1859-07-14 The Courant

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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 14, 1859. NUMBER 11 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ For the Courant. "AN INVOCATION TO BACCHUS." From an unpublished Poem. ----- BY MONOS, JUNIOR. ----- Respectfully Dedicated to F. H. E.

Let Naso and Maro, and amorous Flaccus, Call on the Muses; I'll call on old Bacchus, The god of the wine-cup, the jolly old toper, Of whom e'en a little will fill us with hope, or A still stiffer quantity make us so great, We very irreverently snap fingers at Fate. The Muses, those very prim Ladies of Eld, The devotee jolly God always has held, Have naught in their chaste hearts of anything hearty, Tho' they may be quite nice for a very small party. Indeed, they've done nothing, than I can rememBer, except a Large Lexicon sacred to them, Which ta'en at the best I know only affords Inexhaustible quantities of very large words; And these (if I err may I burn at the stake) Can, if blessed to the full, but mere rhymesters e'er make. So Jolly God lend me thine aid, and I'll show it, That liquor, not Lexicons, 'the hope of the Poet. But come not, Oh Tope, in thy terrible form Of Cognac Brandy, lest being so warm You burn me like Tonans, I think it was he The inquisitive female was anxious to see; Nor come as a cobbler, nor zephyric punch, Things fit only really to wash down a lunch; But Jolly God come, and come quick, for I wait, In the simple disguise of a plain whiskey strait. ------------------------------------------ Written expressly for the Courant. MY COUSIN BLANCH. ----- BY THE AUTHOR OF "INEZ." ----- CHAPTER III. When Blanch entered the parlor, half an hour afterwards, I could scarcely believe she was the same woman I had seen but a short time before. She was dressed in white, with blue necklace and bracelets, and her damp hair, instead of being twisted into a coil, was looped and tied with blue ribbons, while a few delicate clematis blossoms drooped gracefully from the golden folds. The glow had faded, the mouth was fixed. Not a vestige of emotion remained. There was no assumed gayety; no rigidity to betray her. She seemed just as usual, just as I had seen her for three years. She looked at harvey as she entered, bowed, and for the first time voluntarily extended her hand. He grew deadly pale, and for an instant their hands met. She passed on to her Aunt and Uncle, and he sat down beside me, trembling and defiant. Maria appeared embarrassed and restless; Blanch cold, calm, indifferent as ever. The papers stated that the distinguished Mr. Murray had been appointed to the post of Minister to --------, and would leave as soon as possible. The appointment was discussed; Blanch listened without comment. The door-bell rang, and William Murray was ushered in. A sudden scowl darkened Harvey's brow, and he fastened his piercing eyes on my Cousin. She must have known that he watched her, for she forced a smile of welcome to her lips, and rising instantly, held out her hand. Murray grasped it eagerly in his, and I saw that from that hour Blanch's fate was sealed. When Maria rose to go, she drew her Cousin aside, and made some whispered request. I only heard Blanch's steady, unconcerned reply: "Accept my congratulations, Maria. Certainly, I will be one of your bride's-maids with great pleasure." Murray lingered after the others had left; my uncle, too, sought the library, and, suspecting that my presence was unwelcome, I retreated to Blanch's study, and waited for her. Here everything bore marks of her incomparable taste; books, statues, paintings, flowers, vases, musical instruments. I sat down, and a long hour dragged itself away. She came in, and without speaking, seated herself at the open window. She did not see me. Leaning her arms on the window-sill, she rested her face on her palm. The bright moonlight shone full upon her countenance, and I saw that the pale features were stampted with unwavering determination. She sat very still, looking out on the terrace, and I approached her. "Blanch, do not be offended; I must speak to you before I sleep." She did not move, and merely said, "Well, what is it, Edgar?" "You surely do not dream of marrying William Murray?" "Six weeks from to-night I shall be his wife." Her voice was clear, and marvelously sweet; not a muscle quivered as she spoke. "Oh, Blanch, have mercy upon yourself. He cannot make you happy. There is not a particle of congeniality in your tastes. You do not love him. Blanch, dear Blanch, I beg you to relinquish the thought." "No; I have promised; my father has blessed me-- if I live six weeks I shall be Blanch Murray." A frigid smile fled over her features, and she shivered. "Blanch, you are about to commit a great sin. God will curse a union induced by such motives as actuate you. You know you do not love him; you do not even feign or profess to do so." "Love him? Oh no! But then you know I never had any heart. You told me yourself, long ago." "Yes, Blanch, I was a blind fool. Now I know the truth and all the truth." She sprang up, and confronted me. "The truth?