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VOLUME 11,
Irlertrit pnrtnj.
TWILIGHT MEMORIS3.
BY C. F. STERLING.
‘ ;t , falls the evening curtain the dim
landscape o’er,
„,] from the dark’ning window we musing
ffU ze no more ;
c
ipjjt-a hears the list’ner, only the breathing
winds go by,
With ounds like mournful music from the
spirits of the skv,
storm foretelljug murmurs upon some
distant shore,
Vv here boating and retreating, the ceaseless
billows pour —
Or ere the lighted candle shines for the
sunken sun,
•■ ilbvthe flick’ring- firelight, we sit, our
labors done;
T| jcn ’tis the memory passeth far back
through lengthened years,
‘ad to our sight u; vise tho loved forms we
mourn in tears —
Old scenes of childhood’s pleasure, when
bv the parlor fire,
I n even such a twilight, sate mother, son
and sire;
Side listViug to some story the father told
the child ;
Os what had been on earth done, of won
drous and of wild ;
Ha Robert Kidd the pirate had sailed
along the shore,
Ar.J hr* his ghostly semblance keeps guard
h : .s treasures o’er ;
Or if the olden war time—revolutionary
days,
ITiien tyrant bands of red coats marched
o’er the king’s highways;
[low men rose up opposing, and fought on
Bunker Hill,
lad hand in hand weut ever, against the
royal will;
)■; how, in dead of winter, they camped at
V alley Forge,
While warmly housed in cities the army of
King George.*
We limey that we hear him, in simple par
lance tell,
Those tales of days of trial we loved to hear
so well.
We think we hear again, too, the solemn
evening psalm.
The S ibbatli psuiin atßight, of spirits pure
and calm.
Ore mes, of seasons later, sonio dim re
membrance sweet.
Os eves we used tu gaze in, of iips wo j
laved to greet,
( i w:\ml whisp’ring voices, nr.d gently
brushing curls,
(': -ft mid pleasant laughter, from snowy
breasted girl?,
Or comes some gay assemblage, where
grace and beauty throng,
Ai.d wit gives zest and sparkle to music,
wine and song!
And often memory ehangeth the scene, and
all is drear,
Wi ‘ unis of mourners passing weep o’er
the loved and dear;
They p-ss on I —and they pass on I —How
numerous are the trains!
’ r.—sister—wife, and brother —sire, moth
er! Who remains ?
dins inem’ry recreateth, at twilight’s hour,
1 1 -' y, •
And holds apart tho veilings that time hath
o’er it cast.
•o the hour to linger, when thus at my
command
1; ‘ spirit rauks come gathering, to people
fain - land;
not with every sunset my soul is clothed
‘vitli power
1 the past returning, a present liv
mg—hour;
‘ v hen Melancholy leads me, with IVlem ry,
ky the hand,
‘ ‘ ll only, may I visit the pleasant spit it
I find;
lltl them full oft I wander amid the scenes
I. youth
’ lth ! ®g-loved friends communing in spirit
, a nd in t mt h.
i J this blest hour ever to continue thus
“^niy-yearning fancy my life’s delight
spring.
iec bll the old age twilight foretells its set
ting sun,
Ar d the dark day allotted on earth for ever
done,
% 1 retrace the pathway I trod so long
, a go,
s’e yet I knew life’s fulness of weariness
and woe.
-A Good Response. —I observed
T'May to the Duke of Mantua,
jester whom he retain
in his service was a fellow of no
Wlt n ° r humor:—“ Your grace must
I think he has a deal
v,l h who can live by a trade he
B" 3 not understand. —JDu Terr on.
lU'uutrti in Statius, stimt nnii Irt, tije Inns nf dr'rmpmmrr, /rllnttisjiip, ailnsiinnj ntrh (grttfrnl fMitrlligrnrp
(Original Cab.
A TALK WITH THE BOOKS.
’ BY S. Y. L.
