1859-07-07 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, JULY 7, 1859. NUMBER 10 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Written for the Courant. CARRIE. ------ I have a little cousin, She's scarcely five years old, Her eyes are blue as heaven, And her locks are shining gold. Her brow's a lily petal, And her cheek a damask rose, She's a winsome little cousin-- And this, she almost knows.

Her glad blue eyes are beaming Like sunshine on the earth; And she laughs away the shadows With her effervescing mirth. She dances like a fairy, With footsteps light and free, As bright as any angel This Carrie is to me. Æ. ----------------------------------------- Written expressly for the Courant. MY COUSIN BLANCH. ------ BY THE AUTHOR OF "INEZ." ------ CHAPTER I.

"Faultily faultless; icily regular; splendidly null."-- Tennyson's Maud.

"Blanch, it is past midnight." She did not hear me. "Blanch it is one o'clock." Without looking up, she raised her hand toward the clock on the mantle, and answered coldly-- "You need not sit up to tell me the time of night; I have a clock here. Go to sleep Edgar." I rested one shoulder against the door, and leaning on my crutch, watched her for a few moments. It was not strange that men worshiped, and women hated and feared my peerless Cousin Blanch Maxwell. There she sat, as I had often seen her before, near a glowing coal fire, with her arms resting on the marble table, and an open book before her. She wore a loose wrapper or robe de chambre, of black velvet, lined with pale blue silk. The sleeves were very full, and fell away from the arms, exposing them from the dimpled elbows, and rendering their snowy whiteness more apparent, by contrat with the sable hue of the velvet. It was low in the throat, revealing the faultless turn of the neck.-- Her hair had been unbound, and falling around her shoulders, swept over the back of the chair and trailed on the carpet. It was of an uncommon color, neither auburn nor brown, but between gold and bronze; and sometimes when the sun shone on it, the rippling waves flashed until their burnished glory seemed a very aureola. It was thick and curling, yet she never wore it in ringlets. Now it was parted on her pale polished forehead, and hung around her like a gilded veil. The face was a perfect oval--you might measure it by all the rules of art, and except the height of the brow, no imperfections could be found. The nose was straight, clearly cut, and delicate, resembling that in the old heads of Alympias the mother of Alexander. The upper lip was short and curved like a bow; the lower, thin, firm and straight. Her eyes were unlike any I ever saw, they were larger than usual, and in color, resembled the purplish blue which borders the petals of the Clematis. Long lashes of the bronze hue of her hair shaded them, and when the eyes were uplifted, the curling fringes rested against the brow. I am no longer a young man; I have travelled over the greater portion of the globe. I have seen all types of beauty, from the Andalusians whom Murillo immortalized, to the farfamed Circassians of the Orient; I have seen many women of wonderful loveliness, in courts and cottages, but never yet have I found a head and face comparable to my Cousin's. A miracle of statuesque beauty was the queenly Blanch, yet I never looked at her without a feeling of awe, of painful apprehension, of undefined dread; and as I stood leaning on my crutches, watching her motionless figure, in its grand, yet graceful pose, I sighed involuntarily. She must have heard me, for she rose instantly, shook back her magnificent hair, and approached me. Her eloquent eyes were fixed on mine, and her deep clear voice, calm yet haughty, echoed through the vaulted room. "Edgar, I have told you, that you should not watch me. Once for all, go to your own room, go to bed.-- Come to my study no more, unless I invite you." "Blanch, your father forbade your studying until this hour. You will ruin your health." "I am my own mistress! Good night Edgar." She took up an astronomical book and map, and lighting a candle, passed by me, and mounted the spiral staircase leading to the observatory on the top of the house. I watched her tall form, as she slowly ascended, and in the dim light of the candle, her black dress and long floating hair seemed to belong to a veritable Urania. I heard her open the glass door of the observatory--then the light vanished--I heard the click of the lock, as she turned the key, and then I returned to my own room, and lighting a cigar, sat down to ponder for the thousandth time, the singular character of the woman I had just left. I am an orphan, and from my infancy have been crippled. Left with an ample fortune, I spent some years in travelling, and finally came back to my native land, and made my home in the house of my only relative, my uncle, Judge Maxwell. Once in her early childhood I had seen Blanch, when I returned she was a woman. She was an only child, her mother had lost her reason while Blanch was yet an infant, and died in a lunatic asylum, before her daughter was two years old. My uncle was a lawyer of great talent, and popularity; had held the office of Judge, and was indisputably one of the first men of the city in which he resided. He was stern, ambitious, and thoroughly selfish, occupied solely by his schemes for distinction and renown. If he loved any human being, it was Blanch; he was proud of her, and looked forward to a distinguished alliance, with some prominent member of his own profession. She grew up strangely like him, in some elements of character, but in others, totally antagonistic. Her nature was reserved and silent, and until her nineteenth year, she spent her life in study. When I returned from Europe, and came to reside in the house, she was twenty-one, and from the moment I met her, she was a fascinating mystery. Her intellect was rarely acute; I have never known but one other equal to it; her analytical powers were astonishing, and she pored continually over books which are generally considered unintelligible to her sex. Her favorite authors were the mystical writers of the middle ages, and of modern Germany. Novalis and Boehme were often in her hands, and Swedenborg was an oracle of which she never wearied. Of Geometry, Astonomy and Chemistry, she was passionately fond; and I have marveled at the patience and perseverance she evinced in some of her experiments and astronomical calculations. Into metaphysics she had dived deeply, and yet, with all this love of abstract speculation, hers was the most intensely æsthetic soul I have ever known. She was habitually taciturn; but sometimes the contemplation of beauty seemed to inspire her with unearthly eloquence, and on such occasions her bursts of enthusiasm thrilled me, as nothing else had power to do. Yet while she uttered words of irresistible pathos, her voice preserved its calm, even tone, her lip never quivered, nor did the faintest hue of rose tinge her marble cheek. I have watched for a glow of pleasure, or anger, or confusion, but was never gratified. Her face was of that clear colorlessness, which can be likened only to ivory, but the lips were marked with lines of scarlet. She went into society very frequently--my uncle's entertainments were numerous, and often splendid--and wherever seen, Blanch was the only attraction, the supreme and idolized beauty. It was not at all remarkable that she had no female friends, few were capable of appreciating her extraordinary intellect, and many envied her loveliness. Her manner was cold, haughty and abstracted. I doubt whether, of all her admirers, she suffered half a dozen to avow their love; and I have pitied the victims who followed her, fascinated by her beauty, yet kept at a distance by her repellant coldness. I never saw any one (not even her father,) attempt to caress her, she treated him with marked respect, but perfect indifference. I think it probable she never put her arms around his neck and kissed him in her life; I am very sure I never saw her do so. There was only one person whom she ever evinced the slightest interest in, or affection for, and this evidently resulted from pity for physical suffering and deformity. In speaking to me, her voice would sometimes soften, and three or four times she voluntarily approached the sofa where I rested, and put her beautiful cold pearly hand on my forehead.