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i ‘r*v-. j-roorr. and **'*'•’ ou
„ :
S ,lt nr* ‘hi'.'P, Jf VfOUitl |i
„ \
w". joing vit ..ouud
iv too glad wLon Jvf* * 1
•.d t - koap house for
..s thu holiday irtoteu.
1 her-", but i e stage a 1 i
•oiu the sum v !iicb
low ; and -aothei
‘gUr happiries ■
Ae f >rgot. he>
bed it* before daylight. At ■
Christinas tree brought in. it was a
large cedar branch planted in a ‘half
cask, and silently with mom Betty’s
aid, it was moved into the middle of
the drawing-room, and merry with tiny
candles of different coloured wax.—
From the lower branches were sus
pended the stolen stockings, and above
were candied figures and numberless
pretty things.
Having arranged it all, Phcebe crept
silently to bed, and was soon asleep.
She was awakened about midnight, by
a. sound which seemed to her like some
one breaking into the house, but lis
tening and hearing no more of it,
went to sleep again and slept soundly
until the children waked her up the
next morning, shouting “merry Christ
mas’’ at her door.
“Come out, quick 1” they cried,
“mother is out already, and we are
only waiting for you.”
Thus urged, she hastily made her
toilet, and descended. The whole fami
ly were already at the door of the
drawing-room impatient for admit
tance, but Phiebe petitioned to be al
lowed to go in “and light the candle.”
Latching the door after her, she enter
ed with a candle in her hand, and was
surprised to see the door opening into
“the stranger’s room” slightly ajar.—
“They have stolen a march on us,” she
thought, and hastily lighting the tapers
she threw the other door open.
Oh ! what a whooping and hurraing
there was as the Christmas-tree stood
before them in all its glory. The de
lighted children forgot that they had
come to surprise their mother, and
all rushed forward to secure their
own property.
Phoebe turned to look at poor Mrs.
Smith, she had vanished. “Poor thing,”
thought Phcebe, “her heart is too sad
for such a scene.” At this instant, a
whoop and bound from uncle Reuben,
electrified the whole company, and
turning towards the stranger’s room to
see what had occasioned his surprise,
they saw him locked in the arms of a
stalwart man, some forty years of age.
“Father! father 1” shouted the child
ren, and iustunter the Christmas-tree
was deserted for the new surprise.
In her feeling of homesick loneli
ness. Phoebe turned from sympathizing
in the happiness of her friends, to gaze
with tearful eyes upon the Christmus
tree. She saw now what had passed
her unobserved before—numberless
presents which she had not placed
there. There were bags and mocca
sins of Indian workmanship, small
bright golden coins hanging like beads,
and many little trifles from the far off
country of mines.
She examined them all pleased and
gratified, but a feeling of isolation
smote her heart, as she felt that in all
the collection, there was not one for
her. Looking down, she last of all
perceived a -mall, beautifully finished
writing desk placed just under the
tree. On the top, was a small silver
plate witli her name engraved upon it.
She seized itfin her arms, kissed it be
fore she knew what she was doing, and
then ashamed of her childish emotion,
way just about leaving the room, when
the voice of uncle Reuben greeted her
with--
“What ’i* ijjat yo'i are kissing so af
fectionately, Mis* Sherwood ?”
“A Christmas present from—l don’t
know w ho,” said Phoebe, blushing. Is
at not beautiful?” and she opened it to
display its finished interior.
f really am not much of a
judge of such matters,” replied the old
bachelor, very much troubled with
i ,ar t once. “John, you
i Miss Sherwood, yet.”
Mr tod,” exclaimed Mr.
j hu Si, ,ng forward, “I really
\ r pai ..I am more indebted
* w -.on ! n I ■ .n express. My wife
already to tell me
. , . ‘V ad you have been.”
rere the thief that 1
into the house last
■'.fit - Phcebe, not knowing
■ xaci|\ warn •se to remark.
’ ?xt i.i med her host, “I came
!i -is f. “as a mouse, poor Mary
• - ‘ . t ’ crying when 1 came to
.and she knew my footstep
and the threshold, and let
no could it have been?”
looking at Mrs. Smith.
• omed to be in this room.”
knocked over,” said Mrs.
iously, and then stopping
\ slimed—“Oh! I’ve told.”
• gazed at her lor a moment
, and then the truth flashed
i he gift that she had kissed
; misiastically was a present from
kV- uncle. The poor girl
tmi the eyes, arid ruhetl out
it., amid a perfect uproar of
red in her own room, she
i table to collect her scat-
Regarding the worthy
respectable, middle-aged
1 towards him very much
towards Mr. John Smith
iow she all at once began
the change which had of
r him—the bright boots,
md well fitting apparel,
t< ounted for.
I to do ?” thought poor
nail never summon cour
im again. I have a great
his present back to him.”
>w the thought gave her
excitement she lifted the
le desk, and there on the
top oi r renen letter paper, envelopes,
and perfumed sealing wax, lay a note
in a large bold hand. She broke the
seal, and read as follows—
“Phcebe, light of my eyes, angel of
my heart, are you going to refuse a
poor, forlorn bachelor, because he is
old enough to be your grandfather?