Recitation was finished and most
of the class sought repose and re
fuge from the noon heat of a June
day in their rooms ; as forme, I re
tired to the library, and taking a
book, (I think it was Rasscfas) I sat
me down in one of the arched al
coves, in the easy cushioned arm
chair, and courted the mesmeric in
fluence of old Dr. Johnson’s Nor
man style. Tlow well I remember
that day ! the large window was
opened, disclosing a beautiful coun
try, whose silvery streams leaped
up to embrace the flowers that bent
over to kiss their dimpling waves.
The cool south breeze was blowing
O
on me, laden with a thousand per
fumes, which it had snatched from
the breath of the flowers, and a
buzzing, drouning sound was in my
ears, the precursor of sleep. Soon
the letters of the page began to as
sume all kind of odd shapes; they
shrunk, some of them to the size of
dwarfs, while the capitals swelled to
mighty and ferocious giants, which
seemed about to tumble over and
crush their ill fated comrades under
their ponderous weight; then they
all mixed together as if engaged in
mortal and desperate encounter;
then they grew dimmer and dim
mer, until when I made a great ef
fort to decipher the word “ Rasse
las ” and failed, they disappeared
altogether, and I was asleep ; and
then I had the queerest dream that
ever issued from the ivory gates of
dream-land.
I thought it was night and that I
was sitting on the long mahogany
table in the centre of the hall, and
looking round on the books I was
pondering on the anxieties and dis
appointments of the author’s life.
“Yes,” 1 murmured, apostrophizing
the volumes, “ye children of un
happy fathers ! in what want, sor
row and bitterness were ye brought
forth ! With what care were ye
fostered, with what anxiety correc
ted ! What weary days and sleep
less nights were devoted to your ex
istenee ! And for what? To over
throw in the end the hopes of those
who gave you birth ! To fill up
their hearts with disappointment,
despair, and sorrow.”
How long I might have indulged
in this doleful strain 1 know liot; it
was brought to a close by my see
ing the whole library suddenly light
ed as it were by thousands of wax
candles, which so astonished me
that I merely rubbed my eyes and
let my tongue rest. But then came
the most curious phenomenon of all;
every book in the hall seemed in
stinct with life ; they assumed hu
man figures, and leaving the shelves
descended to the floor. The beau
tiful miniature editions of the poets,
clad in purple and green, assumed
wings and flew about the room, sing
ing most harmoniously 7, and the
gold of the binding seemed to turn
to hair, and streamed behind in
long yellow ringlets. Large folios
had left their places and were stump
in” about, casting surlv and forbid
ding glances to the right and left ;
and I saw one old weazen-faced fel
low that I was certain had been
bound in parchment, cautioning a
young lady who was dressed in the
muslin with which they bind novels,
to be very careful how she tripped
along, and not step on his corns
again ; finishing his lecture with
complaining that the young books
of the day had very little respect
for the old ones ; whereupon Miss
turned pertly to her servant (who
was very indecently dressed in
brown paper, and whom, as I after-
SAVANNAH, GA., SATURDAY, APRIL 27, 1850.
wards found out, was a review,) and
said “ she could’iit imagine why
old and unfashionable people did’nt
stay at home, and not come into
company to plague young ones;
she was sure they ought to be satis
fied with the comforts of the lowest
shelf, while she and her compan
ions had to clamber up to the sixth ;”
and she ended by telling the ser
vant “ for heaven sake to keep the
old grumbler out of the wiy, as she
really had no patience with him.”
