1859-06-30 The Courant

THE COURANT, A Southern Literary Journal. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ HOWARD H. CALDWELL, EDITOR.] "Sic vos non vobis." [WM. W. WALKER, JR., & CO., PROPRIETORS. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ VOLUME I. COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, JUNE 30, 1859. NUMBER 9 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ For the Courant. THE VILLAGE BEAUTY. ------ BY PAUL H. HAYNE. ------ I. The glowing tints of a Tropic eve Burn on her radiant cheek, And we know that her voice is rich and low, Though we never have heard her speak; So full are those gracious eyes of joy, That the blissful flood runs o'er, And wherever her tranquil pathway tends, A glory flits on before!

II. O! very grand are the city belles! Of a brilliant and stately mien, As they walk the steps of the languid dance, And flirt in the pause between; But beneath the boughs of the hoary oak, Where the minstrel-fountains play, I think that the artless village girl Is sweeter by far than they.

III. O! very grand are the city belles! But their hearts are worn away By the keen-edg'd world, and their lives have lost The beauty and mirth of May;-- They move where the sun and starry dews Reign not; they are haughty and bold,-- And they do not shrink from the cursed Mart, Where Faith is the slave of Gold.

IV. But the starry dews and the genial sun Have gladdened her guileless youth, And her brow is bright with the flush of hope, Her soul with the seal of truth; Her feet are beautiful on the hills, As the steps of an Orient morn, And Ruth was never more fair to see In the midst of the autumn corn! ---------------------------------------- Written for the Courant. TOM WOFFTON'S STRATAGEM. ------- BY S. ------- "Wherein is he good, but to taste sack, and drink it?"--Shaks. Tom Woffton was a gay, good-humored youth of eighteen. His father had decided to give him a professional education; and Tom chose to devote himself to the "healing art." He, however, begged his indulgent parent to give him liberty for a year or two longer, as he was still a boy, and a life of intense application and labor lay before him, from which there would be no relaxation when once commenced. Mr. Woffton, Sr., was not deaf to those appeals, and Tom was permitted to indulge, unrestrained, in all the dissipations of idle and affluent youth. His greatest fault was the growing desire of his appetite for intoxicating liquors. Mr. Woffton began to have some suspicion of this, but, as Tom always held his revels abroad, it was some time before anything could be ascertained with certainty. He at last learned that a party of young men, Tom included, were going to have a "jolly time," as they expressed it, at the village tavern, hard by. His mind was instantly made up to be an unseen spectator of the whole "jollification." He saw the tavern-keeper, and obtained permission to occupy the adjacent apartment. In due time his portly figure was stowed away in a corner, near the keyhole, from which the key was cautiously withdrawn, but the door was thoughtlessly left unlocked. Presently the young disciples of Bacchus, formed into a solid phalanx, marched in; and, from the orders that were profusely issued they seemed bent on having a social time. Champagne, brandy, gin, whiskey, &c., were brought in and disappeared in a marvellously short time; and, as old Tom Beazly would have said, "their spirits greatly increased, as the spirits decreased. Mr. Woffton looked on in wonder and indignation, but wisely nursed his wrath until a more convenient season. Tom was confessedly in his glory, and "bound to shine." "For," said he, "I can see by the cut of the old governor's eye, that he don't mean I shall enjoy many more of these delightful re-unions; he'll make me pack soon, I know." "The ungrateful guzzler!" muttered the exasparated eaves-dropper, "that you shall pack soon, my fine fellow, I'll see to that. By this time the liquors were out, and they called for more; but mine host knowing who was looking on, and wishing to preserve the reputation of his house, gravely remonstrated with them on the vice of excessive drinking. The remonstrance was so unexpected, that one of them, laughing contemptuously, cried out, "I say, my old Brandy-blossom, when did you renounce the "O! be joyful, and cheat the devil out of his due?" "Hush, my friend," he replied, in a whisper, pointing deprecatingly to the closed door. "Oh, the pledge is in there, is it?" cried several, starting for Mr. Woffton's point of observation, and ere that gentleman was aware of their intentions, he found himself sprawling on the floor, with his feet considerably higher than his head. The youthful seekers of knowledge gazed for a moment on his prostrate form, and then beat a hasty retreat, to deliberate what was best to do for poor Tom, who was taken all aback at the untoward circumstance. "I tell you what, boys," said Tom, "I cannot go home unless in a dreadful state of sickness; for the old governor is an out-and-out teetotaller, and would be certain to send me adrift, for a while anyhow.

After a few moments' debate, it was considered politic that Tom should be taken suddenly and alarmingly ill; and in that state, be conveyed by his comrades, to the paternal home. Accordingly, he was soon writhing in indescribable agony, contorting his form and features in the most hideous manner. His companions laughed at his ludicrous appearance until the tears ran down their cheeks. Finally a carriage was procured and he was lifted into it--one of his friends remarking,-- "Tom, don't carry your jest so far as to die with all that liquor in you; for I would not be the pall-bearer to such a cask of gin for the finest lost that was ever imported--why, man, you weigh a ton!" It may be supposed that Tom did not try to lighten the burden at all; but enjoyed their trouble immensely. Arrived at Mr. Woffton's, they rang the bell, and were garnishing up their already plausible story, when the door opened, and the tavern detective stood before them. They were obviously much disconcerted, and the appointed speaker would have broken down, at sight of the unexpected apparition, had not Tom come to his rescue. He had been moaning most piteously, but now he broke out in an ungovernable paroxysm of frenzy, declaring that death, in a thousand hideous forms, was waiting for him, and calling, in the most heart-rending tones, on his beloved father to save him. The old gentleman listened at first with surprise, which soon changed to anxiety, and finally to alarm. He exclaimed: "In the name of Heaven, what is the matter with Tom?" The speaker, glad to see a change in the determined front of the offended sire, poured forth the well concocted tale of poor Tom's sufferings. He admitted that they had been enjoying themselves sociably, and Tom had indulged in, perhaps, a glass too much; when he was attacked with the most violent convulsions. As he had drunk from a decanter that none of the others had touched, (true, for effect,) it was feared that he had imbibed some deadly drug. Mr. Woffton, thoroughly alarmed, despatched all the servants that could be rung up at that late hour, for the physician, medicine, &c.-- Meanwhile Tom was borne to his own room, laid upon the bed; and as one of his friends bent over him, to smoothe his pillow, he whispered,-- "Make way with yourselves; I can manage the old governor now." Acting on the hint, one by one took leave of the distracted parents, promising to call in an hour or so, to see how Tom was getting along. Mr. Woffton agreed to their departure very reluctantly, and then turned to the bed, where Tom was falling into a gentle slumber, which gradually deepened, until, on the physician's arrival, he could with difficulty be aroused, and then but for a moment. The Doctor ordered a warm bath, and eclared it necessary to take two or three ounces of blood. In the bustle attending such preparations, Tom and the doctor were left together; quick as lightning, the languid eyes flew open, the nerveless arm pulled the head of the astonished man of physic within a few inches of the sufferer's, who whispered fiercely,-- "I tell thee, Sawbones, if thou dost shed one drop of christian blood, and mine in particular, I'll cut your ears off!" Mr. Woffton entered a moment after, and saw his son still in that death-like lethargy, and the physician perfectly dumb-founded with surprise. He made some hasty and confused explanation, about not understanding the case at first; measured out some harmless medicine, gave a few general directions, promised to call again, and withdrew on tiptoe, that he might not disturb the torpid victim of convulsions. This had a most reviving effect on Tom, who immediately opened his eyes, and looking affectionately at his anxious parent, murmured,-- "My father!" "Do you feel better, my son?" asked the mollified sire, tenderly smoothing back the damp locks from his pain-corrugated brow. "Yes, father, much better--almost well." Mr. Woffton reflected; it appeared to him to be his duty to reproach his son at once; so acting upon this internal suggestion, he dismissed the servants, and seating himself by his son's side, thus began: "Thomas, it grieves me much to see the course you are pursuing; wasting all the energies and talents, with which you have been endowed by nature, on the most frivolous pleasures and contemptible vices." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

