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life-boat and rushed into it regardless of threats,
bribes or promises, and, pushing off in their mad
fear, were soon engulphed, and perished miser
ably in the devouring waters —their shrieks till
ing' the air, and their wild cries for- help, 4 ' pier
cing the heavens.
The Captain, with the aid of Atherton and the
other passengers, secured two lile-boats, and
hastily filled it with the valued and priceless
freight of human life. Weak women, and their
terrified, clinging children were first let down,
with a calm desperation and a terrible forelxi
ding. To this frail bark was entrusted the fate |
of twenty-seven helpless, horror-stricken souls.
The Captain resolved not to leave the boat until
every one on lx>ard was safe, and John Atherton,
with his wife and child, were among the last to
secure places upon the little boat. He placed
them in comparative safety, and rushing back to
procure some slight covering, and other necessa
ries, he placed his foot once more upon she
trembling, riven vessel. He was apparently un
conscious of the real magnitude of his danger;
the sides of the ship were visibly giving way—
the deck seemed to be lifting. One moment
more, and a huge wave dashed over the ship,
and drove the little boat, with furious velocity,
far out into the raging sea. Shrieks of anguish
burst from the horror-stricken wife and daugh
ter, and pierced the heaven with a wild despair.
The husband and the father was seen no more—
his last act had ‘been one of kindness, his last
thought one of love. The ship parted heavily, '
with a loud crash, and amid the roaring of the
winds, and the dashing of the waters, the wreck
was buried in the deep, and not a floating atom
was ever seen afterward.
For days the little boat drifted helplessly before
the wind. The storm had now partially subsi
ded, like some angry spirit, that had spent itself j
by the violence of its own mad fury. The raging !
thirst and frantic craving of the starving sui- 1
ferers Was horrible. No time had been allowed
to provide food and water sufficient for the pre
servation of the hapless beings exposed to all the j
fury of the elements. The last morsel had been
consumed—the last drop of water bad moistened
the palsied lips of the frail females and feeble
children. Many had perished miserably witli
the maddening cry of “water! water!” upon
their parched and stiffened tongues. The feeble
voices of the women had sunk into inaudible j
whispers, and the low wail of iufants and chil
dren had been hushed in death.
The shock to Mrs. Atherton’s mind, by the 1
fearful catastrophe she had and the j
dreadful sufferings she had endured, told upon
her shattered nerves and frame, and she was
among the first of the wretched sufferers com
mitted to a watery grave—not even the thought
of her child could arouse her deadened and
paralyzed faculties. A deep lethargy rested j
upon her exhausted powers, and settled witli
the stillness of death.
Oh! who can depict the horrors of those fear
ful days—the brazen heavens above, the sun
shining down with fierceness upon their uncov
ered heads—the dews of night falling upon their
chilled, unprotected, shivering frames, and the
dreadful torture of hunger and thirst, nearly
maddening the wretched beings. Physical pain
had almost annihilated sense of their calamity
in committing to the deep, the beloved forms of
friends and kindred—and even the hope of res
cue had settled into a dull, listless lethargy and
indifference. Life alone was not extinct; all
else —feeling, hope and memory, lifce the vessel j
that had gone down in darkness, was a complete j
wreck.
On the fourth day, at sunset, a sail was seen
on the horizon, and' soon alter a vessel hove in i
sight, and nearing the little boat, rescued, from |
their perilous position, the wretched sufferers.
Kvcry means was extended to resuscitate their
exhausted powers—wine and food was adminis
tered in sparing quantities to their famishing
lips. Clothing supplied, and the feeble remnant
of the late happy band of passengers of the ill
fated “Sea-Bird” was received on hoard a packet
bound for New York.
chapter v.
■‘Oh, what is there, in all this cheerless life!
What pang in her dark catalogue of strife,
Like that we feel, whene'er we cast our eyes
Upon the heart, that paralytic lies?
So cold, so dead, all antidotes seem rain,
To rouse it into feeling warm again!
What like that dizzy sickness of the soul.
