her decision, j on that young, suffering face. Mhe knew what indeed made the sacrifice, : which Leila called so overwhelming, for she had witnessed the young love j springing up in both ol their hearts, and could sympathise with the poor , girl, in this dread, “Grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate Firs*! make- the young heait lone and de.solate, In the wide world, without that only tie. For which it loved to live, and feared to die.” At length, she said slowly, and very sadly— “ Yes, dearest, it is our duty to con sider the child, the innocent, helpless beings confided to our care, even be fore our own temporal happiness. Be assured that (bid will not allow this union tn be, without some share of comlbrt to you, gieat, it must assflred ly he, when you reflect that you have procured fir even this helpless babe, a home and a protecloi Mho placed the fairy-like, beautiful child in her s.ster’s anus, who, pressing her almost convulsively to he:-, vnirt . > ” 1 os. tor tljei.-. • 1 ■> ■■ ■ . 1 Tito, my own happiness. Write it cnee—now, lest I play the coward and take back my word. Yes, put it out of my power, 1 beg you. Write Mr. Lushington that I consent to be his wife—he already knows that 1 do not love him. Now, good, kind friend, take Fanny, and leave me entirely to myself this evening, for 1 need strength from Him, who can alone give it to me.” t 11 AFTER V. “fi is sad, do seethe ii-flu ut beauty wane away, Know eyes are dimming, bosoms shrivelling, feet Losing their spring, and limbs their lily round ness ; but, it is worse to led our heart-spring gone, To lose hope—cam not for tire coming thing, And tool all things go to decay with us.” | What a mournful marriage it was, that was celebrated in that little par lour about a week later. None present but Mrs. Alton, and Leila’s immediate relatives : and she in her dark robes of mourning for her fat her, stood by the man, whom she vowed “to love, hon our and obey, more like a marble statue, than a thing of life, so pale, so cold she appeared, that it seemed as if tii icy hand of death, had passed j over that young heart, and stilled its pulsations forever. No notice did she take of any thing, but appeared to concentrate her whole energy, to ena- I ble her, like a school-girl, to repeat her | lesson well. Mr. Lushington, after their short j tour, conducted bis m-w bride to her I new home. All outward appearance | of splendor and comfort was there to greet her ; but now she shrunk from | them, and disagreeable as her husband j had seemed to her, she almost felt like j clinging to him for protection, when 1 she met the stony glances of Stella Lushington, or the open impertinence j of her step-daughters—and this to the creature who, for the eighteen y ears of her past life, had been nurtured in a very, atmosphere of love. She found herself, in the absence of Mr. Lushington, a nonentity in the j house, of which Stella was the teal I mistress, for to her, did children and servants come for orders. In her un happy and agonised frame of mind, she shrunk from anything that must call upon the energy of her nature, and with the very littleness of despair, shuddered at the idea of any act call ing for active exertion. Her husband still played the lover in his attentions to her, for his own vanity had not been wounded as yet. One day they were seated in their magnificent drawing-room, when he i placed in her hand a letter, in the well j known writing of her brother, directed to her, as “Leila Forrester.” She hes itated to open it, knowing that one loved name would often occur there, i and for the first time, for many weeks, | the hot blood coloured the once w arm j cheek with a fitful and radiant blush. “Will you not let me see your broth er’s letter, Leila, when you have open ed it V’ said Mr. Lushington. She started. What, he see the let ter, in which, probably, there would be a message, such as she had received before. “Never,” she thought; and without being aware that she was utter ing that thought aloud, there sounded j through the room, that low but cm-; phatie “ never /” Mr. Lushington turned very red, I and then, much displeased, left the j room. Without thinking how wrong j she had acted —without indeed, think ing of him at all, she hurried to her own chamber, and shutting the door, j she broke the seal, pale and trembling. ! Poor Gus deplored his father’s death j with much feeling, but begged her to ■ cheer up, and w hen he came home, he would try to be a