Tou know that I love you with all my
soul, and that there is no sunshine on
earth for me unless you consent to
share it. Now don’t hate me, because
I'm a shabby, don’t care sort of fellow,
but try your hand at bettering me,
and see if you don’t succeed. I am
not exactly the sort of beau that
most young ladies like to have flourish
ing about them, but take my word for
it, I’m worth half a dozen of these
young “whipper snappers,” and would
do nuirrt to make, ymi bippy than ail I
of them put together. Now, don’t
frown the first time we meet, but smile
as you always do, and I shall know by
that, there is some hope left for poor
Reuben Smith.”
Phiebe put down the note and stared
at it perfectly aghast ! She had heard
of offers of marriage, but never before
had received one. “I wonder if they
are all like this ?” was her first thought.
Not being able to answer the question
to her own satisfaction, she read the
note again. The next thing she did
was to laugh, the next to cry. By the
time she got through that, she conclu
ded that her toilet for the day had been
too hurriedly made, and she had better
dressa gain, and by the time that
was concluded, the breakfast bell rang,
and her heart sprang into her mouth,
add almost suffocated her.
“Psha! how foolish 1 am,” thought
she, “1 don’t care anything about him;
what is the use of being frightened?
llow sorry I am to make him misera
ble. Oh ! dear me, what am Ito do?”
At this crisis, Lizzie came up to tell
her they were all waiting breakfast for
her, and with a trembling heart she
found herself on the way to the base
ment. The room was dressed with a
profusion of evergreens, and mom
Betty was flying round at an unusual
rate, with hot bread and cakes, but
poor Phoebe only saw that there was
but one vacant seat at the table, and
that one was next to the bachelor uncle.
Lizzie had given up her old place for
a chair next her father, and Phoebe
nauat either succeed to it, or raise a
commotion among the juveniles.—
While she was blushing and hesitating,
uncle Reuben brought matters to a
close by knocking over the doubtful
cha r in an attempt to set it straight,
and by the time that he had sprung to
his feet to put it up again, Phoebe
found that she was actually seated at
the table.
Whether, when they first met, she
smiled or not, she never knew, nor did
he ; they were both quite too much
j agitated to take notes on the occasion,
! but when, some weeks alter, the wor
j thy gentleman summoned courage to
i tell his young friend that “after all he
was only twenty years older than she
was,” and that “the little cottage on
the hill, in her fair hands, would make
the most Switching home in the wide
world,” Phoebe concluded to take up
her abode there some day, on condition
that her former pupils might have free
ingress and egress.
Mrs. Sherwood hearing of this new
arrangement, consented to sell out and
move to her daughter’s neighbourhood,
and when old Christmas next came
round, he found two new abodes to re
ceive biuo, acd two happy hearths to
giv® bun marry welcome,
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
letters.
MUSICAL CORRESPONDENCE.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
Nbw-York, Dec. 15, 1851.
My Dear Richards : —I have just re
turned to our goodly city of Gotham,
after an absence of six weeks in the
west, and find that during my absence
there has been quite a musical excite
ment.
Catherine Hayes has broken her en
gagement with the London publisher
Beale, and entered into anew arrange
ment with Ward well, at least so the
story goes ; it is, at all events, a queer
affair. She is now giving concerts in
Philadelphia, and is droning crowded
houses. She has lost none of her hold
on the public, and is certainly one of
the best artists that ever visited Ame
rica.
With proper support, and under ju
dicious management, her tour through
the United States xvould be immensely
successful.
The Opera has done well. Robert
Le Diable is announced for Wednesday
nialo. wiiVi Steft'anone as Alice; the
caste is good, and our musical people
are in a high state of expectancy. The
last time I heard this Opera, was at the
Royal Italian Opera House, London,
with Jenny Lind as Alice, and I al
most dread the breaking of the spell of
remembrance.
Mrs. Emma Gillingham Bostwiok’s
Soirees, were finished before my re
turn. I attended the first one only,
and have never witnessed a more bril
liant audience. This lady has many
friends among our best families, and
she is fully entitled to all the support
they so liberally bestow upon her.
There has never been a more success
ful series of concerts given here—the
house was filled to its utmost capacity
every evening, and all were satisfied.
Mrs. Bostwick has a clear and pure
soprano voice, particularly sweet in the
upper tones; she has a perfect control
over it, and would please an audience
far better than many singers of higher
pretensions. As an artiste, she would
not lose caste or comparison with
many xvhose fame have been trumpeted
through our country.
Mdlle. Delille, or the fair unknown ,
as she was called, will make her deblit
on Thursday next. I hear she is a
fine artiste, she has had no pre-puffing,
and will establish her claim for public
favour upon her merits. The great
composer, Wra. Vincent Wallace, will
lead her concerts in New-York.