Becalmed on life's dead wave, without a goalt
No drop to cool its thirstings of desi«iir —
No breath to still the pestilential air—
No fanning breeze, its stagnant bark to move—
No haven below—no beacon star above.’’
Among the passengers rescued by the vessel
lfotmd for New York, was our little friend Grace,
but so utter was her exhaustion, that the tiny
thread at her wrist, and the faint fluttering of
her heart were the only tokens that life was not
extinct. Her shrunken figure and little waxen
face was so death-like in its stillness, that the
superstitious sailors hesitated before they con
sented to lift its light weight from the bottom of
the boat. The rough coat of the honest-hearted
mate of the wrecked “ Sea-Bird ” was wrapped
round her, and she was lifted in liis strong arms,
and rested against liis huge breast like a soft
snow flake, lie had been attracted, in the first
days of the wreck, by her gentle, uncomplaining
nature, her unselfishness and heroic self-control:
and her utter hopeless misery when the laxly of
her mother was committed to the deep, smote
his large, manly heart with a keen pang of acute
pain. Ho drew off his rough coat to protect her
from the falling dew, and wrapping her in it, he
continued to watch with the fondness and care
of a parental love. For her, ho deprived himself
of the last hard crust, and magnanimously ab
stained from the last of liis allotted portion of
water, and folding her in his arms, he imparted
to her frame the reviving and sustaining warmth
of his own.
Every means was resorted to by the passen
gers on board to resuscitate her exhausted pow
ers, and to restore life to its frail tenement. —
Cloths wrung out in hot spirits enveloped her
wasted and shrunken limbs, and drops of wine
were poured into her cracked and stiffened lips.
For hours all efforts seemed useless and unavail
ing, and kind hearts and efficient hands minis
tered to her in vain. Their exertions were re
warded at last, and a trembling of the closed
lids and a low, choking sigh was followed by
soft, faint, hut regular breathing. A wan smile
flickered over the vfhitened lips; she slowly un
closed her eyes, and rested them on the sun
burnt, honest countenanco bending over her,
while tile little hand, resting in his coarse palm,
gave a taint returning pressure. From that mo
ment she became his peculiar, sacred charge,
and lie tended her day and night with the gen
tle sympathy of a woman’s loving nature. Be
neath tlmt rough garb beat a heart, whose every
throb was gentleness and compassion.
Wlmt was the secret of the tear that mois
tened his manly, sunburnt cheek? What was it
that gave sottiiess to the touch of his hard,
coarse baud, aud gentleness to the tones of his
deep, harsh voice? What caused him to keep
hourly watch by the cot of the little sufferer, no
ting her flushed, feverish cheek, or low moan,
and stroking hack, with his roughened hand, the
golden hair that encircled her meek brow like a
halo, and fell like a flood, of sunshine, on her
kiss soTfTßc&msr nsu ui rxiubsuix.
pillow? What caused him to bear out upon the
deck so lovingly in liis strong arms the little
wasted figure, with its pallid brow and whitened
lips? What but the memory of just such a bur
den. borne one short year ago, and was not his
own little Jane sleeping by the side of her dead
mother in the green cliureh-yard faraway? Oh!
the human heart has a thousand hidden, quiver
ing strings, and the chord that vibrates clearest
and sweetest and longest is the one swept by
parental love.
As they neared port liis greatest anxiety was.
that she would lje wrested from him by anxious,
loving kindred, or sympathizing friends. How
could lie know that she was all alone in her help
less orphanage ? But was she not his own prize,
did he not find her a pearl amid the ocean, and
should he not claim her as the priceless jewel of
his life, that he was to wear next his'heart in all
coming time? True, liis rough lift? little fitted
him for so gentle a charge, for the tender nur
ture of so frail a flower.
Upon reflection lie resolved to consign her to
the care of others and place her at an institution
for destitute children, fondly hoping, at some fu
ture time to reclaim her to brighten the evening
of his days and solace his declining years. He
left her on liis next as ho thought, com
fortably provided witli a safe and happy home.