comfort and protec- j tor to his sisters. A sealed slip was in the envelope; like one in a dream, she opened and read : “Gus has informed me, my dear Leila, of your sad bereavement, in which, it is needless for me I hope, to assure you of my deep sympathy. — But through it all, 1 cannot refrain from telling you of something beyond mere sy inpathy, and 1 only wisb that I ; could fly at once to your presence to ‘ protect, to shield, to love you. Oh !; i Leila, dear one, you do not know how j CHARLESTON. SATI'IT AY. JULY 5, 1851. ardently I cherish every memory of thee—of your lightest word or tone. 1 did not intend you should know this, till I could come and beg you to be mine; but when l learn that you were in trouble, I could not resist the desire to tell you, that amid all, whether joy or sorrow, one heart beats only for you. I know that I am unworthy of you; that I have not mu -h to otter, but a love as undying as mv ov n soul —us tender as that of Lie > . >ther for her 4 babe. Our time is iip.-.uey tell me, and that I must finish. But write me one word of hope that I may win you at last, and there is nothing of which I will not feel mysei ’ capable. Ever ysui,, Algernon.” title -a i iu i‘ *' ” ■” ‘■ <-* st-.TTe, and then, folding the paper, hid it away. No tears came, and only the low, sob bing sigh, told of her distress. A sum mons to dinner—she opened the door to excuse herseit, as she was suffering from a head-ache. N o tender voice soothed—no second summons called lie- 1 ; she thought not of their coldness, nor want of feeling, tor sadder and mole bitter were her meditations. One faithful heart was there, however. Rose, who had ac companied her young mistress, after her marriage, returned with her to her new home. It was she who now sought her mistress in her grief; couching near the door in silence as she thus sat motionless. “\N ould you not like to see Mrs. Alton, Miss Lee?” said she, at last. “You look so strange and white.” “None—no one yet, Rose; God will help me.” “\\ hat have they been doing to you, my dear mistress ?” said the faithful creature. “Has that, awful tempered woman been saying anything to you?” By this time she v.as kneeling, with streaming eyes, before Leila, but she still continued silent. “They will kill you, I see, cried the poor nurse, now beside herself with fear, “and Mr. Lushington is no better than they. Oh ! how 1 do wish Mas j ter Gus was here, and how Ido hate them all.” “You do, do you, Mistress Impu dence, said Miss Stella, who had en tered unperceivtd. “I will tell mv cousin wjhat a snake he has in thy. house. Your mistress, I think, ought not to allow you, a negro, to speak of her husband and his relations, as she has allowed you, without rebuke, sit ting so silent, and encouraging your impertinence. I wonder Ella Lushing toii can rest in her grave, w ith all that is passing here, in her house; and her husband and her children abused by the negro wench brought here by the person, who has tried to take her place.” And she flung herself in a great rage from the room. Leila, by this time, much overcome was persuaded by Rose, to lie down. | That evening she received a dictatorial ! note from her husband, telling her that | he had come to the conclusion, that it ; would be better for all parties, that J she should hold as little correspondence | with her brother and sisters as possi ; ble, as she seemed to separate their | love and interest entirely from him and his; and, as she bore his name now, it was time stie should begin to feel some interest in her new relations. : Further, that he iVisisWthat she should | send Rose, at once, back to Mrs. Al ton, as lie had understood, she was con stantly giving impertinence to his cou sin, und his children ; and he. wished his wife now to be waited on by his servants. And this was the end of her pure heart sacrifice. This from the man who had promised “to love, cher ish, and protect her.” But Mr. Lush ington was a weak-minded, jealous, thoroughly selfish man, who loved her after his own notion, but on finding it was not returned, as he thought it should be, for his attentions, for a few weeks, allowed him to listen, with greedy ears, to the slanders of Stella Lushington. CHAPTER VI. “Death lies on her, like an untimely frost, Upon the sweetest flower of all the field ’’ Months have dragged on since the last chapter. Again, we see Leila.