I notice among the musical novel
ties, the first number of anew sett of
Piano Forte studies, by Wallace;
they are called “Frois etudes de Sa
lon,” No. 1, La Grace, which is the
only one puluisneu, auu i mum. it, me
most exquisitely beautiful musical com
position I have eiter met with. No Piano
Forte player, who wishes to become a
finished and graceful player, should be
without Wallace’s “La Grace.” Your’s.
C’jjr 3mk Htorlii.
A LARGE ESTABLISHMENT.
[We found the following interesting
article in the pages of a monthly jour
nal, entitled “The 800 l World.” Our
readers will recollect that we alluded
to the magnificent store of Messrs.
Appleton, in one of our latters from
New-York, and forbore to describe it
and their vast business only for want
of time. It is with pleasure, therefore,
that we copy this description, which
appears to us to be full and just.]
The Book Establishment of Messrs.
D. Appleton & Cos., New-York.
There is scarcely a pursuit of any
extent in society whi< h requires so
great an amount of capital to conduct
it as the publication of books. Many
will be surprised to learn that there is
scarcely a jobbing-house dealing in any
kind of goods in this city, which re
quires the investment of such an
amount of capital to conduct its busi
ness as is needed by the publishers of
books. The mere capital of some of
these publishing houses, which is ac
tively used in their business is larger
than the entire business, of at least
any one of half the jobbing-houses.
Any one familiar with the subject
knows that the Harpers require a
greater capital for their business than
Howland & Aspinwall; yet so limited
is the public information, that the lat
ter aie often looked iip to by the same
commercial eye as mrtiiouafres, and tu
former looked down to as mere book
publishers.
The publisher does well if he turns
his capital once a year; many classes
of merchants turn theirs two or three
times w ithin the same period.
The merchant’s capital is invested
in saleable goods, or the manufactu
rer’s capital is invested to a limited
extent in machinery, and to a conside
rable extent in the raw material, which
always commands its value in the mar
ket; but the publisher’s capital be
comes invested in stereotype plates,
which are stowed away in vaults, or in
books and such materials, many of
which are depreciating every year.
Thus, lifter years of successful busi
ness, the publisher finds himself the
possessor of a vastaiWvUU.t of property
which is of no earthly value to most
men, and of limited value even to
those of the trade. It was the serious
import of this fact, which led the late
Daniel Appleton to exclaim, on his re
tirement from the business,of the pre
sent firm—“l thank God I have boys to
leave it to ; 1 have children on whom 1
can entail it, as no man that it is able
to buy it, would ever purchase it.”
The publisher must pay cash, gene
rally in full, before he can begin to
reap a return. This is the case with
almost every book. If be buys the
copyright, the cash is generally paid
to the author; the manuscript then
passes to the stereotvper, whose work
men reeeive their wages weekly. Vie
paper manufacturer must receive the
cash, and the bookbinder through
whose hands the work pasles latest,
generally sends his bill into the store
in company with the volumes. Titus
an edition is paid for, before the work
is offered for sale. Now comes fie
cri sis. It may sell slowly, and a yiar
may be required to dispose of onli a
portion of an edition ; but it the book
has an intrinsic value, and the pullic
receive it with favour, the return of lie
investment is sure to the publisher.
The actual capital required to con
duct the business of the publishing
house named at the beginning of t|iis
article is not less than $400,000.
Asa publishing house and a bojok
store, that of the Messrs. Appleton is
unquestionably the most ex'ansi ve es
tablishment in the United States, (t’s
shelves are lined with works in almost
every department of knowledge, while
in its recesses and areas may bo sSen
piles and stacks of volumes, some of
which are royal octavos. In o o iinge
stack is the remainder of t a Abbqts
ford Edition of the Waverly Novels,
which has been purchased from the es
tate of Cadell, the English publisher,
at a cost of not less than $20,000.
This is the edition got up the Brit
ish pride as a monument to the fume
of Sir Walter Scott. It surpassed ip
splendor any series of illustrated t&es
that the world has ever seen.
The books published by this house
are not only very numerous, but some
of them are of the most valuable and
substantial character. The Dictionary
of Mechanics, Machinery, Engine-work
and Engineering, which ha > just been
completed in forty numbers, cost to
prepare it more than $20,000 Du
ring the course of its publication it had
ten thousand subscribers, at ten dol
lars each ; and the sale of the bound
edition continues very large. It should
be stated that this work is in many
respects a novelty. It is the first ef
fort ever made in this country to pre
sent in the form of a Dictionary thu
results of mechanical ingenuity com
bined with mechanical science. The
masterly manner in which the work
has been executed, is amply proved by
the almost unbounded approbation be
stowed upon it by the public.
Another class of works peculiar to
this publishing house consists of illus
trated books. These are preeminent
for splendor, and elegance, and beauty,
The letter-press of the finest volumes
is executed in the best style possible
in this country ; the engravings are of
uncommon fineness, softness, and per
fection ; and the binding of maty is in
gold embossed, or in glass plates, or
mother of pearl; and, in one instance,
ve were shown a pocket edition of the
Bible bound in solid plates of gold, at
a cost of not less than four hundred
dollars. As the spectator beholds these
volumes, he sees before him the ut
most perfection to which the art of;
book-making has arrived in this coun
tiy. We say the entire art, because
their contents are such ns to be conge
nial only with the highest cultivation
in the intellect and heart combined.