-- Once, too, she took away my crutch, and drawing my arm to her shoulder, made me lean upon her, while she pointed out the beauty of a pet plant at her feet. Sometimes I thought her utterly heartless, and incapable of loving anything, at others I seemed to obtain glimpses of a passionate nature, restless, beacuse it needed companionship and sympathy. One idiosyncrasy impressed me particularly--I never heard her laugh. No matter how witty the circumstances which surrounded her, she never laughed. She smiled a peculiarly quiet, fleeting smile; and while you watched the momentary change of the mouth, the lines returned to their accustomed composure. The expression of her face was not misanthropic, or troubled or stern, but calm, inflexible, fixed, like that of a marble image. My Cousin was a mystic. She had strange theories about the soul and its future, and occasionally, when more than usually abstracted, she spoke aloud concerning her "preexistences." I feared very much that she had inherited her mother's fatal tendency to insanity; and some of her pet doctrines, certainly bordered on lunacy. But when I examined her mathematical calculations, I was amazed at the clearness, and latent strength of her intellect. I believe she loved me, as well as if I had been her brother, and in her intercourse with me, laid aside her reserve far more than with any one else. Yet she puzzled me, and I threw away my cigar, and fell asleep in my chair. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

74 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER II. Blanch had a cousin who lived quite near her, and frequently spent her evenings at our house. Maria Haughton was a remarkably pretty girl, gay, heedless, fond of dancing, fond of all amusements, and entirely opposed in disposition, to the haughty woman who endured, rather than enjoyed her society. Maria feared her Cousin, yet in her constant intercourse, evinced a species of admiring awe. Her father was Blanch's uncle, and she had a brother about fifteen years of age, whose delicate health prevented his attending college. His father feared the curriculum would be too arduous, and being very wealthy, engaged a tutor to take charge of his education. The gentleman selected was Harvey Young, my college chum, and intimate friend. He had held an exalted post, as instructor in the College at which he graduated; but the confinement impaired his health, and he resigned his chair and took the position of tutor. In intellect he was unsurpassed, and his erudition and classical attainments were remarkable in one so comparatively youthful. He was my junior, but at the time of which I write, must have been at least thirty years old. He had been a student from his childhood; was pale and handsome; poor and proud. Of course, as my old and intimate friend, and Ralph Haughton's tutor, he was frequently at the house. Especially during the winter evenings, he came and sat with me; now vanquishing me in chess; now reading from the mighty "thunder roll" of Homer, and anon discussing collegiate life. I shall never forget the hour when he first saw Blanch. It was a rainy evening, and I was laying on the sofa in the library, when a servant ushered him in. Blanch was sitting at a table near, with a celestial map before her, and a geometrical treatise in her hand. She was distinguished by delicacy of taste, and in her style of dress. I never heard her speak of the fashions, unless Maria forced her to do so; yet her toilet always displayed faultless taste and forethought. Her father was wealthy, and she constantly wore the most costly materials. She always dressed in either white or blue. I once asked her why she restricted herself in the choice of colors, and she answered: "I can wear nothing but blue; I prefer it. Edgar, blue is a consecrated color. Azure, in its absolute significance, represents truth divine, and the spiritual form of man. When Vischnon, the supreme God of the Indians, represents the last degree of regeneration, he is of a deep blue color. Krischna, as the incarnation of truth divine, is colored azure; the priests of Saturn wore blue vestments; azure was the symbol of Eternity, and of human immortality, and consequently became a mortuary color. In China, blue is appropriated to the dead; blue is the symbol of the soul after death. I have read that in a manuscript of the tenth century, Jesus is represented in the tomb, bound by blue fillets; there are two attending angels, one has a blue aureole, and violet mantle, symbols of the passion and death of Christ. Edgar, Jupiter Ammon was blue. In cosmogonies, divine wisdom creates the world. God, the Creator, is always colored blue. In Egypt the supreme God was painted blue; in China, Heaven is the supreme God; and in Christian symbolism, the azure vault is the mantle which veils divinity; Edgar, blue is a consecrated color." This is one of many strange whims, gleaned from the books she pored over. On the evening to which I have alluded, she wore a blue silk dress, opened at the throat, and trimmed with some costly, exquisite lace. Her hair was drawn in rippling folds over her high, pure forehead, and coiled at the back of the head, under a blue and gold netting. From this netting, fringe and tassels of blue and gold, fell upon her neck. The short flowing sleeves exposed her beautiful arms, on which were clasped bracelets of turkois. As Harvey entered, she looked up, and their eyes met. I saw him start slightly, and a faint glow tinged his face. I presented him; she bowed distantly, and without moving a muscle, again fixed her eyes on her map. She seemed to forget his presence, and before long, left the room for some book she needed. When the door closed behind her, he passed his hands across his eyes, and sighed. "Blanch is beautiful; eh, Harvey?" "She is unlike any one I have ever seen. She realizes my ideal of the Iduna of Scandinavian Myths." Soon after, he said "good night," and left me. From this day they met frequently, and despite his self-imposed restraint, and affectation of proud indifference, I soon saw that Harvey loved her. He was a man of iron will, and strong nerves, yet, when she approached him, I could see his haughty lips tremble, and knew that his great heart was throbbing fiercely. Days and weeks went by; I watched them both with deep anxiety. Blanch was much as usual; I could discover no change in her deportment or appearance. Among her numerous suitors, was one, whom the world believed she would accept. He was considerably older than my Cousin, and was her father's partner. Mr. Murray was a widower, and had occupied an important diplomatic post, in an European court. He was an astute politician, and aimed at a re-appointment to some position of distinction. That he intended to marry Blanch, if possible, I had seen for some time; and to my great chagrin it was equally evident that my uncle favored his suit. Hard, cold, selfish; with no love for anything but fame and money; I sometimes smiled at the thought of his winning my Cousin. He was marked in his attentions, and constantly visited at the house. Blanch seemed as utterly abstracted and indifferent as ever, yet I noticed that she engaged in literary discussions with Harvey, with a zest she rarely manifested. Did she suspect his love for her? I could not tell. Unlike all others who approached her, he expressed his opinions boldly, no matter how antagonistic they might be to her favorite doctrines. Sometimes he met her arguments with delicate, yet caustic irony; no one had ever dared to address her thus. Occasionally I feared his sarcasms were too pointed, and would offend her. But during all those weeks when Harvey strove to oppose and irritate her, I could perceive no emotion of any sort. If he ridiculed her, she smiled quietly, haughtily, if they differed on weighty questions; she laid her views before him, calmly, carelessly. He was a man of giant mind and determined will, and I knew he was endeavouring to break the sea of ice which surrounded her; to rouse her to some display of passion. Perhaps she was aware of his intention, certainly she thwarted him. I was warmly attached to him, and knew that now, for the first time in his life, his proud and passionate heart was no longer his