66 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Father," said the youth, "they have misrepresented me; I have been culpable, but not to that extent--" "Hush, my son," said the old man, warming with his subject, "this is no misrepresentation. I have seen it with my own eyes; this night I stood concealed and watched you------" "Were you looking on to-night, father?" asked Tom, in a despairing tone, but with a face all aglow with latent mischief. "Yes, Thomas, I almost blush to say what I saw this night." With a start as unexpected as active, Tom grasped his father's hand with a force quite energetic, considering the feeble state of his health. "Well, say, old horse, didn't we have a jolly time?" Language fails to describe the emotions that passed visibly over Mr. Woffton's features. As Tom said, "he began to smell a pretty big mice." Without a word, he arose and left the room, evidently thinking "comment unnecessary." Tom fell back completely exhausted with laughter. The next morning, he was aroused at an unusually early hour, and on going down into the hall the first thing that met his eye, was a trunk already packed and corded, on which, in conspicuous capitals, he read his own name; and out through the grey dawn, he saw the old stage-coach drawn up before the door. Tom needed not to be told what all this meant, yet, his father, coming out of the adjoining room, said,-- "I think, Thomas, that old Time will excuse the remaining apprenticeship of your boyhood. It is my desire that you pack this morning for the college." Tom went. Whether or not, in his midnight excursions for subjects, he ever encountered any "spirits," deponent sayeth not. ---------------------------------------- For the Courant. HOBBIES. ------ BY MRS. WINIFRED WEAZLE. ------ Reader, what's your hobby? You won't tell? Well, I don't much blame you, for some people's hobbies are ridiculous enough. I have one or two myself, that for the life and soul of me I can't keep from riding, and every time I mount Reason whispers, "stop," but Impulse shots "onward!" and away I go at a hard gallip, amusing some people, boring more, and fatiguing myself, only to feel miserably ashamed afterwards. Why will people "see the right, and yet the wrong pursue?" And I have often noticed that those who ride their own hobbies most furiously, have the least patience when a friend mounts his. Why, this very morning I detected Maria Morris gaping in the middle of one of my best stories, and when I stopped short, and accused her of it, intending to punish her by leaving the story unfinished, she said, "Well, aunt Weazle, I really could'nt help it, you've told me that same story so many times before, that I know it by heart." Now this was very provoking, for I am always particular to avoid repetition, having been so often annoyed by it myself, and Maria is guilty of it, as I know to my cost, her hobby is story telling, and herself the heroine of every one. She likes to talk about the many lovers she has had, the splendid offers she has refused, and how one young man, with beautiful curly hair, heavenly blue eyes, and pearly teeth, killed himself (with wine, I guess) on her account, and would'nt I know that young man, if he was to appear befor me this very minute? I've heard him described so often; and she to talk about repetition. But I was willing to bear with her, for I am either gifted with, by nature, or circumstances have forced me to acquire the power to sometimes withdraw my thoughts from all that is going on around me, and I can be revelling in memories of past delights, mourning over old disappointments, or laying plans for the future, at the very time that a steady stream of somebody else's reminiscenses, hopes, or fears is falling on my ear, so I don't often seem bored, and am therefore oftener victimized than most people. About the worst trial in the way of hobbies, that I ever did have, came upon me fortunately when I was young and able to bear it. Old Mrs. Doleful's hobby was sickness, her pet was a corpse. She delighted in the attentions necessary to the one, and positively reveled in the task of arraying the other. People could not be grateful for her attentions, indeed they learned to dread them, she so plainly showed her gladness at their being necessary, so evidently enjoyed the possibility of a fatal termination. For my part, if I had the sick headache, and she happened to come in, I gave myself right up, and would begin to grow cold and stiff all over, and if I had been as old and nervous then as I am now, I am certain that she would have killed me. As soon as this old lady entered the chamber of a sick person, no matter how light the attack, she would, in spite of all remonstrances, close the shutters, draw down the curtains, stop the clock, tip-toe about, whisper, glance toward the victim, shake her head mysteriously, tell dismal tales of sickness or death next door, and descant upon the necessity of people's being prepared, until I often wondered that the poor sick body did not spring out of the bed and take to the woods. And if the summons really did come, and when it was beyond all doubt that the soul had taken its flight, how quickly she glided into the place of superintendant of affairs. How gently, yet firmly she led the real mourners from the room, and then with what zest she entered upon her favorite duties, groaning all the time. How she would arrange, rearrange, observe the effect, tell her experience in similar cases, and at last, when compelled to admit that all was done, how fervently she would exclaim, "What a buteeful corpse!" And I have heard her make that exclamation on occasions when it seemed a sarcasm, so opposite was the fact, and what a busy, yet properly sad woman she was until the funeral was over, and then how she would distress everybody who was interested in the departed, and bore everybody who was not, with minute descriptions of the melancholy event, till she heard of another case, and then she was off to gloat over that. Years ago, when I was quite a child, there was an old man (no matter where) whose name was "Nelligan." He was very homely in the face, being badly poxmarked, his nose twisted to one side, and his upper lip so short that his large mouth could never be entirely closed, and his long yellow sharp-pointed teeth had a vicious look, as though he would like to bite everybody, and his neck was so short, that his head seemed to rest on his shoulders, besides this, he was dwarfish, and dreadfully deformed by rheumatism, his knees being drawn up nearly to his breast. Like most old bachelor's, he had a cross, sneering disposition, which, in connection with his appearance, caused him to be avoided by grown people, and dreaded by children. And if there was one person on earth whom he hated with all the intensity of his bitter nature, that person was Mrs. Doleful, and she either could not, or would not see it, for her visits to the house of the aged relative, with whom he resided, were frequent and long. The old man was always ailing, but no matter how weak he was, the moment she entered the house, his crutches would bear him rapidly from it, sometimes only to the lower end of the garden, where he would lie down upon the grass, and fairly howl with rage. At last he got too ill to make his escape, and then he turned upon her. She was proof against all his sneers, insinuations, and angry looks, meeting them with a pitying indulgence, which nearly crazed him; at last he broke forth into open insult: "Begone, old Crocodile!" he cried, "you shall not whine and roll up your hateful eyes before me; I've no notion of dying, and when I have, you shall not see me, or see what a 'buteeful corpse' I am. Beautiful, indeed." And he suddenly became silent, while a dark, resentful scowl settled on his face, and remained there till the grave hid it. And who knows what torturing memories of a life-time of bitter disappointments, repressed feelings, unrequited love, betrayed friendships, and of what perhaps soured him more than all the rest--the constant ridicule of the world, endured probably from his childhood, were crowded into the hour which (forgetful of the presence of his tormentor) he gave to deep thought. When he spoke again he seemed forgetful of the lapse of time, and, as if continuing a sentence-- "No, indeed, you shall not see me, you shall not gloat over my hideousness, while you hypocritically exclaim, 'What a buteeful corpse!' If you dare to come near me when I am dead I will rise