--what truth?" "You are marrying Murray because------oh, Blanch, don't force me to say it." She put her hand upon my shoulder, and said, resolutely, "The truth, Edgar, the truth!" "You and Harvey love each other; yet both are too proud to confess it. Maddened by pique and disappointment, he intends to marry Maria, hoping to inflict pain on you. And you have determined not to be outdone; therefore you promise to marry Murray, knowing that thereby you will inflict everlasting torture on Harvey's jealous heart. Oh Blanch! Blanch! you stand on the brink of an awful gulf. Revoke your decision, I implore you." "Who told you all this, Edgar?" "Can you deny that it is true?" "I have no wish to deny it. Edgar, Edgar! I am very miserable; yet I shall not alter my determination. I will keep my promise. I will marry Murray, if it cost me my life. I am very proud; my pride has been wounded; and now I trample on my heart to revenge the insult. You are right--Harvey will suffer more than I. Maria will be no companion for him; his lofty intellect soars far beyond her paltry themes. He will obtain a fortune, and pay down his peace of mind, as its price. I loved him, Edgar; Oh, I loved him as I never loved any one before, but now the power of loving seems stricken from my heart. I know it will madden him, when he hears that I am Murray's wife. I could not have married Harvey, because he is obscure and poor, and my father would rather have seen me dead; but I thought I could love him, and hoped he would come to me and tell me he loved me. I wanted to hear it from his own lips; I wanted his proud soul to bow down before me, and then I intended to tell him, that though I could never marry him, I would give my hand to no one else; I would always love him--love him better than my own life. Now all things are changed. Edgar, my cousin, I am very proud; let no one suspect the truth. Henceforth mention him to me no more. Good night." She motioned to me not to follow her, and moving away, ascended to the observatory. The month passed and the night of Maria's bridal arrived. Blanch was always beautiful, but on this occasion she exulted in her wonderful loveliness. The bridal party assembled in the back parlor, and took their positions before the folding-doors were opened. I stood in the passage, leaning against the stair-case, and saw the expression with which Harvey regarded my cousin. She stood very near him, and during the ceremony I understood why his broad chest heaved, and his eyes burned so fiercely. It was over, and he was a husband. I thought Blanch shuddered once, but she offered her congratulations with the cold quietness so peculiar to her, and all the while looked up into his eyes with a haughty smile. For some time I missed her in the crowd, and then Murray (on whose arm she leaned,) drew near the bride, and, as if ashamed of his former sneers and suspicions, gayly proposed to exchange partners for the promenade. Maria moved away with him, and Harvey seized Blanch's hand and rested it on his arm; but I saw that his clasp still held her fingers, notwithstanding her efforts to withdraw them. They walked on, and I followed them; out on the gallery, through the green-house, down into the parterre. The moon shone brightly, and they were sufficiently near me to allow my hearing what passed. Blanch would gladly have returned, but he drew her forward, and I heard her say, "We have walked far enough, Mr. Young; we will return to the parlors, if you please. Your bride will wonder at your desertion." "Not yet, Blanch, aye, Blanch! I will call you so before we part. You must hear my confession first; by Heaven, you shall!" He threw his arm around her, and clasped her to his bosom. She struggled an instant to free herself; then stood still and looked at him with a withering smile. "Blanch Maxwell! I have made you suffer terribly; I intended to do so. I have cursed myself for life, to inflict pain on you, and I have succeeded. Oh, Blanch, my peerless, beautiful Blanch! I worshipped you--you knew it, and gloried in it; yet kept a glacier between us! You scorned the thought of a union with one so humble, yet he alone possessed your heart. Henceforth we are strangers! I trust I shall never look upon your face again--the sight of it almost maddens me. I would fain put the universe between us. Love you, Blanch! Ah! who can tell how devotedly!