Alas! for the joys of such a home. With no
kind parents to whom she was an object of spe
cial love; with no friends to watch over her with
tender solicitude, or to sympathize with her in
her first grief; with even the hope of a return
to her grand-father's home, fading away as day
by day the watched-for tidings failed, her life
glided by, joyless and monotonous.
What was she now, lint number ninety-six, a
helpless incumbrance. The one more for whom
was needed some additional necessary—for whom
was incurred some additional expense. The
poignancy of her late grief had subsided into a
dull, hopeless apathy; it had not even the sooth
ing of resignation—the little worn heart seemed
incapable of further suffering. They err greatly
who say, that childhood is incaple of strong
grief; that its emotions are transient and feeble,
and its sorrows, like its joys, are only excited by
trivial causes.
In her hapless misery she soon became a wea
riness and a burden, and the hope that « change
of scene and of life would restore buoyancy to
her spirits, and interests to her feelings, induced
“the Institution” to place her out at service—
she would, at least, no longer lx- a dead weight
upon their hand. Witli this charitable impulse,
home succeeded hcime in rapid succession, or
rather place after place was vacated—because no
one cared to inquire into the cause of her dejec
tion, or reach the hidden springs of her young
life's sorrow. Harsh hands pressed on the deli
cate strings of her bruised heart, and it sent
forth low wails of suffering. Cold hearts mis
judged and misunderstood the secret of her
stricken features and subdued manner, and cen
sured and distrusted, she was thrust from hand
to hand, from home to home.
[to BE CONCLUDED IN OCR NEXT.]
——
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
A PLETHORA OT HAPPINESS.
BY ANNA CORA RITCHIE.
CHAPTER I.
“ Miss Merriwether, I believe?”
The young lady addressed courtesied assent,
and glanced enquiringly at the speaker. Possi
bly there was an unconscious dash of admiration
in that transient survey. The gentleman who
stood before her was somewhat over six feet in
height. His bearing was remarkably manly—a
mingling of tlie soldier and courtier; jierhaps it
was ratljer too stately, but graceful withal He
had large, hazel eyes, a florid complexion, fault
less mouth and teeth, close-curling, chosnut hair
a moustache and beard of such silken luxuriance
that he could never haw been open to the salu
tation of Diogenes, who accosted a newly shaven
friend witli, “ art thou inclined to reproach Na
ture ? Woulds’t thou insinuate that siie had done
better to have made thee a woman, rattier ttian
a man ?” The beard, which softened and adorned
the tountenanec of Mr. Willington, was evident
ly unprofaned by a razor.
“ I am Angelica Willington’s husband,” was
liis reply to the lady’s look of interrogation.
“Mr.’ Willington! I am delighted to know
you,” exclaimed Ruth Merriwether, extending
her hand witli hearty cordiality.
“Not more delighted than Angelica and I
were when we heard of your unexpected arrival
in Charleston. Angelica is such an invalid that
she did not feci able to call with me, but she
charged me to bring you to her at once.”
“ I shall bo truly rejoiced to see my dear
school-mate again,” answered Ruth. “ But is
Angelica an invalid ? How strange 1 When we
were girls at school together—that’s little more
than six years ago—she was the very realiza
tion of Moore’s
“Young Envoy sent by health,
With rosy gifts upon her cheek.”
She never had an ache or a pain. What ails
her? What is her disease?”
“I really cannot say;” answered Mr. Willing
ton with a sigh; “ and the doctors don’t seem to
know, yet sho is never well—she has lost her
strength and spirits, and is a confirmed invalid.
I should be eternally indebted to any one who
could discover what is the matter with her.”
“ Suppose I try to win that debt of endless
gratitude 1 I have had quite an extensive expe
rience in the sick room. Perhaps I may discov
er her ailment”
Mr. Willington's answering smile was one of
politeness, not a confiding response to Ruth’s
proffer. lie “was too courteous to express his
lack of faith in the skill of this unimposing phy
sician in crinolines.
“ Angelica is anxiously awaiting you; my car
riage is at the door; will you not he ready soon,
Miss Merriwether?”
