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pcuotet* to Citcraturc, Science, anb ‘Art, tl)e oons of temperance, ©bb ixllocnslpp, ittasonrn, nnb ©cncral Sntdliiyctue. VOLUME I. s Ei,E; ig T e: m 5? o £ wx?. = TH£ DEATH OF RICHARD HENRY WILDE. BT A. F. MEEK. The harp that sang “ the Summer Rose,” [ n strains so sweetly and so well, That, soft as clews at evening’s close, The pure and liquid numbers fell, t j lUS lied and shattered ! now no more j t g silvery chords their music pour ; lhit crushed by an untimely blow, lloth Harp and flower in dust lie low ! The bard! —alas, I knew him well! V noble, generous, gentle heart, Which as his brave hand struck the shell, Poured feelings through the veins of Art What radiant beauty ’round his lyre ! pure as his loved Italian fire ! jle caught the sweetest beams of rhyme, — Ti ie Tasso of our Western clime! Kor this alone ; a loftier power, That shone in halls of High Decree, And swayed the feelings of the hour, As summer winds, the rippled sea, — Bright eloquence ! to him was given, The spark, the Prophet drew from Heaven! It touched his lips with patriot flame, And shed a halo ’round his name ! As late 1 saw, I see him now ! His stalwart form, his graceful mien, His long, white locks, his smiling brow, His eyes benignant and serene! How pleasant ’round the social hearth, When listening to his tones of mirth ! What lessons of the good and true, The brave, the beautiful, he drew ! Drop down thy willows, Southern land! Thy bard, thine orator is dead, He sleeps where broad magnolias stand, With “ Summer roses” o’er his head! The lordly River, sweeping by, Curves ’round his grave, with solemn sigh, \nt], from yon twinkling orange stem, The “ Mock-Bird ” pours his requiem! Bard of the South ! —the “ Summer Rose ” Mar perish with the “ Autumn leaf,” The “footprints left on Tampa’s” shores May vanish with a date ns brief: But thine shall be the “life” of fame, No winter winds can wreck thy name ; And future minstrels shall rehearse Thy virtues, in memorial verse! SI&SSf fllli. AUNT HANNAH. “There is something 1 want you to tell me aunt,” said Eliza Herbert, a girl of fourteen, and she drew a stool close to her aunt’s feet, and leaned her head in her lap so that a whole cloud of nut brown curls fell over her black silk apron. “What is it?” said her aunt, passing her hand caressingly over the fair forehead upraised to hers. “lam almost afraid to ask,” said Eliza, “but I want you to tell me why you, who are so good ind so handsome, and so accomplished and pleas iiur, were never married ? ” A slight tlush was for a moment perceptible on Aunt Hannah’s cheek, which might have been oc casioned by Eliza’s compliment to her beauties and good qualities, or the consciousness of the ridicule which a certain class attached to the ap pellation of old maid. It might too have been caused by a blending of all these, or by certain memories which the question called up. She re mained silent for a few moments, and then said, “ 1 will tell you Eliza—l never had an offer that exactly suited me.’ “ w strange ! ” said Eliza, “ when you are so easy to please, and are so keen sighted to every hnly s virtues, and so blind to their faults ! Now there is Aunt Margaret, who is not half as pretty as you are, married one of the best, the hand somest and the most noble-looking men in the orld. Come, aunt, do tell me all about it, for 1 am tiredot my piano, my worsted-work and my hook.” M\ hie has been a very quiet, uneventful oa A a unt Hannah, “and would, lam > mj -ke a. dull story ; but I will tell ymu about S °™ e ( car fiends of mine, if that will do.” yes,” said Eliza, “that will be the next honr Ul '*V° faring about yourself. There, I difference,” 1 COmill S 5 but tbat need make no i^ ailts me to tell her a story, sister,” cl, -,. ) miah > as Mrs. Herbert took her ac hot! f llll in' lt 1 10 Preside ; “ and i have prom ()j(j 101 about some old friends. It is an m,' 01 ’ t 0 3’ ou j so you can prompt me if I make man Y mistakes.” “ Certainly.” ll nc °j m ) r friends,” said Aunt Hannah, ,y la -ff call Isabel, was the youngest of a } le ct ol daughters. Her form was slight, callo ? rnp exion deli cate,and she might have been sisto • J lUcrest^n g rather than handsome. Her L tto l i V ‘f 0 ’ two years older, some people called Tp lookln g’ though i n 11 bett ® r looking? ” said Mrs. Herbert, breaking tenvn ° n 1Gr ’ ** ske was the most beautiful girl in li > )tt beauty was her least charm.” “I believe you exaggerate a little sister,” said Aunt Hannah. “ When Isabel was sixteen and Kate eighteen, one Leonard Frankland, a young merchant, came to reside in the place. He soon became intimate with their