own. He grew moody, but came to the house more frequently. My uncle suspected the truth; I saw that to such a union he never would consent. Murray, too, looked upon Harvey as a rival, and more than once sneered at his presumption. Blanch studied on by midnight lamps, and if she had been a statue, could not have seemed more completely indifferent to both gentlemen. As winter came on, my health grew very feeble, I rarely left my room. One night Harvey sat by my bedside, reading aloud an old Greek tragedy. It was the evening of a great fetè, and Mr. Murray was waiting in the parlor, to take Blanch to the party. Presently the door of my room opened, and she entered, arrayed in evening costume. The dress was blue satin, with an over-skirt of rich white lace. The matchless arms and shoulders gleamed like ivory, as she came forward and stood by my pillow. I thought I had never seen her so superbly beautiful; yet she was as colorless as snow, except her firm delicate crimson lips. In her hair she wore ornaments of gold and terkois, representing fuschias, which hung so low as to touch her polished neck. She bowed to Harvey, who silently bowed in return. Laying her slender fingers on my forehead, she said: "How are you to-night, Edgar?" "Not well, Blanch, but Harvey will take care of me in your absence. You are late, are you not?" "Yes, as usual. I defer it as long as possible, you know. I wish I could stay and listen to that tragedy, but I promised to go; good night." She withdrew her soft fingers from my brow, and turned away, but her fan had fallen at her feet. Harvey stooped to pick it up, and as he handed it back, their hands touched. His pale, grand face, flushed to crimson; but not even the tint of a sea-shell crept into her cheek. She raised her splendid mesmeric eyes, and for an instant they looked at each other. The wonted cold smile curved her lips, then she inclined her head and merely said, as she walked away, "thank you." There was silence for some moments, and as the sound of the carriage died away, Harvey averted his face. I knew that he was struggling for composure, and seizing the opportunity, put my hand on his arm, and asked: "Harvey, why don't you tell her you love her?" He turned around almost fiercely and shook off my hand. "Edgar, what put that ridiculous nonsense into your head?" "Murray is a formidable rival," I answered, without heeding his words. He sprang up and strode across the floor, once or twice, then paused beside me. "It is needless to deny that I love her: she is the only woman I ever knew who could stir my pulses and make my heart bound like that of a frightened child. I have scorned myself for this weakness; have struggled to crush out this love; but for once in my life I am no longer master of myself. When she comes near me, I lose my reason, my will, my manhood. When she raises her fascinating eyes to mine, as she did just now, and looks at me, with that haughty smile on her lips, I can with difficulty keep my arms to my side. I am constantly tempted to clasp her to my heart, and tell her of the power she wields. Love her! love her! No, Edgar; it is a blind madness. It is an insane idolatry. Had I the wealth of the Rothschilds, I would give it all to take her little dimpled hands in mine. Were the universe mine, I would give it to fold her in my arms and lay her peerless head upon my bosom. Why don't I tell her I love her? You are more insane than I! Shall Harvey Young, a poor Professor, an humble tutor, aspire to the hand which foreign ministers covet? Ha! she is too proud, too ambitious. Her father fears me; well he may; for she loves me. Aye, Edgar, loves me. Fortune could not wring a confession of it from her; but I know it. Do you suppose I could bear to meet her if it were not so? And I will be revenged, though it costs me dear. She knows I love her; she does not need to be told. You saw her icy smile a moment since. She looked down into my soul, and saw her own worshiped image there. Yet she is too proud, too aspiring, too ambitious to encourage me, too much afraid of her own heart to trust herself with me. She may give her hand to William Murray, but her heart will not go with it. She may lean on his arm, and bear his name; but I swear to you, Edgar, that my image shall fill her heart! She tortures me now, and she knows it; but she, too, shall feel." There was a demoniac light in his flashing eyes, which startled and pained me; but before I could reply, he took his hat and left the house. When Blanch came to see me the following morning, I saw that something had occurred to annoy her. There was a blue vein on her forehead, which stood like a cord, and her lips were compressed resolutely. She talked calmly about various things, and after a little, left me. Subsequently I learned that William Murray offered her his hand, on their return from the party. She coldly rejected him. Her father was terribly incensed; upbraided, pleaded, remonstrated. She was firm, smiling all the while at the thought of being Murray's wife. Murray went to Washington on political business, (it was rumored to obtai a foreign appointment,) and spring glided into summer. Harvey visited me as regularly as ever; he never alluded to Blanch, nor could I elicit any confidence. She maintained her imprenetrable indifference, and seemed more than usually absorbed in her studies. One evening we sat together in the library; I was writing a letter, she was reading her favorite Frederick Von Hardenberg. Maria Haughton, Ralph, and Harvey Young came in. Conversation became general. Harvey was more entertaining than usual; he kept up an animated discussion with Maria and myself, and seemed totally to forget Blanch's presence. She looked on and listened. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 75 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Several circumstances had led me to suppose that Maria was attached to Harvey. This evening I was confirmed in my belief, and by some singular coincidence, just as this assurance was forced upon me, I looked up and met my cousin's eyes. She had made the same discovery, and a scornful smile flashed over her features. A moment after, there was no trace of emotion in her composed countenance. Then the truth darted through my mind. Harvey meant, if possible, to excite her jealousy. The thought seemed ridiculous. What did that proud, cold, heartless woman know of jealousy? One week passed. I saw no alteration in Blanch, save that now and then she frowned heavily. My uncle had invited Mr. Haughton's family to dine with him. It was his birthday, and some other intimate friends were present. Of course, Harvey Young came also. I was not well, and took my dinner in my own room. I knew that Blanch was quite indisposed; she took cold at a party, and had suffered with fever for several nights. The physician advised her not to appear at dinner, and she, too, remained in her own room; this I knew, and sent to ask if I might come and sit with her. She declined, pleading a headache. I went down to the library, expecting to meet Harvey there. After a while he came in. "Blanch is sick to-day," said I carelessly. "So I heard Judge Maxwell say, at the table. Is not that her room, yonder, with blue curtains? I saw some one pacing the floor as I passed." "Yes. It is the first time I ever knew her to be ill; I am uneasy about her." He smiled gently; took up a flute, and played a beautiful air, then threw it down with a force that snapped two of the keys, and left me. The evening was warm, and as the sun sank low in the west, I drew my chair to the window, and looked out. The library was a wing-room, and from the position I occupied, I could see the door of Blanch's apartment, which opened on a little portico. Two marble steps led down to the terrace, covered with bermuda grass. Before long I saw two figures walking slowly up and down this terrace. Maria leaned on Harvey's arm, and he seemed to be talking to her very earnestly. I was thoroughly provoked and restless. Had he selected the terrace, hoping that Blanch might chance to witness his apparent devotion? Such motives were unworthy of him; I tried to banish the contemptible supposition. Suddenly they paused, and while he clasped his companion's hand in his, I distinctly heard these words: "Then one month from to-day you will be my