Sorry for the old book, I asked an oc
tavo near me who it was. “ His
name,” answered he, “ is Albertus
Magnus, and he is about the oldest
of the editions.” Then seeing that
I was about to speak to Albertus,
he put his finger on my arm and
said mysteriously, “Hush! don’t
speak to him. He is a cross, ill
grained fellow, and has besides an
ill reputation.” Then putting his
mouth to my ear he whispered tri
umphantly, “He is a wizard! a
magician ! ! don’t be seen near
him.” While I was still uncertain
what to do in thiscase. mv alien
-7 %/
lion was attracted to two books
dressed in calfskin, which walked
past each other, up and down the
hall; and whenever they met thev
curled their lips and looked so
spitefully at each other, that J ex
pected nothing else than that they 7
would come to blows. I asked
my companion (whom I afterwards
found to be a catalogue) who they
were. “ Ah,” said he, “ you may
well ask ! They are a disgrace to
the place ; always wrangling and
fighting. That one is Raley, and
that Hume. They belong to fac
tions here. On one side there are
Paley, Butler’s Analogy, and some
others; and on the other Hume,
Paine’s Age of Reason, Voltaire,
and a host more. Have nothing to
do with them Sir, they will bring
trouble on your hands.” I prom
ised him that I would not. “ But
who,” I asked, “is that interesting
looking book that they are trying to
stave off on each other ? ”
“Ah,” answered he, “that is
poor Shelly ! You know Shelly !
1 have stood upon my shelf and
seen you read him for hours. He
is a clever fellow, but Queen Mab
ruined him. Would you believe it
Sir, those blockheads are stupid
enough to say that Mab is an infidel
poem ? ”
1 thought it was myself, but it
was not advisable to say so then, so
I raised my bands in astonishment
and said “ Is it possible ? ”
“It is Sir,” answered my Cice
rone, “ but you may search through
the Poem, and in no place will you
find anything to back the assertion.
He only says, ‘I believe in a Su
preme Author, but do not believe
him to be such as you describe,’ ”
I felt sorry for poor Shelly, he
looked so careworn ; and directly
I saw a handsomely dressed book
that I knew was Byron, go to him,
and putting an arm round his waist,
led him to a window where they be
gan to converse very earnestly.
Suddenly the catalogue burst in
to a loud laugh, “ Look yonder,”
said he, “ there is the cheap litera
ture ; the Lazzaroni among the
books.” I looked, and to my as
tonishment saw an immense num
ber of emaciated figures, clad .in
brown, blue, yellow and red paper.
They were rushing about, and in
sanely running against each other,
as if blind ; and numbers of them
were knocked down and trampled
under foot. My director showed
me the cause in the persons of six
or seven reviews, which armed with
cat-o’-nine-tails were striking right
and left. I was much shocked at
the light drapery these Lazzaroni
books wore, and consulted the cat-
alogue as to the cause. “ Bless
you,” he answered, “it just suits
them ! they have no bodies, no
substance. They are light as air !
Paupers ! Fellows that live by beg
ging quarters of a dollar ! ” Op
posite to these were conversing a
number of dry, grave looking old
fellows, clad in yellow calf skin,
whom the vagabonds would very
; much annoy by butting against them
in their erratic course. On askin”
CJ
their names, “Is it possible,” said
my friend, “ that you are not ac
quainted with their Honors, Black
stone, Chitty, Coke upon Littleton,
Fleta and the others ? Sir, I feel
ashamed of you.” I was so clashed
by this rebuke that I did not answer,
but I saw that Blackstone was in a
furious passion with the vagrant
novels ; he frowned, stamped, and
once I thought f saw him double his
fist, but I may 7 have been mistaken.
My guide now offered to take
me round and introduce me to some
of the nobility of books, “ There
sir,” said he pointing, “ is a power
ful novel, he dressed in green and
gold; and would you believe it,”
lowering his voice to a confiden
tial tone, “in addition to his fine
costume, he is throughout embel
lished with fine steel engravings.”
I expressed my astonishment and
admiration in suitable terms, but
as we advanced nearer I recog
nized the noble book’s face as
one I knew right well, and I flew
to embrace him. “Ah my dear
Shakspeare ! ” I exclaimed, “ dear
old friend, truly art thou one of the
book aristocracy ; why thou and I
are old companions and need no
introduction ! ” I shook hands very
heartily with him and turired to
the rest of the group, all of whom
I found I knew. There was Don
Quixote (who wore upon his breast
a likeness of Cervantes) there was
that sly blade Gil Bias; there was
that eccentric and involuntary her
mit Robinson Crusoe ; and a host
cf others, too numerous to men
tion. I sat next to Shakspeare, and
taking his hand in mine, “How
arc you getting on good friend? ”
I said, “ Does the world use you
well ? ”
Shakspeare heaved a sigh and
shook his head, but Don Quixote
answered sadly:
“Ah Sir! the noble book has
been shamefully treated.”