brother, who used of ten to invite him home to take tea or spend the evening. He was—that is, most persons thought him singularly handsome, and that his manners were peculiarly attractive. It was not long be fore it began to be whispered in the family, and among their more intimate acquaintances, that he was partial to Kate. Kate was not so blind as not to perceive it herself, and but for one thing it would have made her the happiest girl that ever lived. She from the first had seen that Isabel, though unconscious of it herself, had given her heart to the fascinating Frankland ; so she made up he r mind to sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of this dear sister. It was very hard for poor Kate ; but she had more confidence in her own strength, both moral and physical than she had in Isabel’s ; she felt that she would be able to rise from the blow, and ultimately to have the power of being tranquil and even happy. — But Isabel, so frail and so delicate, she knew that it would kill her to see the chosen of her heart forever lost to her.” “ But if Leonard Frankland liked Kate best,” said Eliza, “ then there must have been a double sacrifice.” “ He liked her best at first,” said Aunt Hannah, “} T et there was a gentleness, a loss of self-reli ance in the character of Isabel, that needed only to be discovered by such a person as Leonard Frankland to excite an interest which might soon ripen into love. I believe, indeed that it is not uncommon for men who are remarkable for spirit and energy, to be better pleased with those whose more prominent traits are softness and delicacy, rather than those similar to their own. “ Kate affected, more independence and vivac ity than would have been natural to her, even had her heart been at ease ; and she soon found that it began to have the effect she desired. Such unrestrained exuberance of spirits offended the taste of Frankland, and he often turned from the brilliant and sparkling Kate to contempla!e the serene loveliness of Isabel. If he could only have seen the anguish that lay concealed beneath the mask of smiles which she constantly wore—if he had known how difficult it sometimes was for her to prevent the gay notes of some lively song, as she appearrd carelessly to warble them, from breaking into the moans of agony —but he neither saw nor knew—he never knew, so well did she act her part, that he was never otherwise than perfectly indifferent to her.” “ And did Isabel know ? ” said Eliza. “ Never —it would have poisoned all her happi ness, for she was tenderlv attached to her sister.” “ I am glad that she did not,” said Eliza ; “il would have been so selfish and ungenerous in her if she had, to have received Leonard Frank land’s attentions.” “ Kate did not miscalculate her own strength ; and when one evening Isabel folded her arms around her, and told her that she was the affi anced bride of Leonard Frankland, she felt calm and satisfied. How indeed could she feel other wise, when she knew that had she herself been Frankland’s bride, she must have turned from the altar to stand beside a sister’s grave ? “ How,” thought she, “ could I ever have looked on my wedding robe without imagining it to be stained with the drops wrung from a broken heart ? ” “ And were Frankland and Isabel happy,” said Eliza, “ after they were married ? ” “ Yes, as happy as it is possible to be in a life where we can drink of no cup that is not dashed with gall, and wear no flower that does not con ceal either worm or the thorn. “ Are they still living aunt ? ” “ Yes, and surrounded by a group of lovely and happy children.” “I hope that dear Kate was married to some body that she liked a great deal better than she ever did Leonard Frankland.” “ That would have been impossible —so she never married.” “ What! did such a lively, handsome girl as Kate, without a bit of starch in her, live an old maid ? ” u And what could she find to do to make her time pass pleasantly ? ” u What docs your Aunt Hannah find to do . said her mother. “ Oh ! Aunt Hannah is different irom othei s i n ole ladies. If she had been married 1 don’t know what I should have done, for if I have a new dress to make she always assists me ; it any music or drawing perplexes me, she knows how to put me right ; and if I am sick she nurses me. And then, } T ou know, that when }ou ant father want to go on a journey, she always keepb house for you, so that, you never feel uneasy about the children while you are absent. It was the luckiest thing in the world for us, and Aunt Mar-. SAVANNAH, GA„ THURSDAY, JULY 19, 1849. garet Waldron too, that Aunt Hannah remained single.” “ Then you are glad that your aunt never mar