wife." Her reply I did not hear, but saw him touch her brow with his lips, and lead her back to the parlor. I covered my eyes and groaned. Did he mean it, or was it a last desperate attempt to wring concession from my Cousin? I knew she must have heard what passed, for they stood nearer her room than the library. A few minutes elapsed, and then, as I removed my hand from my eyes, I saw Blanch standing on the steps of her room. I took my crutches, and passing out on the terrace, approached her. The sun was just setting. She stood quite still, unmindful of my presence, and if I live a thousand years, I shall never forget the image daguerreotyped on my mind. She wore a white muslin wrapper, confined at the waist by a blue cord and tassel. Her hair was unbound, and the glittering bronze waves swept almost to the floor. The last rays of the sinking sun fell upon that wealth of golden hair, and it flashed back, in burnished lustre. She had tossed it all away from her lofty brow, and the blue veins were swollen on her white temples. Her hands were folded over her heart, as if to still some fierce throbbing, and her bare unslippered feet, gleamed pearly white, on the marble steps. The large blue eyes were raised, and fixed vacantly on the sky, and the chiseled lips, usually so firm and rosy, were white and fluttering, pale and quiet. I looked at her, and knew then, that she had once had a heart warm and loving; but now, and henceforth, it was a blackened ruin. Then, for the first time, she laughed. It was a low, quick, mirthless, mocking laugh, and I thought it sounded like the snapping of a string on some musical instrument. I touched her icy hands; she drew back a step or two, and looked at me. "Blanch, you are ill; come in." "Edgar, my head aches and burns, burns, will you do something for me?" "Anything that I can do, Blanch." "Bring me a pitcher of ice-water." She sat down on the steps, and I hastily procured the water. As I approached her, she smiled and motioned to me to pour it on her head. She leaned over, and I slowly emptied the contents of the pitcher on the bowed head. The dripping, curling hair trailed over the marble steps, and as she raised her face, I saw a strange sparkle in her eyes, and an unusual flush on her cheek. I was alarmed; her mother's unhappy fate recurred to my mind, and I took her hand. She withdrew it, and rose, with a smile still on her lips. "Tell Father I am coming to the parlor directly; and tell him, too, that I request him to keep my Cousins and Mr. Young, till after tea." "Oh, Blanch! don't think of it; you are ill." "No, I am perfectly well now; go, I am coming immediately. (CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.) ----------------------------------------- PAPER ON ALEXANDER HUMBOLDT. ------- READ BY DR. FRANCIS LIEBER, Before the American Geographical Society, New York, June 2, 1859. ------- "The whole earth is a monument of illustrious men." There are passages in the works of antiquity which, to our ears and minds, have the sound and depth of inspiration. They impress themselves on our souls, and having faded in the lapse of years, they are restored to visible letters, by corresponding occasions on the paths of our lives. Such seem to me these words of Pericles, and such the occasion which has brought us together in this place. What Pericles said in his funeral speech of the men who had fallen not for the defence, but for the glory of Athens, seems to apply in a double sense to Alexander von Humboldt. Wherever death occurs, or is remembered, there is solemnity, nor can we wholly free ourselves even from mourning, when a revered man has left us, however full his measure of a favored life may have been. He lived so long and so large a life that generations over the whole globe have grown up familiar with his name, and we were so accustomed to it that our very intellects feel a degree of discomfort at presenting to our minds the world henceforth as existing without him. There is a void without Humboldt. Yet it is one of the noblest delights for those who reflect and love to be grateful to trace the chief components of the monument of illustrious men to their authors--to find whence came the discoveries, inventions, conceptions, institutions and endeavors of ages in the field of culture, freedom and truth. Who has not enjoyed the pleasure of finding the spots on the chart of human progress where you put down your finger and say, here is Aristotle, and here again, here is Hildebrandt, here is the conquest of Constantinople traced even in the discovery of our continent, even in Descartes and Bacon; here are the causes and the effects of the University, and to trace the lines of civilization in different directions from point to point? And this delight we may enjoy when meditating on the period of which Humboldt was one of the most distinct exponents--we enjoy it even now, although he has left us but yesterday; for God allowed to him days so long that he passed into history before he passed away from among us. Many of my young friends have asked me as their teacher, and, indeed, many other friends have repeated the question, as I conversed with them on that news which on its arrival attracted more interest than the accompanying advice of the close approach of the contest in the plains of Italy--was he not the greatest man of the century? I do not believe it fit for man to seat himself on the bench in the chancery of humanity, and there to pronounce this one or that one the greatest man. How many men have been called the greatest? But if it is an attribute of greatness to impress an indelible stamp on an entire movement of the collective mind of a race; if greatness, in part, consists in devising that which is good, large and noble, in in perseveringly executing it by means which in the hands of others would have been insufficient, and against obstacles which would have been insurmountable to others; if the daring solitutde of lofy thought and loyal adhesion to its own royalty is a constituent of greatness; and if rare and varied gifts, such as mark distinction when singly granted, showered by Providence on one man; and if modest amenity, gracing these gifts and encouraging kindliness to every one of every nation, that proved earnestness in his pursuit, whether he had chosen nature or society, the hieroglyphics or the liberty of America, the sea and the winds, or the languages, astronomy or industry, the canal or prison discipline, geography or Plato; if, in addition, an organizing mind, a power of evoking activity in the sluggish, and sagacity and unbroken industry through a life lengthened far beyond that which the psalmist ascribes to a long human existence; and if a good fame encircling the globe on its own pinions and not carried along by later history--if this makes up or proves greatness, then, indeed, we may say, without presumption, that one of the greatest men has been our own, one who was so favored an exemplar of humanity that he would cease to be an example for us had he not manifested through his whole life of ninety years that unceasing labor, unvarying love of truth and advancement, and that kindness to his fellow-beings which are duties, and in which every one of us ought to strive to imitate him. What an amount of thinking, observing, writing, traveling and discovering he has performed, from that juvenile essay of his on the textile fabrics of the ancients to the last line of his Cosmos, which reminds us of Copernicus reading the last proof-sheet on his death-bed, shortly before his departure, or of Mozart, who directed, with dying looks, the singing of a portion of that requiem which he had in part composed, conscious that his ears were not to hear it. Let us, one and all, young and old, symbolize by the name of Humboldt, the fact that, however untrue assuredly the saying is, that genius is labor, it is true that the necessary factor or co-efficient of genius and of any talent is incessant diligence. We are ordained not only to eat the bread of our mouth in the sweat of our brow, but to earn in the same way the nourishing bread of the mind. This is no world of trifling, and Humboldt, like the Greeks, whose intellectuality he loved to honor--whose Socrates loved to say:--Arduous are all noble things--was a hard-working man, far harder working than most