The amouut annually invested by this
house on these works is more than
SIOO,OOO.
Os the . Book of Common Prayer,
the varieties ot winch, in size ami Jtyie |
of binding exceed one hundred, more
than 75,000 copies are sold annually,
by this house.
Turning to the works of light litera
ture published by the Mcssis. Apple
ton, we are led at once to notice the
nature of theif contracts. A purity of
thought and sentiment, and at. eleva
tion of character, run through them
all. No one, and especially no youth,
can peruse them without the most fa
vourable impressions oil the side of vir
tue, truth and religion. The utmost
care is taken in the selection of these
works, as a blemish in sentiment mars
every other excellence. Not less than
250,000 volumes of this high stamp
are poured forth by this firm annually
into the bosom of society.
Nor is the department of education
overlooked by them ; in this field they
have made gigantic strides. The clas
sical books, now r numbering nearly
every work standard in schools and
colleges, which they publish annually,
exceed 200,000 volumes. While their
Ollendorf series, now comprising fif
teen volumes, together with Reading
Books and Dictionaries, for the study
of modern languages, exceed in sale
:>OO,OOO volumes annually.
Os Mandeville’s series of Readers,
they print more than 250,000 copies
each year. Perkin’s series of Mathe
matical books is likewise largely intro
duced into schools.
The juvenile series of books which
this house publishes under the title of
“Miniature Classical Library,” consists
in all of twenty-eight volumes. The
sale of these reaches 112,000 annually.
Here we must pause. One can
scarcely conceive, without amazement,
of the thousands and millions of rea
ders, before whose eyes the pages of
this publishing house annually pass;
of the impressions w hich they ujake;
or the thoughts which they awaken.
A we pas through the lower streets
of the city, and witness the side-walks
blocked up with boxes and bales, —
surely, we exclaim, here is a great traf
fic; but who that walks past the doors
of 200 Broadway, and sees on y a few
individuals noiselessly moving within,
ever dreams of the mighty energies
there slumbering, as it were, bmeath a
thin veil. The goods of the merchant
leave his door, and then his influence
euds; the books of the publisher leave
his door, and then his influence begins.
How vast is this distinction cetweeu
the two classes.
The house of D. Appletof. & Cos.
was originally established in [829, by
the late Daniel Appleton, wqo retired
front business, universally inspected,
in 1849. It is now conducted by his
four sons, who were trained tinder his
guidance to the possession of those en
ergetic, clear sighted, discriminating,
prudent qualities, which coutir and tri
umphant success in the conduct of any
enterprise. The high reputation of the
house, both in this country and Eu
rope, is not only well maintained, but
it advances and spreads with the pro
gress of time, and the expansion of bu
siness. The excellence of i!4 publica
tions has become a matter of universal
repute.
Perhaps there is no depishinent of
trade in this country which presents a
proportionate number of instances, il
lustrative of the growth and progress of
the country, as that of the publishing
houses. When this firm first entered
the field, no such improvements existed
from the use of steam in connection
with printing, as are now found every
where, nor had the art of book-making
reached its present perfection. Their
first publication was a little 64m0, en
titled “Daily Crumbsyet twenty
years has extended a catalogue thus
begun until it comprises one of the
most important and numerous collec
tion of books in this country.
€jl t HflttttKf.
NORMAN MAURICE.
[Norman Maurick, or the Man of ’he People. An
American Drama, in Fire Acta. By Win. Gilmore
Simms. Richmond: Jno. R. Thompson.]
The American Muse is essentially
deficient in dramatic power, undoubt
edly the highest development of the
poetic Art. Her achievements have
been respectable, and occasionally lof
ty, in the lyric and didactic forms of
verse. With very rare exceptions, she
has wrought nothing great in the epic,
and, perhaps, still less in the dramatic
veins. A brilliant exception, however,
presents itself in the work before us—
a work whiqh judged by the loftiest
and truest standards of criticism, is
unquestionably entitled to the highest
rang among American dramas. It sur
passes all others w ithin our know ledge
in the distinguishing features of a suc
cessful dramatic story. The unity and
compactness of its parts, the variety
and natural sequence of its incident—
its well sustained and spirited action—
its close and philosophical discrimina
tion of character —and, finally, its dig
nified thought and felicity’ of diction,
all conspire to stamp it with the un
mistakeable impress of genius. It
deserves to be widely known, and we
shall occupy a portiou of our too limi
ted space with extracts, premising first,
however, that the political staple of
the drama is interwoven with a social
tragedy. The election of Norman Mau
rice to the Missouri Senate, is a tri
umph twinned with the death of Cla
rice, his wife, who to save herself and
her husband from dishonour, has slain
his asperser. Her intense excitement
breaks a blood vessel, and she dies in
her husband’s arms.