from my coffin and destroy you!" This was too much even for Mrs. Doleful, so she retired, shaking her head, and saying in a tone of deep feeling: "Quite delirious, quite beside himself, quite crazy, quite out of his senses, don't know what he is saying, he can't last much longer, I'm afraid that I'll never see him again alive, though, if I'm spared, I'll come back tomorrow, for I don't mind anything he says now, poor dying soul." The next morning Nelligan died, and, greatly to her chagrin, Mrs. Doleful knew nothing about it for several hours. As soon as she did hear of it, she donned her rusty black canton crape dress, and her long fronted bombazine bonnet, and hurried to the house of mourning, where she was really mortified to find every thing done that was necessary on the occasion. Concealing her sense of injury, she addressed herself to the only task left her--that of consoling the bereaved relative, (who might with more truth have been called the relieved relative, but things were not called by their right names then any oftener than they are now,) which she did in all the hackneyed phrases her memory could supply, and then she proceeded to the enjoyment of the only pleasure left her, that of viewing and commenting on the departed. It had been necessary to straighten his limbs forcibly, and secure them with cords, and Mrs. Doleful's first exclamation was: "Dear me! he's come out all straight; I always said he would, and how natural he does look, (bending curiously over him to see if there was nothing she could possibly alter or amend.) Well, I must say, 'he makes a buteeful corpse.'" Just as the words passed her lips, by a strange coincidence, the cord which held his limbs snapt, and his knees flew up, actually touching the old lady's face.-- She staggered back, and but for the wall would have fallen to the floor, while of her companions one ran wildly away, and the other stood still and screamed until the room was crowded with people, among whom was the old man's relative, who being ignorant and superstitious, and remembering the conversation of the day before, fully believed that Nelligan had executed his threat, and really awakened to resent the intrusion of Mrs. Doleful; and whether the belief gave most pain or pleasure to the disinterested heiress of his little propenty, was never known but to herself; for the deep sigh which escaped her when the state of the case was explained, might have been one of relief or of disappointment. However that might be, the agitation she had been thrown into was a sufficient excuse for her to pour out the phials of her wrath on the devoted head of Mrs. Doleful, who, pale and shrinking, cowered in the corner to which she had tottered, and received it all without saying a word, and made her exit as soon as possible, and she did not bore any one with an account of that event; indeed, was never known to mention it; but I heard it from one who professed to have been an eye-witness, and "I say the tale as it was said to me." It id dnot destroy Mrs. Doleful's ruling passion; for sickness was her hobby, and a corpse her pet, until she became one herself, which was not till she had reached extreme old age, and then she passed away "unwept, unhonored," and, but for my little sketch, would have been "unsung." I have seen many strange and ridiculous hobbies; have ridden many myself--I have seen people pet horses, cows, goats, bears, dogs, cats, birds, mice, and even snakes; I've seen men pet watches, guns, pistols, and even fire-engines, but Mrs. Doleful's hobby still remains in my estimation the strongest one I ever did know. Columbia, June 18th, 1859. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 67 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Written for the Courant. THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. -------- To find fault, Mr. Editor, and to find faults, are two very different things; and the former, is generally a far easier undertaking than the latter, even in criticising the works of the most inferior writers. In scanning, however, the pages of "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," the chief difficulty to be encountered, is, that of selecting, and bringing within some reasonable compass, the examples of bad composition, of abortive attempts at humour, platitudes, and pedantries, which are met with at every turn, or at the turn of every leaf, from the beginning to the end of the volume. They are indeed both so numerous, and of so odd and discrepant a character, as to occasion the work to bear a not very remote, or, as Falstaff would phrase it, "a semblance resemblance," to one of those peddling carts of the ocean, (as they may be not inaptly termed,) a New England coaster, freighted with small ventures and coarse wares, or with notions, and nick-nackeries of all sorts and kinds. The author, as we have already observed, is rather overfond of "airing his learning," and lugs it in head and heels on all occasions, and not unfrequently patches it on, (if we may use the expression,) with desperate hand, where he cannot find room for introducing it, or directly connecting it with the subject of "Fashionable Society" a subject of which it is evident that he knows about as much of, as he does of Horse Racing, which he discusses with equal confidence in another part of the work: "Fashionable society," he says, "loves vitality above all things; sometimes disgusted by affected languor, and always kept under by the laws of good breeding; but still it loves abundant life, opulent and showy organizations;" (what are opulent organizations?) "the spherical and plain trigonometry of female architecture! plenty of red blood," (a rather cannibal propensity this,) "tropical voices," (what are tropical voices?) "and forms that bear the splendours of dress, without growing pale beneath their lustre." This account of the characteristics, tastes, and ever-varying phases of fashionable life, and of the "Cynthias of the minuet," who figure in its giddy, fantastic, and splendid circles; though not exactly hit off in the light and graceful style of an Addison, or a LaBruyere, serves at least to illustrate the author's learning, or to show that he is acquainted with the difference between spherical and plain trigonometry, and with the application of the former to the science of female architecture. Into this new science, however, with a reticence rather remarkable, in one so fond of parading his acquirements, he has not condescended to give us the same insight that he has so liberally done into that of the hydrostatics of controversy, and his process for extracting sun-beams from cucumbers, or of obtaining knowledge from books, by mechanical means, instead of the old and sparse method of reading and study,* yet, in describing a circle, especially one so nicely defined as that of Fashion everywhere and always ---------- * The following is his account of this notable economic and saving process; "Society is a strong solution of books. It draws the virtue out of that which is worth reading, as hot water draws the strength of tea leaves. If I were a Prince, I would hire or buy a private library tea-pot, in which I would steep all the leaves of new books, that promised well. The infusion would do for me, without the vegetable fibre. You understand me; I would have a person whose sole business should be, to read day and night, and talk to me when I wanted to. I know the man I would have. A quick-witted, outspoken, incisive fellow; knows Historyr, or at any rate, has a shelf full of books about it, which he can use handily; and the same of all useful arts and sciences; knows all the common plots of plays and novels, and the stock company of characters, that are continually coming out in new costume; can give a criticism of an author in an epithet and a wink; and you can depend upon it &c. &c.," A scholar, and man of letters, of this kind, is, he says, in the convenient and patent species of literary tea-pot, which he "would always keep on the square next his own royal compartment on life's chess board." What a wonderful respect this truly royal author has for mere scholars and literary men. Mr. Ticknor, or Mr. Prescott, or the witty and humorous author of the "Bigelow Papers," would, by his description of the kind of man he wants, have suited him exactly, and, were he a Prince, he would, doubtless, have at once promoted one of these conveniently qualified gentlemen to the place of reader and converser to his majesty.