ried ? ” said Mrs. Herbert. “ I am sure I have reasons to be,” replied Eliza, “and so have you—haven’t you, aunt?” “ Yes, reasons to be glad and thankful too.” “ I knew so, for there is no other station in the world that you would be so happy to yourself, or make others so happy.” “It is not the station that has made } f our aunt so happy,” said Mrs. Herbert; “but because she early found out the true secret of happiness.” “And what is the secret, mother ? ” “ In whatever situation you are in, to be there with content.” “ I would give almost anything to see Kate and her sister, and Leonard Frankland. I don't be lieve he was so handsome a man as uncle Wal dron is—was he, aunt?” “ Yes, lie was handsomer than your Uncle Wal dron is now ; for Leonard Frankland was then in his prime.” “ I wish you would tell me who Kate really was,” said Eliza. . Her mother smiled and looked significantly toward Aunt Hannah. Eliza sprang up from the stool at her aunt’s feet, and threw her arms round her neck. “ Why, how stupid I was not to guess it was you all the time ! ” said she, “ I might have known that there was not another person in the world beside dear Aunt Hannah who would have acted so nobly and generously as Kate. And now I know too that Leonard Frankland and Isa bel were Uncle and Aunt Waldron. (From the Literary World.) NEGRO MINSTRELSY. “Progress of the age” is nowadays the topic in enabling editors, orators, satirists, and schoolboys to drown various ideas in ink and spread them on paper to dry. From steam down to the sewing machine (not to pass over railroads or the magnetic telegraph in a slighting manner,) all the novelties and phases of the age are put into rhetorical har ness in this connection and galloped through the land. We don’t know whether negro Minstrelsy be entitled to go down to posterity noticed under favor of the catalogue of progress; } T et are we disposed to book it for a short journey. There are yet living many of the members of the old Park Pit, whose mouth muscles (our med cal glossary is stolen since the Cholera set in) con vulsively twitch at remembrance of the electric effect produced upon them on a benefit night by the volunteer appearance of Jim Crow Rice, who “ turned about and wheeled about” in so horrid a manner thatfvhe respectable bass-vial of the res pectable ocliestra broke all its strings (blood ves sels to all intents and purposes) in an attempt to groan a double G. Men had three or four times before this, perhaps oftener, blackened their faces and sung negro songs upon theatrical boards at sundry places in and about the St. Giles of Goth am, and dignity had got wind of the thing through the medium of handbills and placards; but here was the thing itself and on the Park boards!— One would have thought that .Tim Crow was a monster ol’ such hideous mien As to be dreaded needed only to be seen , yet in accordance with some such curious fancy as would make the lovely Desdemona in the Dus seldrof Exhibition enamored of the cottonplanting negro before her Othello, the people began to show a decided predilection for “colored melody,” and Negro Minstrelsy soon rallied about itself a large and thriving family. Zip Coon and Jim along Josey were strong boys, but died early. — They were not missed. The void their untimely decease occasioned was supplied by hundreds of others who sprung from the print shops and mu sic counters of the land, like the armed men of old, and in the same manner often materially interfer ed with each others peaceable existence. Negro minitrelsy was soon studied as an art. Its professors made a trade of it and formed partner ships. They serenaded on Irish principles, the serenades coming and going for their dose instead of the serenades bringing it to them. It even traveled to England, and made the Queen clap her delicate hands in appreeiatien of the molody of “ De ole jaw bone,” or weep in commiseration of the sufferings of “ Lucy Neal ” and the hungry trials of the venerable “ Dan Tucker.” It did what the census takers never could have accom plished, in furnishing the available quantity of banjo-players and hone-crackers in this sovereign republic. It founded an Odd Fellow Lodge of melody throughout the land. The whistle of a few bars in “ (Join ober de mountain,” was a Ma sonic pass-word to the Western emigrant. The Portland boy who a week-day night, had learned from Durnbolton’s band in the meeting-house near his homestead, did not feel as among strangers when traversing a western prairie, a forlorn emi grant, he halted by log-huts and heard negro melodies quavered by the tongue of a wood chop per. Negro minstrelsy very soon afier its birth bc came harmonious in