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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82 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ He bent his head and kissed her curling lips. She did not struggle to prevent it; but haughtily, scornfully her words rang out on the night-air,-- "Harvey, you are the greatest sufferer. You began the game of feigning affection for another. I learned the lesson, and, before many days, shall be a wife--William Murray's wife! Ah, you shudder, Harvey. It is all your work; you drove me to it. Once I loved you, now I scorn you. Go back to your gentle, trusting wife, and learn to deceive her, and hide your misery. I do not care now that we are parted; I have ceased to love anything. But you can never forget; your nature is different. You will love me always; your passionate heart is mine--mine forever! Good-bye, Harvey.-- Should we chance to meet in future years, I shall not be troubled with memories." She unclasped his arm and returned to the house, and ten minutes afterward, I saw the two standing a few feet from each other, talking with easy grace, and smiling as calmly as though no aching hearts throbbed in their bosoms. Harvey Young and his wife left the following day for the North; and two weeks later, on the morning of Blanch's marriage, I sought her in her study. She testified neither fear, regret nor joy, at the step she was about to take. Her countenance was cloudless as when I first saw her; her pale broad forehead calm and smooth. I felt the tears gather as I looked into her splendid melancholy eyes; and she said with the old smile,-- "You will miss me, Edgar; but remember I am marrying a man of great wealth and distinguished eminence, and you must not regret me. Take care of my globes and maps, and be sure to keep my telescope in order.-- I shall come back some day and need them." She stood up with her hand on Murray's arm, and in five minutes she was his wife. They were going immediately to New York to take the steamer for Europe, and she came to tell me good-bye. I took her in my arms and wept, but she smiled and passed her hand over her brow, saying,-- "Take care of yourself, Edgar. When I come home from Europe, we will renew the old days of study. Goodbye. I wish you were going with me." She stooped down and pressed her lips to my forehead, then gave her hand to her husband and entered the carriage. As it passed, I caught a last view of a beautiful marble face, with folds of golden hair on a noble, pure brow, and delicate fixed lips that very rarely smiled, and I knew that my cousin Blanch went to her elegant home at ------- Court, a very hopeless, but proud and uncomplaining woman. ----- CHAPTER IV. I was very lonely without her. I missed the stately form, and slow, measured tread; the calm clear voice, and face of wonderful beauty. Months, years glided by. She wrote occasionally, but generally of the society which surrounded her, or the duties of her husband's position. Of herself she never spoke, except to mention the pleasure European museums of Art afforded her, and I could only conjecture her feelings. I loved her above everything else on earth, and finally resolved to go to her. My arrangements for the journey were completed, and I intended to leave on the following day, when my uncle gave me a letter. It was from my cousin, and contained only these lines: "Dear Edgar:--I do not know when I shall be able to return home. Mr. Murray thinks it uncertain how long he will remain here, and I want you to come to me. You are very lonely in my old home, and here we would be companions for each other. Bring me all my maps, and, Edgar, don't forget my telescope; pack it carefully. Your cousin, BLANCH." I sailed from New York a few days later, and after some weeks of travel reached the city of my destination. I went at once to the residence of the American Minister, but he was absent. The servants told me that my cousin had been ill for a long time, and her husband had taken her to a celebrated watering-place, in the hope of restoring her health. My heart ached with painful apprehension, and I hurried to that distant watering-place It was late in the afternoon when I arrived at the hotel, and found that Murray was in his room. I followed the waiter instantly, and at the door met the Minister. He was pale and worn, and one glance at him sufficed to send a thrill of terror through my frame. I grasped his arm. "Murray, how is Blanch?" He shaded his face with one hand, and pointing to the room behind him, unclasped my fingers and hurried away. As I entered the chamber a solemn stillness reigned, and I heard only the sound of my own crutches. A silken couch was drawn close to the western window, and I knelt down beside it, and looked upon the face of my cousin Blanch. She was dead! About three hours before I arrived, she had fallen