is, we are unable, in our ignorance, to perceive what aid the science of measuring angles could possibly have afforded to our author; and we are strongly inclined to suspect, that with all his pretension to the character of a man of gaiety and "wit about town," he is rather better acquainted with the figures of arithmetic, than with those of the lady leaders of fashion, whose architecture, he, with such an affectation of scientific accuracy, pronounces, to be a fitter subject for the admeasurements of spherical, than of plain trigonometry. Next, we have a definition of Fashion itself, or a summary description of its essential nature and true character, which is, of course, just such as we might expect fro a college pedant, or a monk writing in his conventual cell. "Fashion," we are told, "is only an attempt to realize Art, in living forms, and social intercourse." Fashion, is thus always, it seems, a mere attempt, and never a success; an attempt to realise social intercourse, and give a substantive existence to art, in "living forms"! This is certainly very lucid and satisfactory, and the gay world will have to learn at last, that fashion is a failure; while the popularity of our author's writings, will equally show, that failure may be a fashion, in literature, as well as among the votaries of the fickle Goddess of Pleasure. He yet haughtily asks, as if some Arbiter Elegantiarum, had presumed to cross his path, "what business has a man who knows nothing about the beautiful, and cannot even pronounce the word view." (what does this mean?) "to talk about fashion, to a set of people, who, if one of the quality left a card at their doors, would keep it on the top of the heap of names of their two-story acquaintances, until it was as yellow as the Codex Vaticanus." Who would have expected to meet with the Codex Vaticanus among a heap of modern visiting cards? But the habit of this inveterate college pedant, of thus bringing in his learning, as he says certain bores in conversation do their facts,* is evidently a second nature, strong as the first, which, according to the Roman adage, cannot be kept out, even with a pitch-fork. In the same paper, the boy John, a genuine specimen of young America, affords him another opportunity of displaying his erudition, and expounding his theory of manners, by the following very humorous and decorous remarks, on a lady who had just withdrawn from "the Breakfast Table," and whom the Autocrat himself describes as a model of all the virtues, as well as of finished good breeding. "So, the old fellah is off to-morrah. Old fellow said I; whom do you mean? Why, the chap that came with our little beauty, the old boy in petticoats. Now that means something, said I to myself. These rough ----------- * "All generous minds," he says, "have a horror of what are called 'facts.' They are the brute beasts of the intellectual domain. Who does not know fellows that always have an ill-conditioned fact or two, which they lead after them into decent company, like so many bull-dogs," (what a comparison!) ' ready to let them slip at ever ingenious suggestion, or convenient generalization, or personal fancy. "The nuisance of having facts let slip, like bull-dogs, at every ingenious suggestion, and pleasant fancy intended to enliven conversation, the autocrat is unable to stand, and he accordingly gives this formal notification to "the Boarders." "I allow no facts at this table. What!" he indignantly exclaims, "because bread is good and wholesome, and necessary and nourishing, shall you thrust a crumb into my wind-pipe" (what shocking rudeness!) "while I am talking? Do not these muscles of mine represent a hundred loaves of bread?" This being a fact, we wonder to find the Professor so inconsistently letting it slip, even at the garroters of whom he complains; but he thus indignantly goes on: "Is not my thought the abstract of ten thousand of these crumbs of truth, with which you would choke off my speech." There is a confusion of images here, between loaves and muscles, thoughts and crumbs of truth, much more calculated, we think, to confound the author's readers, than his enemies, or the interpreters of his speeches. This new species of cramming, however, by which knowledge is stifled, and speech abridged, certainly cannot be too much deprecated; yet the author seems to think that he has expressed himself rather rashly about it, and says, "he disclaims all responsibility for his remarks, in incompetent hands." The business, of conversation, he considers "as a very serious matter;" as much so as any other serious business. "Mark this," he solemnly says, "it is better to lose a pint of blood, than to have a nerve tapped." This tapping of a nerve is surely a new operation in surgery. That it is a very dangerous one, the author shows by his account of the consequences by which it is attended. "Nobody," he says, "attends to the unfortunate patient in such cases. Nobody measures your nervous force, as it runs away, nor bandages your brain and marrow after the operation." The difficulty of bandaging the marrow, and tying up the bleeding vessels of the brain, may, however, be one cause of this apparent inhuman treatment, and abandonment of their patients by the tappers of the Drum-heads, who allow themselves to be so rashly experimented upon by them.