of those who arrogate the name to themselves. He ceased to work, and to work hard only, when he laid himself down on that couch from which he never rose again. It is not considered inappropriate, I believe, on occasions like this, to give distinctness to the picture by stating personal observations. Allow me, then, to relate a very simple, yet characteristic fact. I visited Humboldt at Potsdam in the year 1844, when he had reached, therefore, the age of seventy-five; for you know that he was born in that remarkable year of 1769, in which Cuvier was born, and Wellington, and Chateaubriand, and Napoleon, and Canning, and Walter Scott, and Mackintosh--just ten years after Schiller; just twenty after Gœthe. Humboldt told me at that time that he was engaged in a work which he intended to call Cosmos; that he was obliged chiefly to write at night, for in the morning he studied and arranged materials, or received visitors, and in the evening he was expected to be with the King from 9 o'clock to about 11. After his return from the King he was engaged in writing until 1 or 2 o'clock. Humboldt, when in Berlin or Potsdam, was retained, if we may use a professional term, to join the evening circle of the King for the indicated hours. It was all, I believe, he was expected actually to perform in return for the titles, honors and revenue which he was enjoying, except that the monarch sometimes selected him as a companion on his journeys. Humboldt described to me the character of these royal evening reunions. Everything of interest, as the day brought it to notice, was there discussed. The drawing of a beautiful live oak near Charleston, which a fair friend had made for me, was taken by Humboldt to that circle, where it attracted so much attention that he begged me to leave it; and he told me that the volume describing our aqueduct, which my friend, the author, now the President of our College, had given me at the time of its publication, and which I had then sent to Humboldt, had furnished the topic of discussion for an entire week. We collected, he said, all possible works on ancient and modern aqueducts, and compared, discussed and applied for many successive evenings. Is there, then, a royal road to knowledge after all, when a Humboldt can be retained? May I extend your supposed permission of giving personal anecdotes, provided they are of a sufficiently biographical character, such as Plutarch, perhaps, would not have disdained to record? I desire to show what interest he took in everything connected with progress. I have reason to believe that it was chiefly owing to him that the King of Prussia offered to me, not long after my visit, a chair to be created in the University of Berlin, exclusively dedicated to the Science and Art of Punishment, or to Pœnology. I had conversed with the monarch on the superiority of solitary confinement at labor over all the other prison systems, when he concluded the interview with these words: "I wish you would convince Mr. von Humboldt of your views. He is somewhat opposed to them. I shall let him know that you will see him." Humboldt and prison discipline sounded strange to ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

76 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ my ears. I went, and found that he loved truth better than his own opinion or bias, and my suggestion that so comprehensive a University as that of Berlin, our common native city, ought to be honored with having the first chair of Pœnology, for which it was high time to carve out a distinct branch, treating of the convict in all his phases after the act of conviction, was seized upon at once by his liberal mind. He soon carried the minister of justice along with him, and the offer to which I have alluded was the consequence. On the other hand, a friend, whose name is, perhaps, more interwoven with the history of our canal than that of any other citizen, excpet Clinton, informs me that he ha the pleasure of sitting by the side of Humboldt at a royal dinner at Charlottenburg. During the whole timt hey were engaged in conversing, almost exclusively, on our great canal, and that greater one which ought to unite in everlasting wedlock the sturdy Atlantic an the teeming Pacific, having now yearned for one another for centuries. Humboldt spoke with a knowledge of details and a sagacious discernment, which was surprising to my friend, well versed in all the details of these topics. Although it has been stated by high authority that the works of Humboldt show to every one who can "read between the lines," an endeavor to present Nature in her totality, unconnected with man, I cannot otherwise than state here that on the contrary, it has ever appeared to me that this great man, studying Nature in her details, and becoming what Bacon calls her interpreting priest, he elevates himself to those heights whence he can take a comprehensive view of her in connection with man and the movements of society, with language, economy, and exchange, institutions and architecture, which is to man almost like the nidifying instinct to the bird. Humboldt's tendency in this respect seems to me, in its sphere, not wholly dissimilar to the view which his friend Ritter takes of geography in connection with history. Humboldt, it would seem, could hardly be expected to stand in a different relation to the natural sciences.-- He was, with all his erudition and the grandeur of his knowledge, eminently a social man. I have found a passage in a paper, written by a diplomatist and highly cultivated writer, Varnhagen von Ense,* which I feel sure will be listened to with interest. Von Ense describes his sojourn in Paris in the year 1810, and says: "In the salons of Metternich (at that time Austrian Embassador near the Court of St. Cloud) I saw Humboldt only as a brilliant and admired meteor, so much so that I hardly found time to present myself to him and whisper into his ear a few of those names which gave me a right to personal acquaintance with him. Rarely has a man enjoyed in such a degree the esteem of all, the admiration of the most opposite parties, and the zeal of all in power to serve him. Napoleon oes not love him; he knows Humbolt as a shrewd thinker, whose way of thinking and whose opinion cannot be bent; but the Emperor and his Court, and the high authorities in the State have never denied the impression which they received by the presence of this bold traveler, by the power of his knowledge, and the light which seems to stream from it in every direction. The learned of all nations are proud of their high associate; all the Germans of their countryman, and all the Liberals of their fellow." * * * "It has rarely been vouchsafed," continues Von Ense, "to a man in such a degree as to Humbolt, to stand forth in indiviual independence, and always equal to himself, and at one and the same time in scientific activity and in the widest social and international intercourse, in the solitude of minute inquiry, and in the almost confusing brilliancy of the society of the day; but I know of no one who, with all this, has endeavored throughout his whole life to promote the progress and welfare of our race so steadily, uniformly, and with such ample success." So far Von Ense. This picture is doubtless true, but we ought not to recall it to our memory without remembering at the same time one of his most prominent characteristics--his simplicity and amenity, so inherent in him that they were never dimned, so far as I know, by the lustre of his talents or the energy of his thought. The most perfect image of social refinement, which I have to this day in my mind, is an early evening party at the villa of William von Humboldt, near the Lake of Tegel. Nature has not done much for that spot, but refined simplicity, courtesy and taste, easy interchange of thought and experience, gemmed with sparkling converse, men of name and women of attractive elegance and high acquirements, young and old, travelers, courtiers, artists, soldiers and students, music, works of art, green lawns, shrubbery and winding paths along smooth water or waving fields, are the components of that scene, in the midst of which the two illustrious Humboldts moved an delighted others as much as they seemed to be gratified, ----------- * Published in Raumer's Historical Annual, for 1845.