“ How ! ” I said indignantly,
has any critic been daring enough—*’
“ No, no ! ” answered Shaks
peare, “ ’tis the actors, the actors
that have been playing the devil with
me. Sir, they murder me, they cut
me to pieces. See here ! ” and the
noble book made a grab and caught
a newspaper; that spreading its
huge wings was making frantic but
futile efforts to fly ; so dull and
heavy was the matter that com
posed it, that it was weighed down
to earth. Shakspeare dragged it
forward, and pointing to an article
headed “ Theatre,” which showed
conspicuously on the paper’s wing,
told me to read a paragraph of it.
I obeyed, and read as follows :
“ But grent as was Mr* Ranter's
acting, it sunk to nullity in comparison
to the air with which he repeated that
sublime sentence of the poet, ‘ Os with
his head ! so much for Buckingham ! ’ ”
“ Now,” said the book in uncon
trollable excitement and indigna
nation, “now look at me; look
through me and see if you can find
such a sentence. No Sir, not in
me, nor in my father, nor my 7 grand
father, nor in any of my ancestors
up to the time when our founder
emanated from the immortal mind
of the poet, will you find such abom
inable trash as that sentence is ! ”
“ Ah,” said a very plainly dressed
book, “ they make innovations on
us ail, and we must submit.” —
Snakspeare bowed low and said,
“Ifyou father do not revile them
for so doing, I should not.”
I asked the catalogue who was
that much honored book, and why
he was so plainly dressed. “Ah,”
he answered, “’lisa noble family,
but. much •impoverished. It is Ho
mer, and there next to him is the
iEneid and Horace. A poor family,
Sir, but very noble.” - *
“ Noble Shakspeare,” said Ho
mer, “ they not only make innova
tions on us, but they put us in the
hands of school boys, who rack us
and torment us without cause ; who
not only detract from our internal
worth, but take a diabolical pleas
ure in marking our clothes. My
father told me that a school boy
ripped off bis coat one day in a fit
of passion, because he could’nt read
him, and he, my father, was con
strained to undergo again the pain
ful process of binding.”
“And what mattered it,” said a
grave looking book, “what matteied
it or much more than it, so that edu
cation, the great index to enlighten
ment might be obtained, and with
enlightenment, civil liberty'? When
by'it, man may attain a higher, no
bler, more godlike state than he pos
sessed before he lost Paradise, the
subjection of his nature to bis mind,
his reason, his moral sense.”
“ Good Milton,” said Shakspeare
with a smile, “you have dealt so
much with the rulers of Heaven, that
you aim at the perfecting of man.—
It is an impossibility: true it is he
may advance to a high point in the
scale, but the very possession of
earthly appetites and material sen
ses drags him back from perfecta
bility.”
“Nay!” said Milton, “the Church
n
“The Church,” repeated Shaks
peare with a shout of laughter,
“ here comes one, who, learned in
such matters, will tell you of the
Christian qualities of the church
and he pointed to a grave, sail look
ing book that advanced. “Sir,”
he continued, turning to me, “this
is the Pandora’s box among us books,
a casket of human sufferings: let
me present you to ‘Fox’s Book of
Martvrs.’ ”
“Gentlemen!” said the book
bowing, “ I have listened to your
conversation in silence till you spoke
of the Church : all denominations,
not content with the increase of
spiritual power, long for the posses
sion of temporal sway. Join church
and state, give to the former the ex
ecutive power that the latter ought
to exercise over it, and I care not
whether it beany of the varied forms
of Protestantism, whether Catholic
or Jew, in bestowing temporal pow
er upon it, you fill with blood the
inkstand of History 7, and add another
chapter to man’s cruelty to his fel
low man. 1 speak nothing strange.