The story opens in Philadelphia,
while Norman and Clarice are yet un
wedded, and she is living with an
aunt who opposes her marriage with
Norman, because he is poor, and fa
| vours the suit of Warren, his kinsman,
i but his enemy.
The following passage, we may fitly
entitle
Orphanage.
Mrs. J. He ha# the audacity to think of you
In marriage—he would heir my property,
| The miserable beggar, who, but lately—
Clarice. And if the humble Clarice might
presume,
There were no fitter husband ! From the fates
1 do entreat no happier destiny
1 hall oui it> snare, oer an aim nemm
proffer,
i The beggary that he brings.
Mrs. J. But you shall never !
i am your guardian in the place of mother,
And I will turn you naked from these doors
If you but dare—
Clarice. Ah! that were guardianship,
Becoming the dear sister of a mother,
Who, when she left her hapless child to earth,
Ne’er dream’d of such remembrance, iu the
future,
Os what beseem’d the past. I’ve anger’d you,
But cannot chide myself, because my nature
Docs not revolt at homage of a being
In whom no virtue starves. Suppose him poor!
Wealth makes no certain happiness to hope,
Nor poverty its loss. In Norman Maurice
I see a nobleness that still conceals
The lowly fortunes that offend your pride.
None richer lives in rarest qualities
More precious to the soul, that feeds on worth,
Than in your city glitter. Do you think
To win me from a feast of such delights
To the poor fare on common things that make
The wealth of Robert Warren? Madam—
my auni, —
I thank you for the bounty you have shown me !
It had been precious o’er most earthly things,
But that it has its price at perilous cost,
To things more precious still. Your charity,
That found a shelter for this humble person.
Were all too costly, if it claims in turn
This poor heart’s sacrifice. I cannot make, it!
I will not wed this Warren,—for I know him—
And, if it be that I shall ever wed,
Will wed with Norman Maurice—as a man,
Whom most it glads me that I also know.
Maurice thus eloquently declares his
faith in his own energies:
Poverty Defied.
Maurice. There is no poverty,
Which the true courage, aud the bold endeav
our,
The honest purpose, the enduring heart,
Crown'd with a love that blesses while it bur
dens,
May not defy in such land as ours !
We’ll have but few wants, —having oue ano
ther !
And for these wants, some dawning smiles of
fortune
Already have prepared me. Trust me, Clarice,
I will not take thee to a worse condition,
In one whose charities shall never peril
The affections they should foster.
Here is a beautiful picture of
M ai’r v Wedlock.
OL I AT. # .1-;..
Maurice. ’Tis more,—
Security iu happiness. Our blossoms
Fear not the spoiler. On your cheek the roses
Declare a joyous presence in the heart,
That makes our cottage bloom.
Clarice. You triumph too,
In favour as in fortune. On all sides
1 hear your name xeechoed with a plaudit,
That tills my bosom with exulting raptures
I never knew before.
Maurice. Ah ! this is nothing,
Dear heart, to the sweet peace that crowns our
dwelling,
And tells us, though the tempest growls afar,
It 9 thunders strike not here. The fame I covet
Is still in tribute subject to your joys;
And these, secure—you, happy in my bosom,
jMy pride forgets its aim! Ambition slumbers
Nor makes me once forgetful of the rapture,
That follows your embrace.
#***
Maurice. Thou’rt mine, my Clarice.
Clarice. Wholly thine, my husband.
Maurice. Now Jet the furies clamour as
they may,
That the capricious fortune which had mock’d
Our blessings with denial, has been baffled
By the true nobleness of that human will,
That, when the grim necessity looks worst,
Can fearlessly resolve to brave its fate.
Thou’rt mine, and all grows suppliant in my
path,
That lately look’d defiance. We are one !
This is our dwelling, Clarice—let us in.
The success of Maurice at the bar,
compels the following tribute from a
creature of his enemy:
Eloquence.
His arguments have made a great impression ;
Their subtlety and closeness, and the power
Os clear and forcible development.
Which aeenis most native to his faculty
He was born an orator 1 V\ ith such a person.
A voice to glide from thunder into music,
A form and face so full majesty,
Yet w'ith such frankness and simplicity,
So much to please and so commanding.
The poet pays a beautiful and meri
ted compliment to the painter:
Soi.lv.
Maurice. Sully, the master-painter,
A pure, good man, whose exquisite art endows,
The beauty with a charm beyond her own,
Caught from his delicate fancy.
Wnrrcn. He’s still famous.
Maurice. I would you could say fortunate
as famous,
As still his art deserves.
We add a few paragraphs without
preface, beyond the title which seems
best adapted to convey the point of
each.
The PEorr.E to be Taught.
Oh ! could we but inform the popular mind
Maurice. This can be done where virtue is
the teacher.
No students learn so quickly as the people..
They have no cliques to foster—no impressions
Whose narrow boundaries, and scholastic rules,
Frown on each novel truth and principle,
And where they can still hunt them down to
ruiu.
They take a truth in secret to their hearts.
And nurse it till it rises to a law.
Thenceforth to live forever !