— But a striking change is here. Could you think, that this frail creature had j ever been the gleesome, gladsome girl, who was so fondly loved by her parents and family. The whole of them are now gathered in her chamber —and why 1 To watch the last breath as it issues from those j pale lips. Yes ; Leila, our loved, unhappy one, is dying. For months, has the de stroyer been slow ly sapping the life in her veins—touching so slowly with his icy fingers, that no one knew it but her self. And she dies a martyr —yes, a martyr to a system of daily’ persecu tion from the flinty-hearted Stella Lush ington, aided by the weak-minded hus band, who, steeled by his selfish jeal ousy, listened to her; and, if not a very active party, became a passive wj’Kjss to many a humiliation which J tfiJk young creature sustained so un coinjtlainingly, so angelically, like the j meek and Holy One, never buffeting :>;• but when smitten on one cheek, -t* tjarning the other. At last, nature could hold out no longer; and here she is on her death bed-” The Doctors talk of feeble con . . stilution —ot consumption; but every one knew that her young heart had been trodden down, and that she was litqjttlly killed by their unkindness.— Tl.-Mi.came back, too late, her husband’s anviyi.'is tenderness —then was sum- Alton and her sisters —j b’ A(■>"• i~<- ‘ As well think t> I i s |el to life and bloom, the floyv- j c ‘r‘ iTiaf is trodden under foot, as the crushed blossom that now is dying be fore him. One only thought and wish seems to possess her, “my brother, lias he come?” does she ever whisper, as her kind friend bends over her. ’Twas a lovely summer evening; the sky was mellowing and deepening in its tints, from gold to a richer and softer hue; throwing out from the Claude Lorraine, colouring of sky’ and earth, every leaflet and spray. Soft breezes came in through the open win dows, and kissed her snowy brow, as she thus lay, feeble and dying on her couch. All were gathered there tor she was sinking visibly. A smile ot peace had settled on that vvhilome weary face, but she still said, “My brother, my darling Gus, to see him but once.” Mrs. Alton is called from the cham ber. Leila’s ear, sharpened by the ap proach of death, has caught the whis pered summons, and,w ith more strength than was looked for, she half rises, and says clearly —distinctly, “Oh! he has come at last! My brother! tell him I want to see him now —this moment —while I have lite —come! oh, come quickly, my broth er!” And her then transparent hands were held out eagerly and expectantly. How true is the prescience of those on the confines of eternity. It was, indeed, Augustus Forrester, who had arrived in haste from New York, lie entered, and caught Leila to his heart. Tall and manly for his years, he the eldest now. as he held the frail, dying girl in his arms, but his strong frame was shaking with his deep emotion. At the request of Leila, they were alone. “My brother, I have no time to spare. I leave to you tny dying mother’s leg acy to me, her children, our sisters. Be father—be all to them, dear Gus. I have done, as thou knowest, oh, Fath er ! my best for them, but in vain.— Yes, dearest brother. 1 sold every hope of earthly happiness, to obtain tor them a borne, and a protector, but of no avail. Nor have I complained to mortal ear, w hat / have suffered, and tis useless now. May it be an atone ment with my God, for breaking his sacred commands when 1 stood befoie the minister. Here, brother, give this to Algernon Percy, tell him why 1 married, and —. Tell him his letter came, when 1 had been married some weeks, and that now, on my death-bed, 1 return it to him. Tell him we may know and love us holy spirits, where God reigns eternal, and with my dying breath, 1 beg him to meet me there— the happier, higher world. Dearest Gus, say nothing to those who made mo sutler, but, but make my last hour easy, by showing ’tis our sister’s alone you care for. Bid farewell to Percy for me. Call in the others now, and then fold you arms around me. 1 dread not death, Gus, I welcome him.” lie did so; and Leila folded in his tender arms, w ith her young, sad rela tive around her, slept her last sleep. Having died in the hope of a blissful immortality, her friends sorrowed not in despair, but after the mortal strug gle was ended, seemed glad she had escaped her state of bondage and ot misery. But the faithful nurse, left not her mistress’ corpse, and with reproaches w hich were unchecked, upbraided Mr. Lushington for allowing Stella thus to kill his wife. There, over that cold body, telling him of deliberate