to sleep! and, man though I am, I wept bitterly as I gazed upon her. Ah, I have seen painting and statues, but nothing that equalled her marvelous perfection. Her luxuriant glossy hair lay like a veil around her shrouded form, and its golden masses flashed, as the setting sun threw one last quivering ray on the head of the sleeper. Cold and marblelike, silent and calm: "Her palms were folded on her breast: There was no other thing expressed, But long disquiet merged in rest." She was emaciated, but I could discover no wrinkle on her noble snowy brow; and no lines of grief or suffering about the matchless lips. I knew then that she had struggled desperately with her proud heart, and crushed it; though there was no trace of the conflict in her passionless, peerlesss face, and I laid my head on her pillow, and touched her polished cheek, and groaned aloud. Then I heard a low bitter laugh near me, and saw Harvey Young standing on the opposite side of the couch. His face was gray and bloodless; his fierce, wolfish eyes were riveted on her countenance, and he put out his arms as if he longed to take her to his heart.-- Oh, I pitied that strong, stern, miserable man, as his stony features writhed, in his remorseful agony. He was tall and muscular, but now he trembled, and sank down by the couch, and took the folded pearly hands in his. "Blanch, O, Blanch! my darling, speak to me!" His very tones were altered, and his massive head, with its grizzled locks, sank on his broad chest. When last I saw him, not one silver thread whitened his jetty hair. Three years had sadly changed him. He knelt there for some moments, and I saw him press his lips repeatedly to the delicate waxen fingers. "Harvey, why are you here?" "To see her once more, before the grave hides her loveliness forever. The public knew that the wife of the American Minister was dying; I heard it, and came here. Yesterday evening she took her last ride. I stood near the carriage, and saw her as they lifted her carefully in, and arranged the cushions for her to rest comfortably. She raised her glorious violet eyes, and saw me. It was the first time since the night of my marriage, three years ago. I took off my hat and leaned forward. She met my gaze steadily, and without a vestige of emotion, save that I saw that blue vein swell on her forehead; then she smiled proudly, defiantly, and turning away, nestled her head against the cushions. The carriage rolled on, and from that moment I believe I have been insane. I waited to see her as she returned, but Murary bore her in his arms, and I could only see her magnificent hair, and the outline of the hand, which hung listlessly over his shoulder. Murray entered this room, and now I see her for the last time! Oh, my own haughty, queenly Blanch! my dead darling! my murdered idol!" He pressed his lips to hers, and severing one long braid of hair, put it in his bosom, and left the room. Some days after, Murray gave me a letter which Blanch had written just before her death. He said she sat up in her easy chair, and wrote it very calmly; and he never suspected she would die so soon. She folded it and laid it on her lap, and he went into the adjoining room to speak to some one about obtaining some medicine for her. Soon after he returned and spoke to her, she sat quite still, but did not answer. He stooped down, and lifting the bands of hair that had fallen over her face looked at her. Her eyes were closed. She had died all alone. I opened the letter, and the characters were as firm and legible as when she wrote in her diary, years before. I could find no trace of weakness in body or mind. "Edgar:--You will not arrive in time to see me. I am sorry it has happened so. I would have written to you earlier, if I had thought the end would come so soon. I leave some calculations, which I have made with great care. Revise them for me, and in my name send them to the Astronomical journal I formerly contributed to.-- Edgar, my cousin, I wanted to see you before I died; but it cannot be. I am very lonely in my last hour.-- May God have mercy on my soul. Life is short, and in a little while you will join me. Good-bye, Edgar, I am glad to die; very glad. If I could, I would not add a day to my life, I suffer no pain now. Edgar, I am glad to go. BLANCH." I pondered that letter for a long time, and wept over it. Then I took my crutches, and went to my own room, and penned a brief account of what I had witnessed; hoping that some noble-hearted, yet proud man, may be warned by a recital of Harvey Young's life-long misery and remorse; and that some lovly, but unbending woman, may shudder in anticipating a fate similar to that of my gifted Cousin Blanch. (CONCLUDED.) ------------------------------------------ THE PRICE OF BOOKS IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA. ----- Dr. Shelton McKenzie, the assistant editor of the Philadelphia Press, mentions that a new American work, which is published and sold in this country, at one dollar, is republished and sold in England at two dollars and a half. The Dr. says: There is no reason why it should not have been sold in London at one dollar, the retail price here. The duty on new American books imported into England is three cents per pound. The Convalescent, (the volume in question,) weighs twenty ounces, which would make the import duty on each single volume about four cents.