Brooks. W'e are agreed—
The people must be taught—what should we
teach them ?
Maurice. In politics, to know the proper
value
Os the high trusts, the saered privileges,
‘fhey Ho ooitfiHf thmr statesman. Show to 1
them,
On these depend their liberties and lives ;
The safety of their children, and the future !
To yield 9uch trusts to smiling sycophants,
Who flatter still the voter’s vanity,
At the expense of his most precious fortunes,
Is to betray the land’s security,
To sell the wealth most precious m our keep
ing,
Aud for the thing most worthless, yield to for
tune,
What fortune cannot furnish. We must teach,
That he who cringes, merely for the station,
Will meanly hold in the nation’s eye ;
That he who buys the vote will sell his own;
That he, alone, is worthy of the trust,
Who with the faculty to use it nobly,
Will never sacrifice his manhood for it
If with these principles and these resolves,
Thus freely shown you, and invincible,
Our people, through their representatives,
Demand my poor abilities,’ —twill glad me,
To yield me at their summons. This implies
not
One effort of my own. You, sirs, may make
me
A Senator, but not a Candidate.
The Constitution—Strict Construction.
I would have it
A ligament of fix’d, unchanging value,
Maintained by strict construction, —neither
warp’d,
Nor stretched, nor lopt of its now fair propor
tions
By the ambitious demagogue or statesman.
YVho, with the baits of station in their eyes,
Still sacrifice the State ! Our policy,
Regards ours as a linked realm of nations
Where each one sits secure, however feeble,
And pointing to the sacred w ritten record
Finds it in her Palladium. Government,
We hold to be the creature of our need.
Having no power but where necessity
Still, under guidance of the Charter, gives it.
Our taxes raised to meet our exigence,
And not for waste or favourites—our people
Left free to share the commerce of the world,
W ithout one needless barrier on their prows !
Our industry at liberty for venture,
Neither abridged, nor pamper’d ; and no cal
ling
Preferr’d before another, to the ruin,
Or wrong of either. These, sir, are my doc
trines !
They are the only doctrines which shall keep us
From anarchy and that worst peril yet,
That threatens to dissever, in the tempest
That married harmony of hope with power,
That keeps our starry union o’er the storm, t
And in the sacred bond that links our fortuues, s
A&akcn “s defy its thunders ! —Thus, in one, — \
1 ne Foreign despot tftreatens us in vim. *
Guizot and Palmerston may fret to see us
Grasping the empires w'hich they vainly covet
And stretching forth our trident o’er the 9eas,
In rivalry with Britain. They may chafe,
But cannot chain us. Balances of power,
Framed by corrupt and cunning monarchists,
Weigh none of our possessions ; and the sea
sons
That mark our mighty progress, East and West,
Show Europe’s struggling millions, fondly
seeking,
The better shores and shelters that are ours.
Our space forbids further extracts,
and we close this hasty notice w ith the
closing scene and words of this admira
ble drama.
Mercer Maurice, my friend, we triumph.
You are Senator
For the next term, in Congress, from Missouri.
Maurice. Could’st wake her with thy ti
dings !
Mercer. God ! Is this death !
Maurice. It lies upon her silent lips like
snow.
Speak ! Speak! Thou wilt not wake her
with thy tidings.
Nor sorrow, nor joy shall fill these frozen eyes,
That see not me. She would have listened
once,
How gladly,—and found music in the triumph,
That now can bring me none. My wife! My
wife !
Imttjjmt letters.
From the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin.
SOUTHERN SCENES.
NO. 6.
King Street in a Froel—Leaving Town —
Plantation Gathering—Cotton Fields —
The Plants—Field Labourers—Negro
Street—The Gin House, tsc.
Charleston, S. C., Dec. 9.
I am again writing on the open pi
azza, with an air as balmy as June’s
breathing around me. Not that there
have been uninterrupted sunshine, and
an ever amiable sky. Only on Friday
last ladies went shivering about iu
cloaks, and furs even, while the gentle
r7~” tn the shelter of wide
sleeves and deep broadcloth collars.
Chestnut street belles would scarcely
have thought the frostiness an excuse
for sporting their new cloaks from Le
vy’s, but King-street had its share of
embroidered inerinoes and fringed sat
ins. It is true this is not the season
for display of any kind. Most fami
lies have either gone to the country for
the Christmas holidays, or are prepa
ring to go. Farting visits are paid,
and winter shopping executed. Par
ties are few and far between, and the
opera season is nearly over. As far as
town society is concerned, a Charleston
December answers to our July. As
in England, people pass the holidays
at their country houses, surrounded
by their children and grand-children, j
family servants and loyal tenants—the ‘
planter retires to his homestead, where
Christmas fires blazed in his boyhood,
and his father sat, as he does now, in
the midst of his gathered household.
It is a custom that has both the sanc
tion of poetry and time-honoured ob
servance. The children in their turn
learn to look forward to their annual
festivities, aud to love the lauds that
shall one day “be called after their
names.”