Ruth’s preparations were few, and rapidly
made. The quickness of her movements beto
kened habitual activity. The elasticity of her
very step was suggestive of mental energy. Her
figure was petite but wonderfully supple, and un
der the influence of any elevating emotion
seemed io heighten Suddenly. Her face, con
stantly glowing with animation, often warmed
into beauty without possessiug a single perfect
feature.
In a few moments she was seated in Mr. Wil
lingtou’s splendid barouche and" drawn rapidly
through the streets of Charleston by a pair of
horses which were the envy of all connoisseurs of
the noble animal.
Mr. Willington was an opulent planter of South
Carolina. The aristocracy of Charleston is per
haps the most exclusive in the United States,
and liis birth, education, courtly manners and
remarkably fine person, rendered him one of its
chief ornaments.
He was a strict observer of the laws of eti
quette, and of all social conventionalities and
proprieties. His high breeding was especially
evinced in his deportment to the gentler sex.—
There was a sort of ehivalric protection—a po
lite forbearace —a patronizing tenderneffs—in his
demeanor towards them, which distinctly pro
claimed his own sense of superiority, through
the very fact of liis manhood, and his conviction
that these “ dear helpless creatures ” were not
designed to rise out of the sphere of petted
childlieod. aud could never become equals, or
even intelligent companions. “Mind” to liim
was of masculine gender, and lie had no faith in
the existence of a " woman of mind' who was
not unfeniinine. According to his creed,' woman
hood should ignore R-sthetic tastes, and for her to
show any disposition
“To (Kinder the preetpitous sides
Os difficult questions,”
was a social crime.
To have discovered some electric sparks' of
genius, accidently flashing from the lips or the
pen of his wife, would have rendered him the
most miserable of men. Perhaps he was not
very unreasonable in that respect. Genius, with
her airy flights—her vivid imagination—her
quick sensibilities—her attraction—her states of
alternate exaltation and melfceholy, so incom
prehensible to matter-of-fact natures, is too sel
dom an agreeable fireside companion. Men
liardlv care to see a Sappho or a Corinne sitting
opposite to them at the breakfast table. Laurels
are a nuisance on the hearthstone of home—
fling them into the Humes, or sweep them up
with the ashes 1
Angelica Raymond was the daughter of a Phil
adelphia hanker. Mr. Willington met her at
Newport, a little less than six years before the
period at which we have introduced him to the
reader. She was the reigning belle of the sea- -
son, a sylph-like lieauty, just seventeen, with
amber-colored hair, dreamy blue eyes, and no
very striking traits of character. The gallant
Southerner beheld his beau -ideal of womanhood,
and fell madly in love with her. Angelica's
heart was soon melted by his ardent wooing.—
She bestowed upon lier large circle yf admirers
the piost graceful how of dismissal, and her
hand upon the chivalrous Southerner.
In the autumn, he carried his bride to lps lux
urious home in Charleston—surrounded her
with all the appliances of wealth, and gratified
her caprices, until she found it a positive effort
to think of anything more which she could de
sire.
During the five years of her married life, .first
a little son, and then a daughter had taught her
ears the holy music of the word “ Motheri”
Was she happy? Perhaps she did not ask
herself the question precisely in that form. She
was conscious that sho was weary, lonely, con
stantly enmyee, and she soon pronounced her
self to lie in feeble health. How many of the
lovely valetudinarians who daily excite our pity
are simply lovely idlers! How often is supposed
ill health a pastime that ends in the retribution
of a frightful reality! ', _
'Angelica had no apparent need .for exertion,
and she made none. The children were ten
derly cared for by devoted colored domestics—
old family servants. Each little one had a “mam
my” appropriated to its service as soon as it was
born; aud these faithful guardians perfectly idol
ized their young charges—giving them open pre
ference over their own children. And the little
nurslings, with dawning intelligence, learned to
love their “ mammies” as well, if not better, than
their own mother.
As for Angelica’s household arrangements,
they were attended to by servants who thor
oughly understood their duties, and performed
them with pride and pleasure. They would
have been shocked—would have thought it a
degradation of herself and a rebuke to them—if
their young mistress had ventured to occupy her
self with domestic She gave a few
languid orders every morning, and her labors for
the day were over. She was fond of her child
ren, becauso they were lovely and endearing:
but she saw them very seldom. She loved her
husband with a dependent, leaning, upholding
affection, which threw the very burden of think
ing upon another—a species of attachment which
is particularly gratifying to such men as Mr.