-- English publishers allow the trade twenty-five per cent. profit, while the American publishers would give Low & Son, of London, about thirty per cent. The five per cent. difference would fully pay for the freight and duty, leaving Messrs. Sampson, Low & Son precisely the same profit, as if they sold an English book. An American in England who desires to buy this new book, and knew that its retail price is a dollar, must be thunderstruck in Messrs. Lows' bookstore, in London, at being charged two dollars and a half for it. This it is which makes the sale of American books comparatively small in England. This encourages piracy, to the inury of the American author, by checking the sale of the American printed books, in which he has an interest. Ought not our authors and publishers look to it? By way of contrast, we draw attention to another book. The Harpers, of New York, have just published a new domestic novel by Charles Reade, author of White Lies, Never Too Late to Mend, and other extremely popular works of fiction. The new book is called Love Me Little, Love Me Long, and is one of the best, because most natural, stories we have read for years. We place it alongside of Adam Bede, and our very excellent friend, Doctor Thorne. This book has not yet been published in England--at least, not a fortnight ago.-- The Harpers purchased early proof sheets of it from the author. It will be published by Trubner & Co., London, in two volumes, price one guinea. The Harpers retail the same book, handsomely printed in one volume of 435 pages, for 50 cents sewed, or 75 in cloth boards.-- Why do they put it thus low? To prevent competition, and to secure a great sale. Perhaps, in the course of a year, as Charles Reade is popular, 1,500 copies of his book may be sold England, among 30,000,000 inhabitants. Some 500 of these will give $5 for the the book, for their drawing-room or library tables. The remaining 1,000 copies will be purchased by the circulating libraries, who will lend out the volume to readers at twentyfive cents per read--just half what the book can be bought for in this country. Perhaps 25,000 copies will be sold here. With these facts before them, need any one wonder that the Americans (thanks to cheap books in all departments of literature) are the greatest readers in the world, and possess an unusually large amount of such general information as books can give? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 83 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Written for the Courant. "LIZZIE CLARENDON." ----- BY MRS. MARTIN. ----- A genius is emphatically a rara avis, a scarce plant-- such as the aloe, blooming once in a century. Few have been accorded to the world. Many may have wished to see a genius, one of God's peculiarly and greatly gifted ones, one on whose brow is Heaven's signet-seal of mental immortality. One such, we had once, in our midst. One, good as she was gifted, yet such an one, unobtrusive, sensitive, modest, is like the tufted primrose, discovered only by the aroma of it fragrance, and (such is the world) it is suffered too often to "waste its sweetness on the desert air." Our genius soon, as is generally the case, "sparkled, was exhaled, and went to Heaven." Her span of life, though brief, was not indefinite, but remains a line of light, a radiant track for us to follow on to "brighter worlds." "You may break you may ruin the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still." And so, thus endures the vitality of our genius, our gifted and good "LIZZIE CLARENDON," whose fragile body, though like the rose-vase, is shivered into dust, yet, whose thoughts, and these remain to us, are immortal. Would that more of this spirit of the flower, that cannot die, were left for us, for earth is made better and more beautiful by such influence. One as young so greatly gifted few have ever personally known, or ever heard or read of, as ELIZABETH SPAIN CHAMBERS, more generally known by her nom de plume, "Lizzie Clarendon." Had she been born in another latitude, with an Irving for her biographer, as far as the Davidsons, and that is world-wide, would her name and her fame have been transmitted, her genius