prosaics. It formed press gangs to force into service all the con umd rums latent in the head pf scratching youth, or floating through an atmosphere already heavy with truant jokes of Brother Jonathan. From a press ganr tyrant it became a generous merchant, and re warded fun with varieties of silver goblets after most honorable public proposals. It stopped not at originality. It did not disdain parody. It be came dramatic. Fr-m ‘vfug n great* tourist it settled down into residence. It invaded a ball which bad been solemnly set apart for purposes of education ; ami has lived there for more than a year. It under mined the New York Society Library. It alterna ted at the Tabernacle with the eloquence of di vines and the potential baton of M. Maretzek. It, drove Macready by the magic wave of a legal agreement, from the lecture room of the Stuvves ant Institute. It settled under the classic drape ries oi the Apollo Saloon, a place so long dear to Gothamites as being sacred to Terpsichore and St. Celia. It struck down the angry wave of fashion’s wand and laid itself to slumber upon grand pianos in luxurous drawing-rooms. The worshipers of Yon Weber, Kossini, Auber, Belini, and Donizetti, became nervous. Musical doctors trembled like Noah Webster when he first heard of Phonography. Negro minstrelsy was spoiling the public ear ; vitiating the public taste. If you asked What was this great commotion The country through ? Pat came the answer:— It is the ball a rolling on For Dumbolton and Christy too. And with them we’ll lead the van. But soon, like the weathercock which on an April day has spun to all points of the compass, and finally settles itself due SW., negro minstrelsy lost its fascinating and variable novelty and re turned to its original haunts ; there to convulse the b’hoys and their sempstress sweethearts with bones and statue dances, burlesque operas, and parodies (humorous to the death) of airs which issued from the windows of exclusive parvenus. It became mere music for the million, because, like Scrooge’s darkness, it was cheap ; and be cause, too, it was a most piquant dessert to come in after the common potatoes of everyday life. Like all other music, “ colored melody” most certainly has its school, and its harmonies their appropriate classification. If we were called upon to designate any particular character it pos ssessed, we should give it that of sarcasm. With all his pathos, with all his humor, with all his af fectation of unsophistication, with all his frank sincerity, your grinning negro minstrel is cruelly sarcastic, and cuts and slashes his best heroes and heroines with cool discrimination. That is an other reason why his music has settled down as the favored of the million. The latter love sar casm. Do you doubt it?—visit the Five Points —hang round the dog fights ; inquire the cause of the applause which shakes the very rafters of the Chatham, when the thin gentleman in the pink cravat points at the lady in blue flounces and shows bis white teeth to the angry old ’un in the plethoric waistcoat who officiates as uncle in taking care of affection’s pledge; analyse a hoarding school fisticuff; and you will discover how truth ful we are in this instance. As “ music for the million ” negro minstrelsy is harmless enjoyment. It has little of refined taste in music to vitiate. It is satisfactory to its peculiar votaries, and prevents indigestion from peanuts, (since who ever heard of shell breaking interfer ing with the banjo or the uproarious cuffee chorus !) and thus it would be impolitic as well as selfish to gainsay its virtues or advantages. But using the critic’s privilege of publicly expressing a private opinion, we say with King Alfourite, in Blanche’s clever burlettaof “ Fortunio,” alter die great court song: — “ This may be music for tlio million ; burly burling, We will not hear it for a million sterling.” Sub-Rosa. —This compound word is olten used in writing and conversation as significant ol seciesv. It is said that its derivation is as follows : anciently the Greeks consecrated the rose to Hippocrates, the genius of silence. And either the rose or its representation was placed upon the ceilingof their dining rooms, implying that whatever was done therein should be kept from public knowledge.— It was done sub-rosa, or under the rose. The Power of Reflection. —The most extraordi nary thing in Gin Palaces, notwithstanding the profusion of every known and unknown ornament, is the absence of mirrors. This may be accoun ted for by the fact that publicans are well aware that, if a drunkard could only see himself, he. would immediately turn away in horror from the glass. — Punch NUMBER 20,