Willington. But of that sweet association—that
constant interclmnge of thought—that commu
nity of feeling in which the charm of marriage
lies—Mr. Willington and his young wife knew
nothing.
Mr. Willington—though he had not ceased to
admire the beauty of Angelica—though he hon
ored her as his wife, the mother of his children,
the head of his household —a being that espe
cially appertained to him—though he was proud
of her, aud had a positive tenderness for her—
raver thought of her in the light of a compan
ion, a counsellor, a friend. To be obliged to
pass an evening ill her drawing-room, unless ho.
was discharging the duties of host to a circle of
guests, wearied him intensely. He fimnd more
congenial amusement at Ins club—at young
men's card parties—at horse races, during the
season of that fashionable Charleston amuse
ment —anywhere but at his own fireside. And
yet, there sat the being whom he had so ardent
ly loved, so passionately worshipped, less than
six years before, aud who was still the personifi
cation of loveliness —but a lovely nullity 1
The husband left her in perfect freedom to oc
cupy or amuse herself in any way that she fan
cied, provided always that she did nothing con
spicuous—however good or useful; nothing that
would attract public attention, applause or admi
ration, except indeed the legitimate admiration
to wliicli-every beauty i# entitled in the ball
room. His great' fear was, not that some of
life’s responsibilities might remain unfulfilled,
but a dread that the hidden sanctity of his home
might be invaded by public comment. He had
nothing to fear from Angelica. Her indolence
was an impenetrable shield —no flash of intellect
was likely to force its way through-that barrier,
and betray itself by some startling action.
Angelica liad not seen Ruth Merriwether for
nearly six years. The young wife, after her
marriage, instead of encountering the fatigues of
a journey to the North, had passed her summers
at some of the fashionable springs of Virginia,
while her husband travelled about, and paid her
and the children occasional visits.
“Hero we are!” exclaimed Mr. Willington,
as the carriage drew up before a stately man
sion, embowered by groups of magnolia trees,
and Btandiug in a spacious garden. Roses, ho
neysuckle and jessamine, clambered together up
the porch, and their long tendrils, floating in the
breeze, formed an archway of natural garlands
over the entrahec. Ruth sprang from the car
riage and ascended the marble steps without
noticing Mr. Willington’s punctiliously-offered
aid, for, as the equipage stopped, the street door
opened, and Angeiia stood on the threshold.
The friends embraced warmly.
“Come in—let me beg you to come in, Miss
Merriwether,” said Mr. Willington, offering his
arm to Ruth. Ho had a nervous horror of any
thing so like public display as this womanly
greeting, even beneath that screen of blossoming
vines.
Ruth obeyed, hut without accepting liis arm.
for her’s was about Angelica’s waist.
They had scarcely entered the drawing-room,
when the latter sank into her usual languid,
half-reclining attitude upon the sofa. Ruth sat
beside her fondly scanning her face as she chat
ted merrily.
The young wife was attired in a rose colored
silk wrapper, trimmed with rows of narrow,
black velvet, and edged with black lace. The
shirt beneath was of finest embroidery. Her
sleeves, open to the shoulders, disclosed her
round, white arms. The long, shining ringlets
tliat used to float over her shoulders, were loop
ed up beneath a tiny Marie Stuart cap of lioni
ton lace. The toilette of an invalid became her.
She looked supremely beautiful in spite of the
weary, listless expression which quickly re
turned to her face, and seemed to be its habitual
look. The roses, that Ruth so well remembered,
had somewhat faded from her cheeks, and her
eyes were consequently less brilliant. These,
and the look of hopeless lassitude which Ruth
had never seen upon that countenance liefore.
were the only changes that she could detect.