cruelty, both of word and deed to the patient | sufferer, now lying so cold, so still be ! fore him, and which made him shed tears of agony and self reproach—till goading him on to such a frenzy of hate, that he rushed from the still cham ber of death, and turned the mischief j maker from his door with imprecations and bitter revilings. A tall, sad-looking young officer, was seen at the tomb of Mrs. Lushington several times. It was Algernon Percy, i After some years, Gus, who had mar ried, received the news of his friend’s death, which took place off the coast of Africa. Mrs. Altou still continues living, the Forresters living with her. They are both, Anna and Mary, engaged to be married; so that Fanny will have a home alternately with them, when God i shall see lit to call her almost maternal friend, Mrs. Alton, from her sphere of usefulness. Warrenton, Geo. (F'jjr tlroirinrr. From the Southern Literary Messenger. ! “SOUTHERN PASSAGES AND PICTURES.”* A scholar of no mean attainments in literature, and of cultivated critical skill, pronounced the “Atalantis” of | Mr. Simms, not unworthy of compari son, asa poem and a work of art, with the immortal “Comus” of Milton.— i The vigor and originality of expression, the fervour and richness of imagina tion, the fullness of thought, the eom mind of language, the power and wide • nkigi- r,*ooiieepTi'.ii; umted with The ! softer graces of deep and truthful sen timent, and of musical rhythm, which , distinguish “Atalantis,” will also he found in greater or less degree, to char acterise all of the poetry of its author. We do not mean to say that Mr. Simms has not published poetical tri fles, which, penned merely as trifles, ; make no pretensions to any high or j peculiar merit, and do not claim to be, by any means, exponents of his pow ers and characteristics as a poet. But taking the general and prevailing tone and style of the little collections of poems named in our rubric, they’ will be found to be not unworthy of the author of “Atalantis although they are, in fact, but prelusions—proleptic flashings—of a genius which has never yet plumed its latent energies to their loftiest flight. There are abundant ev idences throughout the writings of Mr. Simms, and perhaps in none more than in his poems, of power to accomplish vastly more than he has performed.— Not that the existing performances are crude, or the offspring a certain imma turity of genius; but they are such as could only have emanated from the truest genius, while they are not the highest expression of th ■ powers so evidently shining through them, and which alone could have been adequate to their production. “Atalantis” must he placed in the very highest rank of the class of poems to which it belong ; hut it is not the loftiest and grandest order of all poetry-, while the genius which was capable of producing it, must, of necessity, he able to touch the very summit of poetical excellency. Perhaps we shall not he far wrong w hen we say, that the exuberance and wonderful fertility of the author, the extraordinary versatility of his powers, and the rapid and ever-varying occu pation of the pen which lias been de manded by his literary connections and avocations, have not permitted him to concentrate his energies upon any sin gle department, or pursue with the ex clusive, artistic, laborious, and profes sional devotion which it exacts, the vo cation of the Poet to which he is espe cially called by his peculiar endow ments. But the tree gush of song, the originality of expression and simile, the deep sympathy with Nature, and the true utterances of the heart which appeals to universal Humanity, all stamped upon the poems now before us, show uumistakeably that they are not the laboured form, hut the sponta neous—the necessary garb in which the thought clothed its expression, and therefore, that they are not merely verses, but the natural language of the veritabe Poet. Anybody of ordinary cleverness may twist his thoughts into versification : only the Poet is able to compel the natural utterance to the thought, Or, more truly, his thought suggests and moulds the utterance to its own necessities. The poet w ho becomes most rapidly popular, is generally the one who makes no large demand upon the atten tive thought of his readers, but who presents, in graceful and musical strains, obvious conceptions, similes at once ap preciated, interesting incidents, ordina ry feelings, and pretty conceits. Pro found and original poets win their way