young rascals, sometimes hit the nail on the head, if they do strike with their eyes shut. These pattern machines" (learned and virtuous women) "mix up their intellect with everything, just like the men. They can't help it, no doubt, but we can't help getting sick of them. Intellect is to a woman, what her watch-spring skirt is to her dress; it ought to underlie her silks and embroideries, but not to show itself too strong on the outside. You don't know, perhaps," (what is here meant,) "but I will tell you; the brain is the palest of the internal organs, and the heart is the reddest; whatever comes from the brain, carries the hue of the place it came from, and whatever comes from the heart carries the heat and color of its birth-place." These curious anatomical and psychological facts, namely; that the brain is the palest, and the heart the reddest of all the organs of the body, and that the thoughts partake of these characteristics of the sources from which they spring, affords, perhaps, a true, but rather recondite explanation of the difference, in point of attraction, between learned and virtuous women, and those of the opposite characters. Otherwise, the advice to the former, not to obtrude their knowledge in company, but to let it underlie their silks and embroideries, as the watch spring skirts do their uper dresses, is as original, as it is valuable, and cannot be too highly appreciated by the intellectual and blue-stocking portion of the sex. It is, he says, their habit and error, to allow "the instincts of the red heart, to ascend to the pale brain, where they are chilled, blanched, and become pure reason; instead of letting them run the other way, or travel to the lips, via the heart, that renders them so unattractive, and is the reason why the little gentleman said of the model, 'I hate her, I hate her.' This is the reason why the boy John, called her 'the old fellah,' and banished her to the company of the unrepresentable. This is the reason why I, the Professor, am picking her to pieces with scalpel and forceps." A very gallant employment this, truly. He is thus, everything by turns, and nothing long; now the lecturing anatomist; now the moral teacher, now the Beaux Wash of the fashionable world, and even a dabbler in economic science, and the arts of the kitchen and cuisine. Of his acquaintance with these latter arts and processes, we have a specimen in the following passage: "Justice," he says, "is a rare virtue in our community. Everything that public sentiment cares about, is put into a Pepin's Digester, and boiled under high pressure, till all is turned into one homogeneous pulp, and the very bones give up their jelly." However high or refined public sentiment may be, there is certainly nothing very sentimental in this treatment of the subjects that interest it, or that it most cares for; but the injustice which the boiling down of these subjects, to the consistency of a "homogeneous pulp or jelly," is said to involve, is not very apparent, or not very clearly made out. That he is rather a zealot, however, in the cause of justice, his proposal to extend its equitable jurisdiction even over the realms of brute matter, sufficiently shows; though the paragraph in which this proposal is formally brought forward is not written with the care and clearness which should always mark and characterize the language of the Law Reformer. "Justice! a good man respects the rights even of brute matter, and arbitrary symbols! If he writes the same word twice in succession, by accident, he always erases the one that stands second, has not the first comer the prior right? This is a nice and knotty question; but we have not time to discuss it now. This act of abstract justice, which I trust many of my readers, like myself, have often performed, is, by the way, a curious anti-illustration," (what is an anti-illustration?) "of the absolute wickedness of human dispositions! Why don't a man always strike out the first of the two words, to gratify his diabolical love of injustice." He connects this excursus upon the injustice so often shown to brute matter, with his previous dissertation on "model women," in the following manner: "So I say, we owe a genuine tribute of respect to those filtered intellects which have left their womanhood upon the ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