Ruth, who had a quick eye for the tasteful
and beautiful, glanced admiringly around the
room. The floor of polished oak reflected like a
mirror. The luxurious furniture had no northern
stiffness and show-aspect—evidently it was all
intended for use. Pictures and statues, and ob
jects of virtu were intermingled with costly vases
fltted with the most exquisite flowers, and hang
ing baskets, from which long branches of the
yellow jessamine waved like a golden drapery,
and shed a delicious perfume throughout the
apartment.
Ruth exclaimed with enthusiam, “ What mag
nificent flowers! I never saw more brilliant
colors! What perfect roses! Tliat yellow jes
samine is gorgeous! I suppose you gathered
these in your own garden?”
Angelica looked up as if she had not noticed
the floral decorations before. “ They are pretty,”
she answered with an indifferent air. “/did
not gather them —that's Arena’s province—she
always keeps the vases and baskets supplied—
she has decided taste that way.”
“Have you any commands, Angelica?” asked
Mr. Willington. “I will leave you ladies to
gether. I hope to see Miss Merriwether at din
ner time. Good morning.”
' As Mr. Willington passed the sofa upon which
his wife was lying, ho stooped and touched her
forehead lightly with his lips, as was his wont
on leaving the house for the day.
Angelica received the caress without return
ing, and apparently without noticing it, for no
change of expression passed over her features.
Not tliat the salutation gave lie* no pleasure—
she might have felt wounded iUt had been for
gotten —but she did not deem it necessary to
make the exertion of a response, and her hus
band evidently expected nothing of the kind.
“Now, Angelica, dear,” said Ruth, taking the
little white baud, almost heavy with its’wealth
of sparkling gems, in both of hers—“ tell me
what ails you ?”
“ I can’t tell—l don’t know.”
“But do you suffer? Are you really ill?”
“ Os course—certainly—and I have such head
aches—everything gives me a headache—and I
am wretchedly low-spirited.”
“Low-spirited! Why, you have everything
to make you happy, have yon not?”
[to BE CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT.]
i■ i
[Written for the Field and Fireside.]
A CHAPTERJN TOKENS.
• BY 9ALLIE.
“Vera amicitia cst Bempiterna.”
Circumstances assert a strong control over all
the affairs of this nether world. They dispense
alike the iron crown of empire and the diamond
coronal of beauty; ’and no less is the wreck of
these baubles of their doing. Their spells rest
alike on us nnd ours. The sport of circum
stances, we are ushered into being. By their
plastic hand are our destinies shaped. It is they
that guide us down the rapid current of Life to
“ tliat undiscovered country from whose bourn
no traveller returns.” ’ They give us treasures
in trifles—impart a moving, momentous moan
ing to language. Many a flower must have
bloomed unadmired, had it not lent its lieauty
t£ the bouquet on some fair bosom, or to the
chaplet on some illustrious brow. Tlio marble
slab lay unnoticed for ages, till, smitten by the
wand of Chantry, it rose into the venerable figure
of Washington. So, too, sentiments which have
fallen on the ear a thousand times unheeded,
have, when uttered by other lips, and in other i
connections, sweetly touched the heart.
On a. little keepsake presented to me by one
not to be forgotten is, tastefully inscribed, “in
lingua Latina”— true friendship is eternal.
Musing, the other evening, over my cabinet of 1
tokens, trinkets, and sundry other curiosities, ;
this endeared motto met my eye; and seldom ,
has the even tenor of my apathy been so pleas
antly interrupted. That happy exorcism that
wins us back to our sympathies—tliat indefina
ble power of making happy, so often and so
sweetly felt in the presence of the giver—seems
somehow or other to adhere to the gift. The
sentiment is in itself tender and beautiful—es
pecially so when consecrated by a particular ap- I
plication, touching as the pass-word of sincere
affection—affection never to be clouded by “love ;
•spars*” never to be abated by that cruel killer of j
feeling, Custom.
“Music and the memory of past joys are j
pleasing and mournful to the soul.” There is !
something that touches here more than the !
smoothness of alliteration. A token of affec
tion, a phrase like our motto, which tlie adop- :
tion of kindred minds has hallowed, touches
those secret chords of the heart attuned to deep
er and holier and sadder melody. Each guile
less and sunny period of the past revives. The
glowing emotions, which we laid deemed had
sunk forever behind clouds of sterner and loftier
aspirations, dawn on the heart like morning stars !
in fresh glory, and in a softness almost as j
pleasing as all the past has been.