more slowly. It is only after Time has sent forth their voice widely to the great heart of Humanity—a voice too great in its multitudinous tones to be at once comprehended by the single age of their contemporaries—that they pass into the general mind, and win that popularity, which springs from the taste and understanding they have themselves moulded and developed. Hence the mere popularity of a poet of the day is no criterion of his real rank. A general popularity with the great mass of ordinary mind, may even indicate that he has had his re ward—that he has been fully under stood and appreciated,—and that he is destined to sink to a humble place with posterity. But the poet of higher gifts can not be appreciated in every phase of his genius by the popular mind of his day. This may admire much which tails within the range of general feel ing, sentiment, and conception; hut there must be elements too thoughtful, too universal , too recondite to be traced or understood except by higher minds; the mass have to he taught them, —to learn to comprehend and value, what at first they disdained or disliked, be cause its greatness and originality re moved it from the general and circum scribed circle of their thoughts and ex perience, to the universal sphere of Nature, of highest Reason, and of boundless, myriad-sided Humanity. The highest order of poetry is, doubt less, that which like Nature itself, ap peals to and enters widest into the sym pathies of all mon, while it challenges and rewards the scrutiny of the most intellectual. Humanity and Physical Nature constitute, so to speak, the Truth-Universe of Poetry. But the general mind of any one period, al though partaking of Humanity and in fluenced by and connected with Nature, can only imperfectly comprehend the •“Southern Passages and Pictures;” “ Grouped Thoughts “ Areytos, or Songs of the South “The Cassique of Accabee, with other pieces.” Poems by W. Gilmore Simms, Author of “Atlanta., ” 4*. FOURTH VOLUME—NO. 10 WHOLE NO. 16! Universal, because it is only under par tial phases that the Universal is able to come in contact with the mind of a particular age ; and it is the wonderful prerogative of genius, and especially of the poetical genius, to seize by instinct that Universal, and so to present it— in prose or verse—that the productions reach, enter into and enlarge the sym pathies and thoughts of the age, con nect them with universal Humanity and Nature, and so reflect the Truth l ni verse, that they become an ever lasting mirror, and instruction, and study, tor all time and all ages. The more completely poetry accomplishes this, the more universal and enduring w ill he its sway. Iloiuer and Shaks peare, eompletest mirrors of the Truth ini verse, are an everlasting possession and instruction to the whole race, — .1 --J-. .* 1 . -a : ,r - pfireTV 11) ret 1 0? 1 ; I oil. Too little reflecting the affections ot Hu manity, can never become a popular poet, hut will always he most appro bated by the recondite thinker and the imaginative hut abstract admirer of Nature. That very reflection of the L niversai, and hence of highest and widest Truth, which characterizes the great poet, renders him also prophetic, and therefore in advance of Ins age.— He elevates it by its participation of that Humanity and relation to that Nature which lie conceives in their universal aspect; but the very fact that he is not only one-phased, renders it necessary that he should only be gradually and fully appreciated in the unfolding progression of time. W ith such a conception of the gen eral nature of poetry in its highest character, we come to the analysis of the poems before us. \\'e are well aware that it would be the highest in justice to apply the test of the loftiest conception of poetry to productions which, not only were never intended, hut which, hi fact, cannot he regarded by the critical eye, as adequate expo nents of the powers of the author.