as far excelling, theirs as their fame has outtravelled hers. Our own "Lizzie Clarendon," born and reared beneath our own sunny skies, nurtured in the lap of piety, the daughter of one of our most self-sacrificing ministers, child of genius, true woman, humble christian, cause indeed have we to mourn the early, unlooked-for demise of one so fitted by nature and grace to beautify and bless the world. This genius-gifted one, as is usually the case, had early to struggle with that adversity which seems almost the necessary discipline for the highest spiritual and mental achievements; but more than conqueror she rose superior to that which had prostrated a less dominant will, or less persistent spirit. And yet with that intellectual and moral energy and vigor which nothing might altogether depress or enervate, still must we deplore the want of that unbroken time, that unin terupted retirement, so indispensable to continuous literary effort, for to this cause, mainly, must we attribute the brevity and scarcity of the productions of her pen, of the angel-like visits of her muse, so few and far between. O! for some large-hearted modern Mecænas, to hold out a fostering hand to the dependant child of genius, so that his mind be free, at least from carping "care for the morrow," and that he know, not by faith only, his bread and water sure. In our day, why is so little aid afforded the struggling aspirant for literary prëeminence, that which is of attainment so difficult and of rank so superior? To the painter and sculptor there springs up simultaneously the patron, from our own State even, a Deveaux had his Hampton and Gibbes, a Powers his Preston. Alas! there was none for the superior genius, "Lizzie Clarendon." In an earlier age it was not so. The poet basked in the sunshine of his patron's munificence, affording him means for books, travel, leisure, in short, for development. Though the true poet may not flatter "Neptune for his trident, nor Jove for his power to thunder," still should he, for the perfection of his art, succumb to it, that the feverish, excited, trembling hand, that wields "the pen inspired," needs as much as ever to be calmed, soothed, and steadied, while encouraged, prompted, energised by the abundant loves-charity of some liberal hand and generous heart. Too often does "Cold Penury repress the noble rage, And freeze the genial current of the soul." That Lizzie Clarendon's magnificent genius did suffer premature eclipse from this adverse influence, they who knew her history, too well know, that under more benign auspices (and these in the power of many to have created for her) she might now be wielding her chaste and elegant pen for the benefit and honor of her country, her sunny South, who can doubt? Her brother-in-law, Rev. J. T. W., in a brief but beautifully appreciative obituary notice of her, in The Home Circle, says: "Her literary career began at sixteen, when a brotherin-law sent, against her remonstrances, her first production to the American Courier, published in Philadelphia. To this paper she became a regular, and admired contributor, and soon enlarged the circle of her pen by writing for the Sunday School VIsitor, Columbia Times, Home Circle, and other periodicals in which her soubriquet, "Lizzie Clarendon," sparkled as a gem. Her poems are of a high erder. She studied the structure of verse, and the musical flow of its measure seems the breathing out of her own soul. She was a true woman, fragile, highly intellectual, acutely sensitive, her colloquial power, remarkable, it won but never wounded, her deep azure eyes gathered fresh light in animated conversation that sweetly drew and chained in silence the whole family circle." Previously to her literary career, at the Columbia Female High School of Mrs. Martin, her correct and elegant compositions as her distinguished standing in a large and talented class of girls, mostly over her own age, gave bright promise of her brilliant future. But, she was born the poet; her eye, her ear, her heart, her sensibility, sensitiveness, excitability, all constituted her the child of Song, for though her prose writings were popular, and superior, yet, poetry was her soul's utterance, her inspiration, her excellence, her surpassing eloquence. Take, as specimens, "The Minister's Dream," "Lines to a former Teacher," "Lament for the Loved," and this last as quoted in the little book, "Day-Spring," we must be allowed to insert here, and, if it does not abide the test of closest criticism, in its claims to highest excellence, we take back all we have said respecting the transcendent genius of Lizzie Clarendon: LAMENT FOR THE LOVED. ON THE DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL BOY. ----- BY LIZZIE CLARENDON. ----- "Whom the Gods love, die young!"