While the stem of the rose is yet in our hands, |
a momentary illusion of tlie past sweetness, and !
beauty steals over us. Iu like manner the cm- i
blem of friendship gives energy to the thick- :
coming fancies. Smitten by the divining wancl, j
from the flinty rock the sparkling waters gash;
revived by the symbols of affection, the object
of our emotions, the prompter of our better feel
ings, the inspirer of our fondest hopes, is dhco
more dimly discernible. The smile that played
on the lips of the giver seems scarce yet passed;
and tlie emotions of some tender moment when
words ceased to be insignificant—that some
thing too deep, too holy, for lying language—all
are felt afresh, softened with a*sad but solitary
sigh of regret tliat they are gone—forever gone!
Tis midnight; anil, regardless of the poetry
whispered by the cold round orb that leads on
the "silver pomp of we are mortified—
mortified that wo are unable to embody every j
throb, every emotion, in all the living ami gW* -
ing lustre of the fount in which they origjff*®- :
Why? oh, why? Why was the fountain* 1
i ing made to swell and heave without genius
j to express the jient emotions in tM r minutest
; shades? Why, with tho raptur heaven in
our hearts, could we not have wen gifted with
l the silverv tongues of ange l * or t' lo moving di
alect of sacred song? ! that the fleeting
emotions should mock J " r f° n d grasp—vanish,
like the ghost of Kur.-dice, just as we had hoped
they were won to the regions of light. But,
whether we can express them or not,
“There are shades that will not vanish.
There are thoughts we cannot banish. ’’
and this is true, moreover, in a far higher and
happier sense than the author of Manfred in
tended.
’The token that suggests my reverie lies on the
desk liefore me. I hope the amiable giver will
(with the wonted smile which has so often made
me forget my errors,) connive at the liberty I
have taken in the selection of a motto. I would
indulge.'the hope of assuranco still farther—l
; hope tliat “ vera amicitia est sempitema” is but
one of a numerous sisterhood of noble senti
ments nestling in the same generous heart—a
single cup from a fountain of pure water —a
single rose from a garden of (lowers—a single
gem from a bed of diamonds.
PERSONAL.
Compliment to Lieut. Maury.—We believe
the compliment implied in the following letter to
our distinguished countryman, is altogether with
out precedent:
Hall of the East India Marine Society, )*
May 18th, 185». )
■Whereas, Lieut M. F. Maury, Superintendent
of the Observatory at Washington, lias devoted
a very considerable portion of his life to nauti
cal research, and has done more to promote the
' interests of the mercantile marine than any other
living man; and, whereas, one of tfie principal
objects of this Society is to advance nautical
science and knowledge, therefore, with a view
of expressing the high sense end appreciation of
the Society for the important and invaluable ser
vices lie has rendered his country and the com
mercial world—
Resolved, That Lieut M. F. Maury be, and
hereby is, elected an honorary member of the
Hast India Marino Society.
Unanimously adopted.
Washing Irving has nearly recovered from
the effects of the illness by which he was pros
trated during the past winter. He has just
j completed his ‘‘Life of Washington,” in five
volumes.
Baptism ok Henry Clay.—A recent letter
from the Reverend E. F. Berkley, Rector of St.
George’s Church, St Louis, to W. A. Bell, Esq.,
of Paducah, Ky., settles a very important histori
cal fact. Mr. B. was for many years Mr. Clay’s
pastor, at Lexington, Ky., and held the most in
timate relations with him. He says: “ Mr. Clay
. was baptised in his parlor, at Ashland, on the
22d of June, 1847, in our usual way, by pouring
a handful of water on his head, in the name of
the Holy Trinity.; ono of his daughters-in-law
and four of his grand daughters being baptised
at the same time, and in the.same way.”