— When Air. Simms has enjoyed the un distraeted leisure to concentrate his w hole energies upon the finished pro duction of a Drama or Epic,not thrown otfj like the present poems, under the pressure of multitudinous and imper ative demands upon his pen, hut elab- j orated with the full force of his genius and the highest polish of his art, it w ill ; then he time enough to criticise his ti- I tic to a throne among the great Alas- j ters ot Song, Milton, and Dante, and j Sophocles; nor need his admirers (and j we are sure that they are many) fear, j should he ever present such a produe- j tion, that the judgment of posterity would accord him any humble throne, ; or any but a most triumphant crown, j But we propose no task of comparison ] between the poems under considers- i tion and those of other authors; our design is to examine the intrinsic | merits of the productions before us, and to leave it to the intelligence of our readers to institute what compari sons their own taste and judgment may suggest. In one striking particular do we re cognise in Mr. Uimms the necessary elements of the great Poet. He unites high imaginative powers with meta physical thought, by which we mean that large discourse of Reason which generalizes, which seizes the Universal, and perceives its relations to individual phenomena of Nature and Psychology. It is the characteristic of the great Poet to seize those subtle relations which connect the Individual with the Uni versal, and thus linking what is partic ular, limited, and special, with the whole Truth-Universe, he both enters the circle of individual sympathies, and elevates them to the sphere of univer sal Reason. He represents individual ties, hut he shows them related to the Universal which he reflects; thus he touches the chords of personal feelings in Men , w hile he appeals to the high est thought—the general Reason—of Man. lienee it is that th ttc-ances of the great Poet sometimes seem ob scure, even when in fact they are nut so. It is the thought, the subtle rela tion, the generalization, or the reflec tion of higher Reason, which is not, and cun not be, superficially obvious, that gives the appearance of obscurity, when the language itself may be pre cise and lucid. In such cases, when the Poet seems obscure, it is to use a phrase of Celoride, because we are ig “ignorant of his understanding;” when we are sure that we “understand his ignorance,” we are then competent to pronounce upon his real obscurity of thought and diction. It is impossible to read Mr. Simms’ poems without being struck by the pro fusion of appropriate, felicitous, and often original simile. 11 is keen and fresh perception of Nature, givesrise al so to beautiful pictures, whose truthful- j ness and clearness arc admirably pre- j sented in the lucid language wherewith they are painted. And in the expres sion of deep personal feelings, we find \ a noble union of sad emotion and man- ; linessof tone. He never sinks to the j whining strains of mawkish sentimen tality, or to the morbid misanthropy of j passionate or cold and sneering discon tent. There is not only the vigor of manliness throughout his poetry, hut also the reflection of profound and phi losophical thought. There is often ex hibited that power of condensation, ; ‘which, by a single pregnant line, sug gests an expansive train of reflection ; and his productions are marked by that ! originality of copious and independent thought, which lias no need to dress up trite commonplaces in a metrical garb, lie and raws from a full treasury of va- . ried experience, active thought, keen observation, just and original reflection, j and a spirit which has drunk deeply I and lovingly from the full-gushing founts of Nature’s Beauty. His in spiration is often kindled by the sunny and luxuriant scenery of the South, and besides the freshness and glow which this naturally imparts to his de scriptive poetry, it makes him emphat ic liy The National Poet of the South ern Land. Not only has he sung her peculiar natural aspects, with the ap preciatiou of a poet and the feelings of a son, hut he has a claim to her grati tude. for having enshrined in melo dious verse her ancient and fast-fading traditions. 1 he intense intellectual activity com bined with a habitually reflective and meditative mode of thought, which ap pears to characterise Mr. Simms’mind, induces hiiu frequently to pursue a vein clearly and beautifully, but too copiously for the taste of the general reader, who becomes wearied by the long continued demand upon his atten tion and powers of discriminating judg ment. The generality of readers wish in poetry something comprehended at a glance,—pleasing readily the taney —obvious in every respect, —and then done with. Os course w e are not now alluding to mere * t \\ hose interest lies in its sentiments, its thoughts, and its 9 psychological characteristics. Such po etry is only in a limited degree for the ordinary erewd ot readers ; but w hite the natural, logical, and clear flow of thought harmoniously