68 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- strainer. They are so clear, that it is a pleasure at times, to look at the world through them." That is, through the filtered intellects of those female writers who have left their womanhood on the strainer!!! It is surely valde deflendus, or greatly to be regretted, that the intellects of the author, of all his drivel and unintelligible stuff, had not also been strained of the mud and mist that clogs them, or rather, that they are not restrained, so that the world may be spared any more such displays of them, as it has had in the successive numbers of the "Atlantic," and the volume we have been reviewing. He differs from Solomon on the subject of the alleged vanity and transitoriness of wealth, wordly grandeur, and all earthly things; and says, that there has been "much foolish talk about these matters, for they have a real responsibility and meaning, if we will only look at them Stereoscopically"--that is, as he explains this learned term--"with both eyes, instead of one." He previously observes, that there has been an endless repetition of trivialities on these hackneyed topics. "In old times," he observes, "when men were all the time fighting and robbing each other, and in those tropical countries where the Sabeans and Chaldeans stole al a man's cattle and camels, and there were frightful tornadoes, and rains of fire from heaven; it was true enough that riches took wings to themselves, not unfrequently, in a very unexpected way. But, with common prudence in investments, "it is not so now." On a changè tout cela. In fact there is nothing earthly, that lasts so long as money. "A man's learning dies with him, (as did that of Aristotle, Bacon and Liebnitz,) "even his virtues fade out of remembrance; (as those of Aristides and Cato, Fenelon and Washington, have done,) but the dividends on the stocks he bequeathed to his children live, and keep his memory green." This puerile stuff, and melancholy nonsense, appears to be meant for badinage, or as specimens of that light and graceful, and archly smiling mode of treating serious subjects, of which we have such inevitable examples in the pages of Montaign and Addison. But both you and your readers, Mr. Editor, must by this time, we fear, be tired of the niaseries which we have quoted, and been obliged to quote, in order to justify our criticisms upon the work from which they are taken, and we therefore, here bring our remarks to a close. We had intended to offer in another number, a few cursory comments upon the poetry or poems scattered through the volume; but we have concluded that the following, along with the extracts, given from the piece entitled "A Good Time Going," will be as much as the readers of the Courant will care to peruse, or like to have forced upon their attention. The writer intends the first of these pieces as a humorous quiz upon the pedantry of his College Teachers; but, though it will make no one laugh, it serves to show how much the peculiarities of the master influenced the scholar, whose learning so perpetually oozes, as Bob Acres's courage did, from his fingers ends.

ESTIVATION. An unpublished Poem, by my late Latin Tutor.

In candent ire, the solar splendour flames; The floes, languêscent, pend from arid rames. His humid front, the cive, anheling wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb, with none to supervise; Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine.

To me alas! no verdurous visions come, Save yon exiguous pool's conferva scum, No concave vast, repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue!

Me wretched! let me curr to quircine shades, Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids. Oh might I vole to some umbrageous clump, Depart, be off, excide, evade, erump!

Was pedantry ever so amusingly quizzed, and shown up before? From "The Good Time Going" we give the following morceau: His home! the western giant smiles, and turns the spotty globe to find it: This little speck, the British Isles, 'Tis but a freckle, never mind it. He laughs, and all the praries roll, Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles, And ridges, stretched from pole to pole, Heave, till they crack their iron knuckles. But memory blushes at the sneer, And honor turns with frown defiant, And freedom, leaning on her spear, Laughs louder than the laughing giant!!!