GONE like a pleasant dream, Which erst had cheered the dark and silent night With its loved presence, and its gilding light; Gone like a passing gleam, Shed by some wanderer from a brighter land, Some wanderer from the pure and angel-band-- Our boy hath passed away!

We had not kept him long! Seven short summers, with their leaves and flowers, Their sunny glances and their sparkling showers-- Linked in a brilliant throng-- Went by us, with their light and dancing feet, Beating the measure to some music sweet, Heard from the spirit-land!

We watched them as they flew, Trembling with dread, lest each should be the last; 'Till, one by one, the brilliant throng had passed-- And then too well we knew-- Like the fair sisters whom the ancients gave, To starry brightness, o'er the Egean wave-- They had passed on--to heaven!

His bright looks haunt us now! His wavy locks with silken softness fell, Shading the snowy home where, like a spell, Thought sat upon his brow; His radiant eye, with its clear upward glance, Seemed to behold, as in a spirit-trance, The "hidden things" beyond!

He was not made for earth! Like the frail harp through which the zephyr floats, Waking to melody the slumbering notes, His nature, from its birth, Attuned to harmony, gave back alone To breath or touch of love, its music-tone, Tender, and sadly sweet!

That harp, so fine and frail, When strong wings o'er it rude and roughly break, Unstrung and shattered, its faint chords will wake In no wild, witching wail-- So, thoughts or words unholy or impure, No answering echo from his soul could lure-- It kept itself unstained!

He was not made for earth! Sent here to light our pilgrimage awhile, With his dear presence and his angel-smile, That, by his priceless worth, We might be weaned from all the fading toys That make the sum of sublunary joys-- He was at length reclaimed.

The jewel was not given To deck the tents where dwell our mortal parts, But that, its contact with our yearning hearts, When it should rise to heaven, Should draw us with a strong, resistless force, Like the star-pointing ore, to the pure source Of light, of life, of love!

Another of her disabilities for frequent or continuous composition, was her early becoming a wife and mother. Her mother's heart then ceased to remember its young ambitious dreamings, centering all its hopes, joys and aspirations in "the innermost," (as the Sweedes have it,) of her home, the daily duties of which the muse is no kind fairy to perform for her fondest votary. But soon upon that home burst the cloud of bereavement, and her mother's wail for her lost darling, is as follows:

I AM THINKING OF THEE BABY! ----- I am thinking of thee, Baby! And my tears are falling fast-- Of the time I first beheld thee; Of the time I saw thee last; Of the many, many hours, When thy little nestling head Lay upon my loving bosom, 'Till they took thee from it--dead.

I am thinking of thee, Baby! Once I lay so weak and pale, That the very life-blood's gushings, In my heart had seemed to fail, When they brought my new-born treasure, And I looked on thee and smiled-- Thinking life most sweet and precious, For thy sake, my darling child.

I am thinking of thee, Baby! When thy life had numbered days, And each coming day had added To thy beauty and thy grace. Waking, sleeping, I can see thee-- Restless, eager in thy play; Birdlike moving and untiring, Through the blessed livelong day.

I am thinking of thee, Baby! How when eve was drawing near, And the day's last rosy lingerings In the West would disappear, How thy bright eyes would grow misty, As in sympathy with earth, Till the snowy lids would cover All their radiance, all their mirth.

I am thinking of thee, Baby! Spring is comign to the earth; In the forest, by the fountains, Bursting buds and flowers have birth; Birds are singing in the woodland, Singing gladly, as of yore; But I miss thee--oh, my Baby! Spring can glad me now no more.

I am thinking of thee, Baby! Oh, my bursting heart will break, As it all comes up before me; All its grieving for thy sake! When those eyes would pleading seek me, Asking for relief from pain; Pleading--asking of thy mother-- Pleading--asking--all in vain.

