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i those days.” But the immortal
ppeared ! a sublime era of history
,n the grave of DANIEL WEBSTER
ured the most brilliant segment of the
,ith century. If the existence of genius be
ludy, its death is the inspiration of philosophy,
fn the great democracy of the Tomb, after “life’s
fitful fever, all sleep well.” And still though
dead, there are some, the memory of whose su
pernal greatness is the heirloom of centuries
to follow. Such an one was the New-England
Statesman, now summoned to his last account.
In his views of government, and the policy he
undertook to establish them, sympathy will be
forever denied him at the South, but as a compre
hensive and exalted genius, as a man of iron will,
bold purpose, indomitable energy, rare sagacity,
and a prescience equalled only by that of his stern
rival in the Senate, he commands the wonder of
the civilized world. If we cannot think him a
correct expounder of the Constitution, we will, at
least, acknowledge that unaided and alone, he
might have composed that instrument—if we can
not acknowledge that as a statesman he was with
out blemish and without reproach, we will at
least acknowledge that the subtlety of his politi
cal creed was only rivalled by the grandeur of
the combinations he effected to sustain it, and the
dignity of the object it is probable he was pro
posing to himself. What more can we say of the
Legislator who is dead, but that “death is swal
lowed up of life”—the life and immortality of
fame? In the language of the Memorialist of Ag
ricola, “all of the illustrious departed that gained
our love, and raised our admiration, still subsists,
and will ever subsist, preserved in the minds of
men, the register of ages, and the records of lame.
Others who figured on the stage of life, and were
the worthies of a former day, may sink into the
common lot of oblivion, inglorious and unremem
bered ; whereas, He delineated with truth, and
fairly consigned to posterity, will survive himself ,
and triumph over the injuries of Time.”
BOOK ON AMERICA.
A Mr. Edward Sullivan has recently published,
in London, a somewhat voluminous w'ork upon
this country, crowded with more than the usual
amount of Cockney prejudice and presumption.
There is one chapter, however, upon “Saratoga,”
worth reading. It is so truthful, that we excuse
the spirit in which it is written :
“Saratoga, the Cheltenham of America —though
from the vulgarisms one sees perpetrated there, it
reminds one more of Ramsgate in August—is
the paradise of snobs, and is, without exception,
the most odious place I ever spent twenty-four
hours in. It is famous for some mineral springs,
and crowded during three or four months of the
year with New-York and Boston shop-keepers,
and snobs, dressed within an inch of their lives ;
women in excess of Parisian fashion, with short
sleeves ; men in extra Newmarket and bad Paris
ian style, crammed to the number of three and four
thousand in five or six large hotels, breakfasting
together, dining together at two o’clock, smirking
and flirting the whole lime. The men smoke all
day,swinging in rocking chairs, and squirting to
bacco between their feet, or over their neighbours’
shoulders. The ladies promenade before them,
talking loud and making eyes. Altogether it is
the most forced and least natural state of society I
ever saw. It is the quintescence of snobism, beat-
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
ing Ramsgate or Margate in August. In the lat
ter places the cockneys have no preference what
ever, but eat shrimps out of strawberry pot lies,
and bury themselves in the sand, because they re
ally enjoy it, and don’t care sixpence what other
people think of them ; whereas, at Saratoga, it a
lady were to go to dinner in a morning dress, or a
gentleman to walk about in a shooting jacket, pub
lic opinion w'ould be so strong against them, that
their friends, if they had any, would have to cut
them.”
g of 6to^^lp.
A Medley.
We regret to say it, but we do believe that the
majority of mankind are as blind to the poetry of
the world, the poetry of its mountains, and lakes,
and oceans—the poetry of its stupendous powers
and magical variety of beauties, as if they were
working in a treadmill, and had no opportunity
to think of any thing but being “up to time !”
Some are struggling for existence, some lor luxu
ries, and some again labour like the white slaves
of Low'ell, (whose condition we w’ould observe
en passant, demands the pathetic pen of Mrs.