giving and receiving, as all the others did, never condescending, never indicating a consciousness that they encouraged the timid, but showing how gladly they received additional knowledge from every one. Humboldt retained his freshness of min and soul to his latest years. This was one of his greatest charms. No one, I believe, has ever heard the old man's complaint of changing times, from his lips. He never sighed for the "good old times," although he had lived through changes in institutions and opinions, of systems and language, of men, manners, and even of dress, as no other prominent man. He received the living traditions of the great circumnavigator, Cook, through Forster, Cook's companion, and lived to gather facts for his Cosmos from the latest reports of the geological surveys of our States; he lived when Voltaire died, and must have grown up with many French ideas of his school floating around him, for Humboldt was a nobleman whose family lived within the atmosphere of the Berlin court; and he lived to witness the great revolution in literature as well in Germany as in France and England; he lived when Rousseau died (the same year when Voltaire deceased,) and must have remembered, from personal observation, that homage which even monarchs paid (at a distance, it is true,) to the Contrât Social, and he outlived by some weeks de Tocqueville. He lived through the period of the American Revolution; was a contemporary of Washington and Adams, and a friend of Jefferson.-- He lived through the French Revolution and the age of the classic orators of Britain. He lived through the Napoleon era and the resuscitation of Prussia and of all Germany. He studied under Werner, with whom mineralogy begins, and knew Houy. He knew Laplace, survived Arago and Gauss, and worked with Enke. He lived with Kant, and knew Schelling and Hegel. He knew Goethe and read Heine. He read Gibbon's Decline as a work of a living author, and perused Niebuhr, and later still Prescott and Ranke. He grew up in the Prussian monarchy according to the type of Frederick the Great, and with the fresh reminiscences of the seven year's war, and left it changed in army, school, government--in everything. He saw the beginning of the Institute of France, and lived to be considered by the associates as one of the most brilliant ornaments at its most brilliant period. He lived through the periods which distinctly mark the science of chemistry, from Lavoisier to the Roses and Liebig. He lived through the whole period of growing popular sentiments and habits. He wore the lace and ruffle of the last century, and the more practical dress of our times. Yet, no one, I repeat, ever heard him regretfully long for what had passed. I have heard him speak with warmth of noble things and men that he had known, but never with gloomy despair of the present or the future. There are men here around me of honored names in those sciences which Humboldt cultivated more especially as his own. I hope they will indicate to us how he infused a new spirit into them--how he immeasurably extended them--how he added discoveries and original conceptions; but I, though allowed to worship these sciences in the peristyle only, and not as a consecrated priest, crave permission to say a few words even on this topic. Some fifteen years ago Humboldt presided over the annual meeting of Naturalists, then held at Berlin. In his opening speech he chiefly discoursed on the merits of Linnæus. He knew of Linnæus as Herodotus knew of Salamis and Thermopylæ; for the life of the great Swede over-lapped by some ten years that of Humboldt, and all he there said of Linné seems to me to apply to himself with far greater force and on an enlarged scale. In that speech, too, I remember, he quoted his friend Schiller. Humboldt was, in a marked manner, of a poetic temperament. I do not believe that without it he would have been able to receive those living impressions of nature, and to combine what was singly received in those vivid descriptions, and in language so true and transparent that they surprise the visitor of the scenes as, generation after generation, they are examined. He had that constructive imagination--I do not speak now of inventive fancy--without which no man can be great in any branch, whether it belong to nature or to history, to statesmanship or Watt's ingenuity. But yesterday an officer of our navy, whose profession has made him well acquainted with South America, by sea and land, and with the Andes--one of the Monuments of our Illustrious Man--told me that he knew of no descriptions, or rather characteristics so true to living reality as Humboldt's Views of Nature, which he had perused and enjoyed on the spot. The power of collocation and shrewdness of connection, the knowledge of detail, and the absence of a desire to perceive things according to a system, the thirst for the knowledge of the life of Nature, and the constant wish to make all of us share in the treasures of his knowledge--his lucid style, which may establish his Cosmos as a German classic--these seem to me to characterize Humboldt in his Studies of Nature, besides all that which he has done as a professional naturalist. Humboldt's name and life may be termed with strict propriety of language, international. He read and spoke English and Italian; he spoke and wrote Spanish with ease and correctness, and French almost as well as German; he lived for entire periods of many years in Paris, and counted many French among his best friends, yet not at the expense of patriotism. In that very speech at Berlin, which has been mentioned, he dwells with pleasure on the penetrating effect which the German mind has excersised on all the physical sciences, no less than in the mental branches. Humboldt was a dweller in kingly palaces--a courtier if you choose, and a son of a courtier, without a taint of servile flattery or submission. He was rather the honored guest of royalty. He loved liberty, and considered it a necessary element of our civilization. He was a sincere friend, of substantial, institutional freedom.00 His mind often traveled to this country, and that he loved America (sometimes with sadness,) is sufficiently shown, were it not otherwise well known, by the singular love which the Americans bore him. To me that little piece of news was inexpressibly touching, which simply informed us that our Minister in Berlin, with the Americans now present at that city--a cluster of mourners from afar--formed part of his funeral procession--the only foreign nation thus represented. In his simplicity and genial warmth he did what many a bold man would have hesitated to do. I was present, as a young and distant listener, when at Rome, immediately after the Congress of Verona, the King of Prussia, Humboldt and Niebuhr conversed on the affairs of the day, and when the last mentioned spoke in no flattering terms of the political views and antecedents of Arago, who, it is well known, was a very advanced Republican of the Gallican school, and uncompromising French Democrat. Frederick William III simply abhorred Republicanism, yet when Niebuhr had finished, Humboldt said, with a sweetness which I vividly remember: "Still this monster is the dearest friend I have in France." Humboldt had all his brother's views of the necessity of the highest University education, and of the widest possible popular education, and he gave impulse to many a scientific, historical or ethnological expedition, fitted out even by foreign Governments, for he was considered the counselor of all. But I cannot dwell here any longer on his versatility and manifold aptitude. It is proved by the literature of almost every branch. If we read Barth on Central Africa, we find Humboldt; if we read Say's Political Economy, we find his name; if we study the History of the Nineteenth Century, we find his name in the diplomacy of Prussia and France; if we read general literature, we find his name in connection with Schiller and Madame de Staël; if we look at modern maps, we find his isothermal lines; if we consult Grim's Dictionary of the German language, we find Humboldt as authority. That period has arrived to which Crœsus alluded in the memorable exclamation, "Oh, Solon, Solon, Solon!" and we are now allowed to say Humboldt was one of the most gifted, most fortunate and most favored mortals-- favored even with comeliness, with a brow so exquisitely chiselled that, irrespective of its being the symbol of lofty thought, is pleasant to look upon in his busts, as a mere beautiful thing--favored even in his name, so easily uttered by all nations which were destined to pronounce it. When we pray not only for the kindly fruits of the earth, but also, as we ought to do, for the kindly fruits of the mind, let us always gratefully remember that He who gives all blessed things, has given to our age and to all posterity such a man as Humboldt. Dr. Lieber resumed his seat amid great applause. ----------------------------------------- TOMB OF THE CÆSARS.--A correspondent of the Baltimore American, writing from Rome, communicates the following discovery: "Immediately beyond the tomb of the Scipios, we entered the deep vault recently discovered, containing the urns and ashes of persons attached to the family of the Cæsars. The largest one contains 612 stone urns, and the smaller one 512, each filled with ashes and charred bones. The walls are of stone, with pigeon-holes in which the urns are set, and over each is an inscription on white marble set in the stone. The chambers are about thirty feet deep, with stone steps and an iron banister to descend them, all as perfect as when last used, 2,000 years ago. ----------------------------------------- To preserve a friend, honor him when present, praise him when absent, and assist him cordially in time of need. ----------------------------------------- Some descendant of Solomon has wisely remarked, that those who go to law for damages are sure to get them. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 77 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Courant. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, JULY 7, 1859. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE COURANT. Subscriptions for the Courant will be received at the Bookstore of Mr. P. B. GLASS, in this City, where single copes 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 coridally recommend these gentlemen to the kind attentions and courtesies of our friends. WM. W. WALKER, JR., & CO. ----------------------------------------- MONTHLIES FOR JULY. The Atlantic contains some things of all sorts; good, bad and indifferent. The "Professor at the Breakfast Table" discourses much concerning women, and winds up with a suggested romance. The poor old doctor is rather below his standard this month, while the poem which concludes the article is merely a repetition of what the Autocrat-Professor had said long ago. The paper on Thomas Paine's second appearance in the United States, presents some interesting considerations.