What a succession of splendid and novel images have we here! Chuckling cataracts, mountain ridges, that heave until they crack their knuckles, blushing memory, frowning honor and laughing giants, all unite to enhance the beauty and swell the sublimity of these unequalled stanzas. ATHENION. ----------------------------------------- For the Courant. DYSMOROS-CALLISTA. ------ BY PRESTON DAVIS SILL. ------ The rich dark beauty of a southern clime Doth mantle in her fair and velvety cheeks, While from her eyes of dreamy shadows flash The fitful lightnings of her passionate soul, Which slumbers restless in its thrall of clay, Like fires beneath the snow-crowned mountain heights, That trammelled seek to burst their chilling bonds: A glorious fulgour 'tis, which, softening down, Blends with an amorous languor that of old They knew to give unto their statuary, Till love would beam from out the senseless eye, And men were fain to love the work they wrought. Her bosom with its deep, voluptuous swell, Doth heave and fall, responsive to the glow, That tints her face, which--as the carven marble Beareth an impress of the mighty mind Conceiving it--so doth betray her secret-- The love--the wild, delirious love--that fills Her breast and scathes it, while she fosters it. Her glossy tresses, wanton and luxurious, Are caught and twined about her stately head In classic fashion--simple and severe, And haughty in its modest dignity; And in the profile of her perfect face The sculptor's hand might find a glorious model-- In all, a queen--the queen of passionate Beauty, Drunken with deadly Circe-draughts of passion! Filling her soul with such all-conquering longings, They must have utterance, or she'd droop and die: They must have love--the food on which they feed-- Or as the flower that wanteth sun and air, She'd fade, and fall, and pass away from earth. Yet, if indulged, she'd be like some fair oak, O'er which the rain, refreshing, had descended, But which the direful levin blasts and leaves All scorcht and blackened and a hideous thing. Such, such is she--the beautiful and lost! The beautiful, for she is Beauty's self; The lost, for love will at the same time blast When it shall bless her all-insatiate heart. O fatal and most rare anomaly! May guardian angels shield and keep thee now: And when thine hours of grievous sorrow comes, As come it must--'tis stampt upon thy brow-- When thy young heart is dried up as a spring By fires that raged around its living source-- O, may they aid and comfort thee, until Thy soul shall know--if it can ever know-- The calm and peace that slow and silent time, Or draughts from Lethe's heaven-welled stream bestow-- A peace--I fear me--thou wilt never feel-- A peace that will abide with thee forever! Columbia, S. C. ----------------------------------------- WHAT A GOOD PERIODICAL MAY DO.--Show us an intelligent family of boys and girls, and we shall show you a family where newspapers and periodicals are plentiful. Nobody who has been without these silent private tutors can know their educating power for good or evil. Have you never thought of the innumerable topics of discussion which they suggest at the breakfast table, the important public measures with which, thus early, our children become familiarly acquainted; great philanthropic questions of the day, to which unconsciously their attention is awakened, and the general spirit of intelligence which is evoked by these quiet visitors? Anything that makes home pleasant, cheerful and chatty, thins the haunts of vice, and the thousand and one avenues of temptation, should certainly be regarded, when we consider its influence on the minds of the young, as a great moral and social blessing.--Emerson. ----------------------------------------- PERSONAL APPEARANCE OF LITERARY PEOPLE. ------- A correspondent of the Springfield Republican gives the following pen-and-ink sketches of prominent literary people: Emerson looks like a refined farmer, meditative and quiet. Longfellow like a good-natured beef-eater.-- Holmes like a ready-to-laugh little body, wishing only to be "as funny as he can." Everett seems only the graceful gentleman, who has been handsome. Beecher a ruddy, rollicking boy. Whitter the most retiring of Quakers. And thus I might name others. Not one of these gentlemen can be called handsome, unless we except Beecher, who might be a deal handsomer. Mrs. Sigourney, the grandmother of American "female" literature, in her prime (if we may believe her portrait,) was quite handsome. Katherine Beecher is homely.-- Mrs. Beecher Stowe so ordinary in looks that she has been taken for Mrs. Stowe's "Biddy." Mrs. E. F. Ellet looks like a washerwoman. Margaret Fuller was plain. Charlotte Cushman has a face as marked as Daniel Webster's, and quite as strong. So has Elizabeth Blackwell. Harriet Hosmer looks like a man. Mrs. Oakes Smith is considered handsome. Mrs. Julia Ward Howe has been a New York belle. Frances O. Osgood had a lovely womanly face. Amelia F. Welby was almost beautiful. Sarah J. Hale, in her young days, quite lovely, unless her picture fibs. The Davidson sisters, as well as their gifted mother, possessed beauty. If we cross the ocean, we find Madame de Staël was a fright, but Hannah More was handsome; Elizabeth Fry glorious; Letetia Langdon pretty; Mrs. Hemans wondrously lovely; Mary Howitt fair and matronly; Mrs. Norton regally beautiful; Elizabeth Barrett Browning in physique is angular, and though she has magnificent eyes, her face is suggestive of a tombstone. Charlotte Bronté had a look in her eyes better than all beauty of features. But if we look at British men of first-class craniums-- Shakspeare and Milton were handsome; Dr. Johnson was a monster of ugliness; so were Goldsmith and Pope; Addison was tolerably handsome, and Coleridge, Shelly, Byron, Moore, Campbell, Burns, all were uncommonly so. Sir Walter Scott looked very ordinary, in spite of his fine head. Macauley is homely. Bulwer nearly hideous, although a dandy. Charles Dickens is called handsome, but covered with jewelry, he can but look like a simpleton. ----------------------------------------- A good story is related by Dickens, from the Life of Jerrold. It is in a letter addressed to Jerrold from the Continent: I am somehow reminded of a good story I heard the other night from a man who was witness to it, and an actor in it. At a certain German town, last autumn, there was a tremendous furore about Jenny Lind, who, after driving the whole place mad, lef tit on her travels early next morning. The moment her carriage was outside the gates, a party of students, who had escorted it, rushed back to the inn, demanded to be shown to her bedroom, swept like a whirlwind up into the room indicated to them, tore up the sheets and wore them in strips as decorations. An hour or two afterward, a bald old gentleman, of amiable appearance, an Englishman, who was staying in the hotel, came to breakfast, at the table d'hote, and was observed to be much disturbed in his mind, and to show great terror whenever a student came near him. At last he said, in a low voice, to some people who were near him at the table, "You are English gentlemen, I observe. Most extraordinary people, these Germans! Students, as a body, raving mad, gentlemen!" "Oh, no," said somebody else; "excitable, but very good fellows, and very sensible!" "Then, sir," returned the old gentleman, still more disturbed, "then there's something political in it, and I am a marked man. I went out for a little walk, this morning, after shaving, and while I was gone--" (he fell into a terrible perspiration as he told it,)--"they burst into my bedroom, tore up my sheets, and are now patrolling the town in all directions with bits of 'em in their button-holes!" I needn't wind up by adding that they went to the wrong chamber. ----------------------------------------- Whoever walks through the streets of Japan, town or village, will be surprised to notice the number of books exposed for sale in almost every shop. On looking inside he will probably find one or more of the attendants, if otherwise disengaged, busily reading, or listening to something being read by one of the company. In walking through the outskirts of the town, it is not unlikely he will come suddenly on a knot of children, seated in a snug corner out of the sun, all intently engaged in looking through some story book or other they have just bought at a neighboring stall, and laughing right heartily at thecomical pictures which adorn the narrative. The conviction is thus brought home to a man's mind that the Japanese are a reading people. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 69 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Courant. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, JUNE 30, 1859. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE COURANT. Subscriptions for the Courant will be received at the Bookstore of Mr. P. B. GLASS, in this City, where single copies can be obtained every week. The following gentlemen have been appointed Traveling Agents for the Courant: G. W. MEETZE, JAS. S. BALLEW, THOS. P. WALKER, W. THOS. WILKES. Mr. MEETZE will visit Lexington and Edgefield Districts, Mr. BALLEW, Laurens and Newberry, Mr. WILKES, Chester, and Mr. WALKER, Richland--during the present month. We cordially recommend these gentlemen to the kind attentions and courtesies of our friends. WM. W. WALKER, JR., & CO. ----------------------------------------- QUEEN DIDO AND THE CRITICS. Our readers will find an interesting sketch of the estimate placed upon the affair of Virgil's Dido and Æneas, by the critics. At all events, "Willie" suggests some very apposite points for consideration, showing that he has thought on the subject, and carefully, at that. ----------------------------------------- "THE AUTOCRAT." We continue this week the able articles on Prof. Holmes' writings. As we said before, the book has been absurdly over-rated, and our contributor is very satisfactorily showing wherein Dr. Holmes' failures occur. It will be seen, however, that our critic gives all due praise to a very clever book, as the "Autocrat" certainly is; but he shows that it is not at once Heine and Goethe, Hood and Jean Paul, as the people of Boston seem to think. ----------------------------------------- MESSRS. FEASTER. We beg to call the attention of our readers to the advertisement of the Messrs. FEASTER. It is no small honour to a house to say that unadulterated liquors may be certainly procured there; our tasting reporter says, that all the wines and liquors at this establishment are pure, and may be used safely. We can testify to the ale, which we have found excellent. If you desire a pure and genuine article, by all means go to the FEASTERS; they have the necessary experience, &c., to qualify them for their business. We feel that the high character of Columbia merchants will be sustained, and well sustained by them. ----------------------------------------- MADAME LeVERT AND MOUNT VERNON. The Mobile papers contain an appeal to the patriotism of Alabama, from Madame LEVERT, in behalf of the Mount Vernon cause. Truly she has labored in this matter, not only long and earnestly, but successfully. The Mobile Mercury says: "In another place will be found the appeal of the Vice Regent for the State of Alabama, to whom this enterprise is indebted for its success more than to any other person, except Miss Cunningham herself. It is not merely the money which has been collected by the immediate efforts and under the superintendance of Madame LeVert; but the enthusiasm with which she has entered into the cause, has, like the electric spark, kindled a flame in every heart which she could reach by her influence, direct or indirect, and they are thousands. We are sure that this last appeal from her will not be unheeded, but will excite to additional efforts throughout our State and elsewhere, which will be crowned with speedy success, and in a few months we shall hear the official announcement that Mount Vernon is the property and possession of the women of America, the daughters of Washington." By-the-way, what has become of that fine poem "The Pilgrims of Mount Vernon," by Judge MEEK? We had the pleasure of hearing it read by its gifted author, last winter, and we have been impatiently waiting for its publication.-- With two such minds as Madame LEVERT'S and Judge MEEK'S engaged in this cause, Mobile bids fair to do more for the home of WASHINGTON than any other part of the country can do.-- In fact, if we are not very much mistaken, Alabama has already done as much as, or perhaps more than, any State of the Union. By all means let us have Judge MEEK'S exquisite poem.-- His design was to have it published for the benefit of the Mount Vernon cause, and we may say that it will be a noble contribution from his mind as well as from his heart, while the tributes paid in this admirable production to Miss Cunningham, Madame LeVert, Everett, &c., &c., will be the just reward of their noble and disinterested toils in this behalf. ----------------------------------------- HOLIDAYS.--The elysium of our boyhood; perhaps the only one of our life. Of this truth Anaxagoras seems to have been aware. Being asked by the people of Lampsacus, before his death, whether he wished to have anything done in commemoration of him. "Yes," he replied; "let the boys be allowed to play on the anniversaryof my death." "Men are but children of a larger growth," and, in this working-day country, where we have neither half holidays enough, nor even enough to the whole half-holidays, it might be well if some patriot would bequeath laboring community a legacy similar to that of Anaxagoras. ----------------------------------------- We take great pleasure in laying before our readers, this week, the two following poems, which are from the pen of a highly gifted daughter of the South. She calls them "trifles;" but they are melodious and sweet; and from her we hope ere long to hear again: ------ TO KATE. ------ Smile not so brightly, --Why wait to hear The voice that so softly Is whispering near? Cease "stolen glances;" Those bright eyes avert; Blush not so deeply, Take care, he's a flirt.