Stowe,) merely that they may wallow in gold,
that hard, bright, divine ore, which they fondle,
and hug, and gloat upon, till the human being be
comes a metallic reflector, whose every look, place
jt where you will, mirrors only the state of
the market, and the eternal metamorphoses of
“ ’Change.” Os these three classes, the first are to
be respected or—pitied ; the second to be con
demned ; and the third ! the sooner they are lock
ed up with their money bags in a cellar, or a mad
house, the better for their lellow-creatures and
themselves. And thus the earth has been going
on for a couple of thousand years! Philanthro
pists, (we don’t allude to Mrs. Stowe, whom we
distinctly wish it to be understood w r e regard as
an unfortunate female, who in most of her views
and opinions “lies—under a mistake”) philanthro
pists, are almost tempted to pray that it w'ould
stop. And, by the way, how grand a confusion
such an event would cause ! Can imagination
conceive a more remarkable picture than that,
which such a state of things would be likely to
present? Let our readers think of it. For our
selves, we would be content that the w r ORLb
should proceed in the old way, if some of the
people in it could only be induced to stop their
ways, or at least mend them. As “Festus” says,
even the
“lioad to toants mending .”
A Single Idea.
Under this caption, we find in the Louisiana
Spectator the following remarks, attributed to
William Stark:
“It came from New'ton as he lay under the tree;
and all the stars in heaven and the sun itself yield
ed obedience. It came to W att as he thought of
the separate condenser, and an army of cranks
and wheels more numerous than the countless
hosts, that sung psalms before the holy city, have
this day sung his praises. It came to Fulton as
he thought of the paddle-wheel, and every river
and every sea is now blossoming with the flowers
of genius. It came to Franklin as he thought of
the kite, and the very lightnings came down from
their thrones to do him honour. It came to Ba
con as he thought of the inductive system, and the
whole mental world leaped into anew existence.
Philosophy turned from her beaten paths and fol
lowed him as a dog would follow’ its master; the
physical world awoke. There came a voice from
every drop in the salt ocean, and from every rock
on the broad land—from every trembling star
above us, and from every sleeping fossil beneath ;
and rock, star and dew drop, cloud, fish and fos
sil, all found tongues and voices to proclaim his
praise.”
This is certainly an eloquent extract; the obser
vations are just and forcible, with but one excep
tion, and that is where “an army of cranks and
wheels” are spoken of as “more numerous than
the countless hosts that sung psalms before the
Holy city.” This juxtaposition of totally irrele
vant ideas is bathetic, and destroys, to a certain
extent, the symmetry and power of the whole pas
sage. Truly, there is but one step from the sub
lime to the ridiculous.
Characteristic Anecdote.
How little we can judge of men by the “out
ward seeming,” is proved by the incidents of every
day life; but it is almost impossible to convince
persons generally of this fact. Here is an anec
dote of Beau Brummell, which is in point:
Lady Hester Stanhope says of him—“He was
no fool. I recollect liis once saying to me, in
Bond-street, riding with his bridle between his fore
finger and thumb, as if he held a pinch of snuff,
“Dear creature! who is that man you were
talking to just now ?”
“Why,” 1 answered, “that is Colonel .”
“Colonel what?” said he, in his peculiar man
ner, “who ever heard of his father ?”
“And who ever heard of George Brummel’s
father ?” replied I.
“Ah ! Lady Hester,” he rejoined, half seriously,
“who, indeed, ever heard of George B’s. father,
and who would have ever heard of George B.
himself, if he had been any thing but what he is ?
But you know, my dear Lady Hester, it is my
folly that is the making of me. If I did not im
pertinently stare Duchesses out of countenance,
and nod over my shoulder to a Prince, I should be
forgotten in a week ; and if the world is so silly
as to admire my absurdities, you and I may know
better, but what does that signify ?”
Devotional.
Grace Greenwood says that in the English Par
ish Churches, her “most gracious Majesty” is
mentioned more frequently than Christ, and that
the reverence paid to her, seems to be at least as
great as that displayed towards the Lord!
Eastern News.
We see by the New-York Su7i, that letters
from Constantinople state that the Sultan was so
seriously ill, that but little hope of his recovery
was entertained. The Shah of Persia is also said
to be “laid up,” though not like his illustrious con
temporary, in “the course of nature.” On the
contrary, he has nearly been subjected to a most
“unnatural murder .” While engaged in hunt
ing, four men approached him under pretence of
presenting a petition, which, with the usual dislike
of Eastern rulers to be interrupted in their sports,he
refused to examine. Upon this his horse was seized,
and two double barrelled pistols discharged at the
rider, three of which took effect in the thigh, and
one in the mouth. Notwithstanding these wounds,
the Shah kept his assailants off until the arrival of
his retinue, put a stop to the conflict. Two of the
assassins were cut to pieces, and the others taken
into custody. These stated that they belonged to
[' October 30)