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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