Death op Leslie, the Artist. —Leslie, the
artist, whose death is announced by the Van
derbilt, was bom in England, but was the son
of American parents, and was educated in Phi
ladelphia until the age of sixteen, when he re-_
turned to London. He had been a royal acade- -
mieian for thirty-three years. In the exhibition
of paintings at London, of the present year,
which was opened on the first of May, there are J
two pictures from his hand: Hotspur and Lady
I Perry, and a scene, from the Heart of Mid Lo
-1 tliian—Jennnio Deans and Queen Caroline.
The Late Baron Von Humboldt. —A dis
patch, dated Berlin, May 1 Oth, says: “The sol
emn funeral procession of Alexander Von Hum
boldt is now on its way to the cathedral. All
that represents science, art and intelligence, in
Berlin, joins in the procession. Three chamber- 1
1 Tains in gold costumes, bearing the orders of the
illustrious deceased, precede the funeral car, I
which is drawn by six horses from the royal sta
bles. Upon the ear is a simple uncovered cof
i fin of oak, adorned with flowers and laurel On
either side of the car are students, bearing green
i palm branches. .
A lipe of carriages of immense length closes
; the procession/ The Prince Regent and all thP ‘
Princes and Princesses are assembled in the ca-
I thedral, awaiting the arrival of the great philos- 1
■ opher’s immortal remains. A mournful aspect
> overspreads the whole town.
A dispatch received in New York from New
Orleans says that Gen. Walker, the fillibuster, 1
1 and three on board the steamer
Nizula, had nrrivcdftK Acapulco. Their inten
! tion was unknown, but it is supposed they have
: some designs on southern Mexico.
Letters from General Pierce say’ tliat he will
probably remain another year abroad, in conse
quence of the improvement of his wife’s health.
Senator Toombs, of Georgia, has contributed
a hundred dollars to Mount Vernon.
Dispatches from Washington state that seri
ous charges have been preferred against Captain J
Van Yliet, who expended nearly $2,000,000 in
the purchase of mules and stock for the Utah i
expedition. A Court Martial will probably be
ordered.
Count Cavour has written to the editor of the
Eco d' Italia, in New York, that what Sardinia l
wants just now is not volunteers, but money.
I He thinks the cause can be as effectually served
! by his countrymen remaining in this country, l
and using their influence in favor of Sardinia’s
i efforts to free Italy. I
We learn from our Milledgeville exchanges
that Gov. Brown has appointed Hon. Linton Stc- <
; phens, of Hancock, Judge of the Supreme Court,
| in the place of Judge McDonald, whose resigna- i
! tion has been recently accepted.
Mrs. Polk. —A correspondent says tliat it is a .
I remarkable and fitting token of public regard,
j that annuallj*on the first day of the new year, '
both bouses of the Tennessee Legislature for
mally adjourn, and proceed in a body to pay their
j respects to Mrs. Polk.
In Boston, on the 24th of May, Prof«* s<>r i
■ Agassiz delivered a eulogy on Humboldt before
; the Society of American Arts and Sauces, at
: the Athenaeum. . |
Paul Morphy, the great chess Jiampion ol the
workl, having returned from l * s triumphal visit v
to Europe, has received a g" n *j welcome in New
York, and is everywhere i*dedwith gratulations
of pride by his country?® ll ; The qualities which
make him the greaF« chess-player the world /
ever saw we think to fit him for
distinction in so*» e more us « ful walk of life -
The Kmpe"* Napoleon 111. having been bom /
on the 20tl <la y of April, 1808 > has completed
bis 51st/ ear - \
g IP iOP op New Jersey.— Burlington, N. J.,
Miv 27.—The Rev. Dr. Odenheimer, was on to- ,
( uy elected Protestant Episcopal Bishop of the
Diocese of New Jersey, to fill the vacancy crea- I
ted by the death of Bishop G. W. Doane.
—i • *
When there is love in the heart, tfiere are
rainbows in the eyes, which cover every black
cloud with gorgeous hues.
Beauty and Talents.— What a gifted crea
ture she is! We may contrive to render birth l
and rank exclusive, but beauty and talents are
dreadful democrats. I
11