continues, it w ill continue also to attract and sustain the interest of the reflecting mind; and this, such pieces of Mr. Simms as we have alluded to, do, although, as we have said, they will not so enchain the mere general reader. And this leads us to remark, that it is most probably owing to that very fact, that full and general justice has never been done to Air. Simms as a poet; the general reader has not taken the pains of mak ing himself acquainted with the best poetry of the author, which is to he found precisely in that class of pieces to which we have alluded, —pieces which will win the admiration of the true critic, the. scholar, the poet, —but which have not yet been sufficiently examined and appreciated by the mass ot readers, whose habit is to skim rap idly over poetry of a highly thought ful cast. Air. Simms’ poetry is for the closet, the bower, the forest aisles, the grand cathedral of Nature; for the solitary muser, the companionship ot thinking minds and deep hearts, the quiet circle of intelligence and love; hut not for the steamboat and railroad, and laughing drawing-room, and half ; thoughtless party, wanting something light, and amusing. \Ve are t be un j derstood as speaking of the presiding j character of this gentleman’s poetry ; j for in view of the powers which he so I evidently possesses, we could almost j feel provoked, not with Mr. Simms, ; hut w ith the circumstances w hich have so greatly diverted that concentrated, untrammelled devotion to the Aiuse, which would and must have given us a i great poem from his pen. It is not always that a man’s wri- I tings prove a true reflection of his | character. But Afr. Simms’ poetry too j evidently emanates directly from the ; heart, not to enable us to appreciate the man. It is free from affectation ; it deals in no prettinesses of conceit; it exhibits no mannerism and trammels of particular schools. And poetry must be (what from its essential na ture it would seem impossible that true poetry can he,) a monstrous lie, it the author of the productions be fore us, unites not to his intellectual gilts, a high-toned and generous nature, a kindly, noble, and strong heart, a genial, impulsive, yet faithful and de termined disposition, warm affection and friendship, a spirit to do and to en dure, and a soul as much elevated above the petty envies and jealousies w hich too often deform the genus irri tabile, as it is in large sympathy with the Beautiful, the True, the Just, with Humanity and with Nature. (To be continued.) A FEW DEFINITIONS. Marriage. —A “State lottery,” not put down. War.— Congregational worship of the devil. Alnrder to music. Character. —The only personal pro perty which every person looks after for you. Sleep. —A cloak thrown around us at the side-scenes as we leave the stage a while. Napoleon. —A naughty boy w ho was put in a corner because he wanted the world to play with. Woman. —The melody of the human duet. A golden coin, which educators plate over with silver. Pen. —A lever, small enough to be used by one man, but strong enough to raise the whole world. Revenge. —Bitter sweets, plucked from the devil’s garden. Quenching your thirst with brandy. Metaphysics. —Words to stay the ap petite till tacts are ready. Feeling for a science in the. dar k. Tobacco. —A triple memento rnori; | dust for the nose, ashes for the mouth, j and poison for the stomach. Life. —One to whom we are always introduced without our consent, but whom we seldom quit without regret. Sword —The first hope of the op pressor, and the last hope of the op | pressed. Passion’s special pleader in | lolly’s court of appeal. Scholar —A diver for pearls, who generally loses his breath before he gathers much treasure. Duel. —A strange old custom, ac ; cording to which men suffering from inflammation, attempt to cure them i selves by bleeding somebody else. Ballroom. —A chess-board played upon tiy love and hate. A eon lined place, in which poor creatures are com mitted by fashion to hard labour. Newspaper. —The great general of the people, who has driven the enemy | from the fortified heights of power, i and compelled him to give battle in the open field of thought- A w inding sheet, in which the Parliamentary speeches are interred. [From “ The Council of Four. Candles.— ln Russia, the candles used in the mines are made of tallow I mixed with charcoal dust (or powdered I charcoal,) which is found to increase | the intensity of the light. Let some I of our chandeliers try this mixture.