The Knickerbocker gives us great variety this month; "New York illustrated," "Romantic aspects of California and India," "The romance of a poor young man," &c., make a very readable number. "Depnologica variosa" will be read with pleasure; but why does the author call St. Simeon Stylites, St. Simon?

The Editor's Table is attractive as ever. The contents are as follows: New York, illustrated, by Dr. James O. Noyes; Romantic Aspects of California and India; Alone, by Miss Fletcher; The Seat of War; A Character, by T. B. Aldrich; The Romance of a Poor Young Man (illustrated by Hoppin); The Lark; Deipnologica, by Charles T. Congdon; A Schoolmaster to his Wife; Young America, by R. S. Chilton; Aunt Patty and her Nieces, a New England Story, by a lady of Cambridge, Mass.; The Water Spout, by Rev. F. W. Shelton; From Museum Deliciae.

The Great Republic, with its painfully red title-page, and some equally painfully read articles inside, arrives duly. "Seven years in ye Western land," is getting intolerable. But the papers on Valparaiso, and on the New York Stockbrokers are very entertaining. The poem, "The picture on the wall," is, we suppose, from the pen of our gifted poetess, Sarah Helen Whitman; it is suggestive, wierdly, Poe-ish.

Harper's, the king of the Monthlies, comes freighted, as usual, with matter for every taste. As our readers may like to know who are the writers of the articles of this sterling Magazine, we give them below. The Saguenay, written and illustrated by Benson J. Lossing: A Visit to John Brown's Tract, written and illustrated by Col. T. B. Thorpe; The Flea, by Mrs. Charlotte Taylor; Ode on the Birthday of John Wesley, by William Ross Wallace; Aceldama Sparks, or, Old and New, by Rose Terry; The Death of Walter Butler, a ballad of Tyron county, by Thomas Dunn English; A Story of a Garter, by Edward H. House; A Midnight Adventure on Mount Cenis, by Mrs. Annie Brewster; In the Garden, by T. B. Aldrich; John Wesley, by Rev. Mr. Hagany. ----------------------------------------- "AMERICAN WRITERS." From one of our exchanges we clip the following: "Of the hundred and sixty-eight authors, from whose writings selections are made in "Cleveland's Compendium of American Literature," forty-eight were born in Massachusetts; twenty-five in New York; twenty-three in Connecticut; seventeen in Pennsylvania; eleven in Maine; six in New Hampshire; six in Virginia; five in Maryland; four in New Jersey; four in South Carolina; three in Vermont; three in Rhode Island; two in Ohio; several states have but a single representative." The secret of this, lies in the fact, that "Cleveland's Compendium" is a miserable anti-slavery concern. The Saturday Press gave a very thorough review of it last December, and proved triumphantly that not only had almost all the literature of the South been ignored, but that some villanous injustice had been done otherwise; as for instance, wherever the occasion offered for a fling at the South. Moreover, we have discovered since, that several true men of the North have been excluded from this volume, "because they were too lenient towards the institution of slavery, and too friendly towards Southern men and Southern literature," The English of the book is wretched, the Press having shown up some of the most stupid blunders, appalling ignorance, and false style, that it has been our fortune to see in a long time. Mr. Cleveland is not only a mad ablitionist, who has excluded Southern authors, and filled his book with slanders on the South, but he is a miserable dunce, who cannot write the King's English, and who makes an ass of himself otherwise, in general. If our readers desire to know something about the number of Southern writers, see DUYCKINCK & ALLIBONE. ----------------------------------------- If a truth be established, objections are nothing. The one is founded on our knowledge, the other on our ignorance. ----------------------------------------- WAR. From the last Saturday Press we extract the following thoughtful and suggestive passages, which occur in a sermon by the Rev. Mr. Bartlett, of Brooklyn. The humanity of this sermon is really refreshing in these days of stilted formalism. He had chosen for his text, the 4th verse of the second chapter of Isaiah: "They shall beat their swords into plough-shares, and their spears into pruning-hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more." "The prophet has a vission of Christ's kingdom come. He sees beyond the grave of the last vicious passion, when no hand shall remain to wield a sword or a spear, and the plough-share and the pruning-book shall stand, the emblems of perpetual peace. He looked through the future as through a lens, and beyond the ages of battle his eye at last rested, and, as his highest conception o fMillennium, he predicts a cessation of hostilities, an eternal armistice between conflicting nations. "'Shall learn war no more.' It was farther than the present that the prophet must have looked, for Europe is one vast military academy, where men are disciplined in the tactics of scientific slaughtering, before they are allowed to practice a peaceful profession. The history of war would well nigh tell the history of the world. All nations have their sacred battles to which they point back with veneration. Poets and orators can find no more inspiring theme than the achievements of some warlike hero; and sculptors and painters draw their inspiration from imaginary battles. All the past is but one continuous battle; and I doubt whether, since Abel's slaughter, the sun has ever made his circuit without looking upon bloodshed. The nations have used peace as an individual uses night, to recuperate for more violent struggles. Such an universal outlet to the passions of the race as war has been, is worth a moral consideration. "The mind of the individual holds, in germ at least, all the passions that have rocked continents, all the intellectual conditions and possibilities that have characterized the world's golden ages--all the moral states, in fractions, that millennium, or heaven even, will possess in totality. A man is a key to a nation, to the universe. And thus we may hope to understand war. We, who are dwelling in a land of long pace, and consequent plenty, read of war as a past barbarism, and it requires an effort to appreciate that within a few weeks, thousands of human beings have been butchered in conflict; to realize that while I speak, half of Europe is in arms; nay, at this instant, may be, the very earth is quaking beneath the shock of cavalry, and the green glories of an Italian Spring are polluted by a shower of blood. Yet it is the one absorbing topic of the day. It loads the telegraphs, and gives the steamer a heartier welcome. All eyes are strained Eastward, and all hearts cast their sympathies with one party or the other." There is food for thought in this passage: "There is, then, a fearful attractiveness about war. Religion is made to ennoble and sanctify all misdoings. Satan never has a plan of scientific deviltry but what religion is used as the decoy. See the cast-iron piety of the Puritan Cromwell, fighting for God's glory, and England's crown. What a spectacle of bigoted enthusiasm does his army present! Now they are saying grace over their powder, and invoking Father, Son, and Holy Ghost to guide their bullets to their enemies' hearts. These men were invincible. They felt as though in some way they were props to the eternal throne. They renounced the carnal drum and fife, and moved solemnly to the slaughtering shock, to the tune of 'Old Hundred,' and 'Mear,' accenting each line with a volley of musketry, while the graons of the dying echoed an awful interlude. Conquer them? Why, death was victory. War was attractive to them, for eternal glory lay just beyond it. Our own Washington hallowed the execution of Andre with a prayer, and poured upon the blaze of vomiting batteries a solemn benediction. Later, in the English army, we have a Havelock and a Henry Vicars serving the King of kings, and the Queen