Eyes so impressive Charm you, I know; And tones will bewilder, When uttered so low; But linger not near him, For soon he'll desert Thy heart for another's-- Beware!--he's a flirt! ------ TO THE ABSENT. ------ When evening gathers round you Her veil of spangled light, When the dew rests on the flower, And the moon is shining bright; When a calm is on the ocean-- And moonlight on the sea, When all is hushed in slumber, Do you think, beloved, of me?

In the twilight of the evening, In the starry hour of night, In the dancing of the moonbeams, O'er the silvery water bright;-- When o'er the boundless ocean The waves are playing free, Do you think of her who loves you-- Do you think, beloved, of me? ----------------------------------------- "CAN'T FIND IT IN HIS MIND TO SAY WIND." The Worcester Palladium refreshes us with the following: "A criticising member of Biscaccianti's audience, listening to her charming rendering of the Serenade, which commences; "Through the leaves, the night winds stealing." objects to the universally accepted pronunciation of the word winds, which by common consent of teachers, &c., takes the long sound of i, and becomes wynds. We are aware of the arguments advanced in favor of the innovation; but for ourselves, prefer the softer sound of the spoken word, which seems more musical, more poetic. It is a good solid English word, and, rightly pronounced, need shame no song nor singer. The idea that English is no language for song, is fast going by; thanks to those who inculcate the theory that distinct pronunciation in singing any language can be attained only by diligent study of its consonants as well as vowels." To all of which, as relates to wind, we demur, and challenge him to show that the pronounciation of wind so as to rhyme with mind is an innovation, and if an innovation, how long since it was brought into the language? Will not some of our friends favor us with an argument pro or con? ----------------------------------------- SENSIBLE. Most of our readers will doubtless see that the following is a very palpable hit at the absurdity of having houses "too fine for use." The following is taken from the New York Times, and we commend it as exceedingly true and at the same time aptly applied. "Call in at any brown stone front, "above Bleeker," at any time, except on the occasion of a great "spread," and it has the air of a very nice old maid in morning gown and curled papers--a cross between iron precision and painful desolation. Everything exists in a state of bagginess. The sofa is a mute inglorious corpse in a dimity winding-sheet. The chairs are put away in aprons and pantalettes. The chandelier wraps its night-gown around it. The shutters are closed to keep from fading the carpets, and only here and there, through the cracks, a little bit of sacred light peeps in and looks around, in a tremulous and sickly way. Everything smells of brown Holland, and everything looks as if it considered you fearfully impertinent for daring to come and disturb its elegant uselessness and brown linen repose. It is very much like going into a family vault after an epidemic, and having a lively time with a party of corpses in fresh grave clothes. In fact, you feel decidedly like asking the mistress of the house why she doesn't complete the picture by putting up the clothes-lines in the parlors, and hanging up the week's wash. Soberly, this show-shop arrangement, which makes home a nuisance, and drives father and son out of doors for that comfort which their own house is far too fine to afford them, is a growing nuisance, and lies at the bottom of half the social evils. When a man comes home after the fatigues of business he doesn't want a show-wife nor a show-shop house. He doesn't want an invisible palace; but a visible home. He wants something made to wear and use, and allowed to be used after its kind. He wants chairs that he can lean back in; and carpets made to be walked on; and a house alive all over; and a wife and children whose daily thought it how it can all be made happiest, cheeriest, most thoroughly comfortable for him. ----------------------------------------- LITERARY NOTICES. "THE EXPLOITS AND TRIUMPHS IN EUROPE, OR PAUL MORPHY, THE CHESS CHAMPION. By Paul Morphy's late Secretary. New York, D. Appleton & Co., 1859." The first English book was Caxton's "Game and playe of Chesse," which was published in 1474. Typographically, it would not be considered worthy of passing muster at the present day, and certainly the Appleton's must have had the idea that all other books on chess ought to be equally badly gotten up, since this record of Morphy's triumphs is any thing else but a "triumph" in the line of well printed or decently illustrated books. The "ten portraits on wood," are all of them miserably executed, and the whole volume bears the mark of great cheapness in the materials used. CHESS is, undoubtedly, a noble game; it is known all over the world, and dates back to a very remote period in the history of our race; indeed the Chinese claim to have known it three hundred years before our era. It has always been the favorite recreation of great minds, and the catalogue of the devotees of this game embraces some of the most renowned of the children of men. In all the tribes of the East, many are lovers of this game, as they have been for generations past, and amongst the scrupulous Mahommedans it is exempted from the penalties attached to gambling. But, we must ask, what are the claims of Caissa after all, that it occupies so much of the public attention? Is Morphy as important in this world's history as Dante or Saint Augustine, Cromwell or Raphael? Is the record of his matches at the Café de la Regence as important as the history of Magna Charta, or the Revoultion of 1688, or his "Exploits," in general, worth "Paradise Lost," "Faust" or "the Raven," or "The last Judgment?" We trow not. Chess, after all this noise and excitement, is at best, only a recreation; a game truly noble, but still, only a game. Let no one suppose that Mr. Morphy himself, is so blinded by his love of it, as to forget that it is only a game. He has not run wild with enthusiasm on the subject, but he has repeatedly said, that Chess is but "a recreation, and cannot be the object of life." Thus it will be seen that he is wiser and more moderate than the numerous admirers of the game, and particularly his admirers, who speak of Chess as if Morphy's triumphs were worth innumerable Divina Comedias, and countless Waterloos. Chess! Chess!! Chess!!! Why the world has been talking and writing and thinking more about it for the last year than anything, save, perhaps, the almighty dollar, which has been duly looked after in its connection with chess, as will be seen by the "wagers" of a thousand pounds, and the "Challenge" for a match between Morphy and Staunton for $5,000. The people of New York did very right to present our gifted young countryman with such a magnificent set of chess-men; but we must say that the speeches delivered on teh occasion were supremely absurd.-- The idea of talking about Whitney, and Morse, and Fulton, in this connection, must have fallen unpleasantly upon the ears of Mr. Morphy. But Mr. Fuller said some other very rich things, which we must quote: "You, sir, have been the first to achieve the honor of an undisputed triumph for American intellect. There is no speculation or hesitation as to where you are placed. In the unparalled successes where mind grapples with mind, your triumph has not been partial, or in the least degree incomplete. Your name is associated with those that never die. Sir, yours is no common lot. There is no parallel to the present proud position occupied by you. Neither in this nor in any preceeding age, has there lived a man who could truly say; 'I am the first in my special walk or profession," and have the whole world respond Amen. Who could ever say, "I am the greatest poet or author, painter, or sculptor, orator or statesman?" Even the transcendent genius of Nature's great dramatist, towering as it does with Alpine height above the other heaven-piercing peaks in the world of letters, stands not altogether alone. The united voice of the civilized world will echo the sentiments of friendship and fealty which are expressed to you here to night, for the reason that you have adorned your triumphs by unusual modesty, and you have succeeded, by your courtesy and your inherent virtues, in making those who were compelled to yield to your superiority, and to sacrifice a world-wide fame, become your most enthusiastic admirers and warmest personal friends. I, sir, as a lover of the royal game, appreciate your triumphs; but I see in them something more. I insensibly associate you with the great names to which I have alluded, and properly mingle yours with the fame that has been created by their achievements. A person so young, going out before the whole world, to the great capitals of Europe, to the centres of old civilizations, and there throwing down the gauntlet to meet you in mental conflict, presents a sublime picture of moral and intellectual power that has no parallel in history. But all the testimonials and orations which you have received, and will continue to receive in your triumphal march to your native city, sink into nothingness when compared with the great moral lesson inculcated by your achievements. In the great conflicts of mind with mind, which are to take place in this arena of American civilization, in all time to come--when the American youth, fired by ambition, while struggling to achieve something great and glorious, shall find it difficult to fashion into shape the half forged idea in his brain--in the dark hour of his despondency he will gather renewed courage for the conflict; he will catch the inspiration of hope, and grasp the certainty of success, when he asks himself--"Did not Paul Morphy, by the power of his unaided genius, render easy what was considered impossible, and not rest content until he had laid the world at his feet!'" After this preposterous piece of nonsense, let us hear the sensible remarks of the "lion" of the occasion. In the course of his reply, Mr. Morphy said, in a style which renders ridiculous, all these exaggerated and inflated compliments, on such grounds. "A word now on the game itself. Chess never has been and never can be aught but a recreation. It should not be indulged in to the detriment of other and more serious avocations-- should not absorb the mind or engross the thoughts of those who worship at its shrine; but should be kept in the background and restrained within its proper province. As a mere game, a relaxation from the severer pursuits of life, it is deserv---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------