And this reminds me that I did not
get farther than the gate of our friend’s
plantation, in describing my day in the
country, commenced in my last enclo-
sures. We approached the said gate
through an avenue or archway of pines,
hung with the tangled moss, and still
interlaced with thickets ot wild vines
and fragrant creamy roses. The low
barred gate swung back betore us as
we entered a side path which led di
rectly through the centre of a wide
cotton field. W hen a planter speaks
of a field, he does not mean two or
three acres in a trim fence. It would
take ten New Tork wheat fields to
make one of these enclosures. As late
as this in the season the best part of the
crop is already gathered, and what we
saw is only like the gleaning of the
harvest. The plants were brown and
sere, reaching about to the saddle —by
stooping a little 1 could pluck the
bursting pods that ciowned every little
branch. It was here that we met the
carriage party, walking slowly towards
us from the house ; they too, had come
out to see the cotton gathered, one of
the ladies being like myself, a North
erner, and this her first view of the
country.
So we turned our horses and rode in
among the crackling plants, catching
the flebey Hakes as we brushed through
the narrow avenues formed by the reg
ular roc s in which they were ranged.
There were but few hands in the field,
the season being so nearly over, and
as we had met the overseer in our
search for the oak avenue there was
no one overlooking them.
The dress, air, and expression of the
field negro is totally different from the
stylish house-servants one sees in town.
The women were all decently clad in
blue cotton gowns, one or two having
come out on the side of Mrs. Bloomer,
a most convenient costume for field la
bour, to which it would do well to be
confined. Others had tucked the long
skirts oue side, ala char woman, as
they stooped to their task, making a
sack of the superabundant drapery,
not unlike the cap bags, for sewing
which are still seen iu some old-fash
ioned New Eugland villages, and were
gathering the cotton into this. It is
one of the slowest processes, particu
larly as conducted by a negro at all
indisposed to his task, that one ever
sees in cultivation. Every pod is
cleaned by hand, and theeotton thrown
into large heaps, from whence it is car
ried to the gin house. We found them
veiy communicative, and for the most
part good tempered, and as pleased
with our notice and questions as little
children. The “aunties,” and “uncles,”
were a trifle more taciturn than the
younger members of the party, who
showed their teeth and chuckled at
every remark either to them or about
them, and seemed disposed to give
themselves a slight recess on the
strength of our visit. A solemn old
“mauiner” reproved them for this, pick
ing steadily with downcast eyes the
while, and a neighbouring “uncle,”
seemed to think we “jiss cum for
laugh’ at him. The party in front
were less disposed to test their con
versational powers, when they at length
came up, and “the missis” being among
them caused a subsiding among the
juveniles. Not that they seemed at
all afraid of her. On the contrary,
they curtsied most politely, as she ad
dressed one after the other by name, ‘
inquiring for their children or those
she did not see with them. Several
preferred requests lor new clothes, or
-- . nil Ilf which j
‘were promised, and the promises re
ceived, as if the petitioners had been
children rather than servants.
Their luncheon baskets were stationed
near them, as they do not return to j
the negro quarter until the day’s task
lis done. Every one has this appor
i tioned to him, they told us, and when
it was finished their time was their
own. It is usually sufficient to keep
them well employed through the day.
I cannot say much for the beauty of
the circle, aud most of the women
were rather stouter than my standard
of elegance would requite, with broad,
shining faces, and hair not at all sug
gestive of curl papers.
I should like to see a cotton field in
the beauty of its first crop, the pods
just bursting with the fulness of the
snow white enclosures. Even at this
season it was much more picturesque
than 1 had imagined from the stuuted
growth visible from the North Caroli
na railroad, and I was very well satis
fied with my inspection as we turned
towards the house.
The sun was very powerful, and the
shade of the green trees and the sight
of the white cottage, with its broad
piazza, were very refreshing. As we
rode iu the broad enclosure, we passed
a row of negro cottages to the right,
the overseer’s residence mounting
guard, as it were, at the end of the
street; and to the left stood the cotton
gin, the corn and fowl houses. It was
quite like a little village, all snowy
white, hiding among the trees, with a
broad lawn in front, and a quiet river
view beyond giving a pleasant back
ground. Dismounting at the piazza,
we entered the parlour, opening from
it, and w ere glad enough to rest from
our four hour's ride under the midday
sun.
The flower garden with whole thick
ets of roses wasting their sweetness,
lay upon the side looking towards the
liver, ntl lc>jvnj rvc.ro vogotublcti
growing finely, salads and radishes—
no wonder that one sometimes forgets
the seasons. From a landing just be
low- the house, our host can take a boat
and land at his city residence, but as
the row is long, it is seldom attempted.
A walk in the negro street was pro
posed, so while our hostess gave dinner
orders, three of the ladies went to pay
a visit of ceremony to the residences
of our recent acqaintances. They
were ranged on each side of an enclo
sure, and at present occupied only by
the children of the plantation, with
older girls set to watch them, superin
tended iu their turns by “mauniers”
who consider themselves too old, or
; too much of invalids for field labour.