of queens, with apparent consistency, mailed with a double panoply; to-day, before the Malakoff of Sevastopol, or the Sepoys of India; to-morrow, waving their palms, where sword and plowshare are alike useless--the one missing a ducal coronet in his ambition to seize a saint's diadem." "Oh1 if you have never heard the unwritten story of a war, as it is lived in the pauses of battle, you are not prepared for disclosures. The field of the most desperate carnage but faintly typifies that war of lust and passion that rages in the hearts of both armies. Then ponder upon the anxiety and the love that follow these husbands and fathers. Think of the arrows of anguish that will fly from the field of Montebello, shooting out the light from many a firmament, and crushing the life from many a heart. The mother and the little ones may wail and sob for the father in the wars. Years of anxious watching --aye, quick descents into anguish-dug graves, will be the fate of the innocents at home. Were I a monarch, I would rather purchase peace at almost any cost--rather divide my kingdom --aye, die by my own sword--than be crushed into my grave by a weight of human agony, or have my spirit's peace drowned in the tears of the fatherless, or leave earth orchestrated by that awful wall--that crash that goeth up when a million widowed hearts are breaking. ----------------------------------------- THE REASON. From the Atlantic for July this "vox Clamantis in deserto:" "With a metropolis planted in a crevice between Maryland and Virginia, and stunted because its roots vainly seek healthy nourishment in a soil impoverished by slavery, a paulo-post-future Capital, tho centre of nothing, without literature, art, or so much as commerce--we have no recognized dispenser of national reputation, like London or Paris." Doubtless, this is why the great Frogpondia takes such care of her mutual-admiration Society. But what right has a Boston Magazine to complain of America's lack of a "metropolis-of mind." when the great Autocrat has said, and all the people of the city of Brains applauded the idea, that Boston is the intellectual hub of the world? Especially, why lament that Judge Parsons has no national reputation? Is he not famous in Boston? and is not that enough? ----------------------------------------- LITERARY NOTICES. ------ "THE CAVALIER:" An Historical Novel. By G. P. R. JAMES. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson & Brotheres, 1859." Columbia: P. B. GLASS. Another novel from James! Another dilution of that timehonored plot, the horseman, the battle, the rescue, and those details always so faithfully attended to, and so uniformly like his model! Really, the climax of Mr. JAMES' absurdities is now capped; for the "Cavalier" is immensely inferior, even to the worst of his other attempts. We have literally waded through this tiresome volume, and the single feeling of pleasure which we have experienced was one of profound relief at turning the las tpage. Itis a dull, patch-work, tiresome book. It seems to have been written with the conviction that it was his duty to furnish the munificent publishers with a certain quantity of matter, in consideration of the large sum which they had stipulated to pay him, to wit: $1,680. The Petersons themselves seem to regard the fact of a large payment for the book as a sort of guaranty for the character of the contents, since they publish first, (in their advertisement of the Cavalier,) Mr. JAMES' letter, wherein he acknowledges the magnificent terms, and notifies his patrons of the bills which he has drawn upon their house. He ends his letter with the cheering assurance of his liking the book in MS., and his opinion that "there is quite enough action in it to suit you," (the Petersons.) The publishers then state the points of excellence which JAMES' writings possess, and go on to say that the enduring books are the Robinson Crusoes, the Vicar of Wakefields, the novels of Scott & Charles Dickens, &c.--(what a classification!)--and sweetly console us with the assertion, "so it is with mr. James' productions, which alwas receive warm commendations from the highest critics. He does not tear either his style or his passion to tatters; he does not rejoice in extravagances of diction or monstrosities of character." All of which is true, except the item of "commendations from the highest chritics." JAMES has been as severely criticised, and as justly too, as any man who ever wrote; and even the praises which are accorded to him have always been for his quiet style, his entire unaffectedness, and a certain sort of story-telling power, which nobody possesses like him. But a great novel, in the sense in which "My novel," and "Jane Eyre," and "Ivanhoe," and Coopers', Victor Hugo's or Dickens' and Thackeray's novels are great, he has never yet written. His province is somewhat like that of our Carolina novelisit, W. G. Simms, simply to tell stories of stirring and diversified interest, by reason of the action involved in a more or less complicated plot; but to the level of the great works of the first rank of novels, neither of them ever rise. Leigh Hunt has well expressed the province of JAMES' power, and as it embodies precisely our opinion of his merits generally, we shall quote it here: "I hail every fresh publication of James, though I half know what he is going to do with his lady, and his gentleman, and his landscape, and his mystery, and his orthodoxy, and his criminal trial. But I am charmed with the new amusement which he brings out of old materials. I look on him as I look on a musician famous for 'variations.' I am grateful for his vein of cheerfulness, for his singularly varied and vivid landscapes, for his power of painting women at once lady-like and loving; (a rare talent,) for making lovers to match, at once beautiful and well-bred, and for the solace which all this time has afforded me, sometimes over and over again, in illness and in convalescence, when I required interest without violence, and entertainment at once animated and mild." A philosophical novel in his hands would be the flattest of flat things. Think, what would he do with such plots as those of D'Israeli's "Vivian Gray," or Bulwer's "Caxtons"; much worse, what would become of him with such outlines chalked out for him as were doubtless vividly in the minds of the great geniuses who wrote "The Newcomes," or "David Copperfield?" Give him a plot like that of the "Cassique of Kiawah," or "The Yemmassee," and he would do exactly what Mr. Simms has done with them: he would make a plain, straightforward tale, with little reflection, little analysis of character, small attraction of style, but full of stirring incident, and made vastly interesting by a story thickening with wild adventures of love and war, and graphic descriptions of the times and manners, introducing always a solitary horseman or two, a ride which should result in the heroine's getting into water and the hero's rescuing her from that peculiar condition. "The Cavalier" is insufferably commonplace, of the stereotype-style, and altogether one of the most tiresome books we ever read. Here and there occurs a gleam of the old power in depicting a "hair-breadth 'scape," but soon he falls back into the dreary flatness of that school whose novels are all so constructed that the reader can predict, after reading the first chapter, precisely what fate awaits all the characters. The cooking match between Madam Marzot and Gaillard came very near being a good thing, but it didn't. The sketch of the skirmishing of Turenne and Condè we thought was going to be find, but lo! it failed also; while the melo-dramatic scene between Cromwell and Lord Dartmoor (p. 335, et seq.,) is little short of the ludicrous. The man of iron, Oliver Cromwell, does not look like himself in this portraiture, and we fear that Mr. JAMES has transgressed the rule which Cromwell himself laid down, "paint me as I am." Lucy is a tearful, fearful and love-sick ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------