Search the annals of the past, and
see the enormities all men have
perpetrated, led on by the blazing
torches of their passions; and sac
religiously imputing them to their
zeal for that God, who, could not
but have veiled his eyes from the
sight of their devilish barbarities. —
See the thousands of victims of the
inquisition : see Cranmer at the
stake ; see Lawrence writhing on
the gridiron ; see ”
“But,” interrupted Homer, shud
dering, “ this is horrible.”
“Ah!” said Horace, “ our gods
ii
“ Your gods !” thundered Milton,
quivering with indignation, “your
gods were the personification of your
own appetites, which y 7 ou clothed
in beautiful garments and then bow
ed down and worshipped.. Talk not
of your gods.”
“Our faith,” said Apuleius, who
was standing bv, ‘'may have had
its faults, but it also had its beau
ties; not the least of which was its
toleration of the religion of others.”
Cj
“And how can you venture to
affirm,” answered Milton, “that
those tortures you speak of, were
not appointed by Cod himself, for
his own wise purposes? perhaps to
try our fortitude in behalf of love
“for him ? For. misfortunes act on
our natures, as acids on gold—tes
ting purity.”
At this moment, I noticed that all
the hooks suddenly bent low, and
stood in revenential attitudes: tbe
cause of this was the presence of
a book, around which, played a
beautiful and glorious light, which
shed its rays on every volume.
The catalogue murmuring “ The
Bible” bowed low, and 1 did so al
so, a = I recognized the holy volume,
and the book of books spoke :
“ Have l not told you,” it said in
deep and musical tones that thrill’d
on every nerve, “have 1 not told ye
to love your neighbor as yourselves ?
nay, to love those that bated you?
Have I not preached love, peace
and friendship, to the children of
men, and think you that I would
falsify my word ? Oh, wo, wo, un
utterable wo unto those who pro
faned my cause and polluted my
altar with the blood of their fellows !
wo unto them, who defiled the ves
tibule of God’s holy temple with
the torment and the fire !”
“ But, Father!” faltered Milton,
“that time of darkness and cruelty
hath passed, and now man loves
his fellow man.”
“ Nay,” said the Bible, “ it is not
so! men are still the same, and,
were it not that the giant arm of
enlightenment swayed the mass of
earth’s children, the fanatic and big
ot would still wield the torch that
ministered of old to their evil pas
sions.”
I was about to attempt a vindica
tion of my fellows, but Shakspeare
took my arm and we left the group.
“It is useless,” said he, “to at
tempt to oppose facts with theory.
Sow come with me and I will intro
duce you to some kindred spirits.”
He accordingly presented me to
most of the poets, with many of
whom however, I was already ac
quainted: Willi these I conversed
quite pleasantly until two cata
logues, quite genteelly clad in black
muslin, summoned the company to
supper. In we went, and I found
myself seated between Ben John
son and a careless fashionable look
in” book, that Ben introduced to
me as “ Memoirs of the Count do
Grammont.” 1 was very hungry
but found nothing to eat, for the
books’ diet was a queer material
called “public opinion;” and for
dessert they had puffs, which the
Count de Grammont informed me
were furnished by tbe reviews and
newspapers, i found the Count ex
ceedingly pleasant in conversation,
for he had a large budget of gossip
and court scandal.
Suddenly 1 beard Ben Johnson
calling on a book, that sat opposite,
for a story. I asked what w T asthe
Book’s name, and was informed
that he was called, “Diary of Mas
ter Samuel Bepys.” The book very
obligingly consented and was on the
point of beginning bis tale, when a
little personage rose from his seat
and with his face purple with anger
thus addressed me:
“ Howls it,Sir.” said he, “that
you feel so little inlerest in me that
you fall asleep in my company ?
Permit me to tell you that it is not
often thatißasselas is thus.slighted,
and 1 shall demand satisfaction for
an insult so intentional.”
NUMBER 8.