A bright intelligent negro woman,
“mauiner Fanny”—was mistress of
ceremonies, conducting us to see a
j young child who was still without an
appellation, intending to bestow the
honour of god-mother on one of us.—
But the mother who was very proud
of her little black doll—with its funny
little head and eyes like glass beads—
did not think a name of one syllable
sufficiently distinguished, and inclined
rather to the “Romulus” or “Vespa
pasian ’ —w hich were laughingly pro
posed. Maumer Fanny was particu
larly original in her compliments to
wards one of our party, whose bright
colour was something of a novel
her, declaring, that “Miss look ji>
something for eat —an she fell i
wid her jist when she fust saw h
the piazzy.” M e could undei
the association of ideas, when c
our party discovered a kettte ot
poon” on the smouldering coals
fire. This she informed us wasi
ed as “a treat forde children”—“
answered to the bon t ns of II
for the little people of the plan
But more of this dainty in our
The cabins consisted of two
and were elevated by a step ft
ground so as to be perfectly dn
outer room is “parlour, kitch
hall”—the other ventilated by
sash window, in the dormitory,
mer Fanny, who seemed to l
the aristocracy of thesettlemeu
ed us her four post bedstead
patchwork hangings, with agrt
of self-complacency, and poit,
her own “chillun,” twovery br.
—“Missis promise to take t
for learn to sew.” All the cal
whitewashed, and the oversee
differed little from them in st
cept that it was larger and ha>
za. An overseer’s post is by id
to be coveted. He is often wit!
society for months, exposed to
fever, which the family fly
When they are at the plant
secs little of them, except he i
to dine w ith his employer,
tbit he. mna*. Uc a responsibh
and by no means ignorant. (
this is a generalization —then
ceptions as far as free intei
concerned.
But 1 must hasten over on
the gin house, as yet only oc.
store the “raw material”—ly
in piles like drifts of snow, in
ous rooms. Had we hecu a v
we would have seen the gin
tion; as it was we saw how
teeth caught the fleece, drivir
wards and forwards until
black seeds were left beliii
there was the packing or pi
where the bags were tilled, t
on their travel as we fust i
acquaintance, the cotton o<
numberless rents sustained ii
journey northward.
lift
OBJECTIONS TO LIFE l\
[From tin* wmoikl Annua! Report of the l
of the Southern Mutual Insurance ('om
l at the meeting in Athens, Oct. 8, IKi
Some think they are not
i sure their lives ; but, as tei
j year from a young man, w
thousand dollars to his famil
teen or twenty from an old
no one with health ar.d si
say he is unable to Ja} b}
sum.
Some think they can use t
to more advantage, but
overtake them before any o
merit has had time to accie
a servant, or a dwelling, i
: cotton, is olfered them at
’ which they feel sure they i .
; profitable purchase, let then •
how- often mistakes are mu
| investments, and that it i
best to take at least a port
means and lay it by, in sail
yond the reach of accidental
their families may be sure
ney just now, and thus pi
i matter from day to day, I
attacks them, aud it is too
i for Insurance.
Some have not the mon’
; to insure five or ten thousa
and thus neglect to insure t
i thousand, and leave their
helpless destitution.
Some say their wives are
their insuring their lives, a
euse themselves from perfi
ty which their better judj
them ought to be perform!
those for whose especial 1
designed, are opposed to it
Some think death is so 1
it is idle to look forward
event. But experience t<
death is near to every one
sickness still nearer. Disc
velope itself soon and prev
tabling of a policy of insu i
the insurance is postponed,
ny asks every year a larger
premium, until the rate is -
it deters them from effectin’
ranee.
Some dislike to invest ni
which they are never to
benefit. But if their orpl
or their widowed wives obi
efit of it, what more can th
Some dislike to make a
fearful they will be unabk
ture time to pay the pr
remedy this, our eompat
give anew policy to any
insured for his whole lifi
him tq stop all future pi:
agreeing to give his fain
amount he has hitherto
iniuins, deducting a smn
for expenses of manageni
Some fear that the (
lose their funds by bad
and become bankrupts,
vented by a provision i
requiring all moneys to
State stocks, and other
manent securities, iu which there is i
possibility of loss.
Some fear that the losses of tl
company may be so great that it w i
be unable to pay all its liabilities.-
This is prevented by the rate of pr>
miums, w hich are so adjusted, on tl
basis of a large experience of hums
mortality, that it may be regarded ;
certain that the payments to” the con
pany, and the accumulated interest c
them, will more than pay the sever,
amounts insured.
Some say that Life Insurance is an
ney-making scheme, in which they lei
there is some design to benefit ll
company and injure the insured. Bu
as the company is entirely mutual, ai
has no stockholders except the insure
there are no other persons to reecb
the benefit of any fraud or specul
tion.
Some say that Providence w ill pr
vide for their wives and children aft
their death, and it is their duty to pi
vide for them only’ while alive ai
not afterwards. This is so narrow .
estimate of our duties to those ‘
love, that our sober second thong
cannot indulge in it.
Some say that it is impious to ■
sure one’s life, because no one can i