I am thinking of thee, Baby! They had robed thee all in white; They had laid thee down most gently, Covered o'er with flowers bright; Coldly, coldly were thy fingers Folded on thy little breast; No more lifted to thy mother, From that peaceful, painless rest.

I am thinking of thee, Baby! As my Bible says thou art Clasped in tender love and kindness To thy precious Saviour's heart! Oh! I could not bear it, darling, Were it not taught to me there, Such as thou, the gentle Shepherd Makes his own, his choicest care.

I am thinking of thee, Baby! Life to me is not so dear; All my hope and all my object Is to meet thee ever there! Pitying Saviour! when the hour For my death at last shall come, Send my blessed, angel Baby To escort me to my Home!

Too finely strung that harp of hers for the rough winds of earth; too delicate the strings of her lute for the careless or rude touch of the thoughtless or unrefined; too exquisite all the harmony of her nature for the jarrings of a world not attuned to the key-note of a spirit ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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84 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ such as hers. She was my pupil. A teacher's honest pride will not allow me to withhold the fact. Was ever teacher so rewarded, 'the pupil become the intellectual model, the exemplar,' the teacher drinking large draughts of inspiration and refreshment from the stream she had taught to flow. O, when a small rivulet she disencumbered it from the weeds and roots that had choked up its source, and removed the sand and drift-wood that had impeded its onward career, little did she deem that one day its broad waters would bear on their bosom more than the wealth of Ind. Little does the teacher imagine oft, the priceless value of the gem, which, as a cunning lapidary, he is to cut and polish, the preciousness of the diamond upon which he is to engrave sentiments, lasting as eternity. Such gem, such diamond was "Lizzie Clarendon. As her life had been beautiful, so its end was glorious. Her dying eyes were allowed a Pisgah view of the new Jerusalem, that city of her God, henceforth to be her enduring habitation. With a countenance already lighted up with rays from the glory to be revealed, with ears attuned to the rustle of the angel wings, with the words on her lips--"I have talked of Heaven, I have sung of Heaven, I have written of Heaven; but, O, until now, how little did I know of its real beauty and joy! Heaven, sweet Heaven! almost home!"--she passed away, to the peace and blessedness of a clime more congenial to her than this. A WAIL FOR THE GIFTED. ----- A wail for the gifted, the gifted, the good, O, the tide of our grief swelleth high as a flood, And its wild beating surges seem ever to moan The wreck of our fond hopes, our gited one gone.

We mourn thee, we mourn thee, our gifted our good. 'Tis due to thy genius and worth that we should, Even while well assured that on bright burnish'd wing Our Song-bird hath gone with the angels to sing.

It was meet, she on soaring, bright pinions should rise. Untarnish'd, unsoil'd, early up to the skies, Like a lark in the morning that upward doth go, While its song cheers the hearts of the dwellers below.

And though she hath taken Empyrean flight, She hath left for us here a sweet song of delight, If attuned be our hearts to the heavenly strain, For us she hath lived, and hath died not in vain. Columbia, S. C. ------------------------------------------ THE EXHIBITION OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY. ----- Looking, a second time, over the many critical notices of our Metropolitan picture-show, concerning which our extracts last week were somewhat lengthy, we cannot find much more that would interest the general reader. Still, it would be wrong to omit Mr. Ruskin's comments on his quondam friend, Millais, albeit, this artist has been pretty well dissected; you need not fear a rehash of any other critic's views, when you read John Ruskin. Thus does he discourse, in a recently published pamphlet on the several London exhibitions of the season, touching The Vale of Rest: "I have no doubt the beholder is considerably offended at first sight of this picture--justifiably so, considering what might once have been hoped for from its painter: but unjustifiably, if the offence taken prevents his staying by it; for it deserves his study. 'We are offended by it.' Granted. Perhaps the painter did not mean us to be pleased. It may be that he supposed we should have been offended if we had seen the real nun digging her real grave; that she and it might have appeared to us not altogether pathetic, romantic, or sublime; but only strange, or horrible; and that he chooses to fasten this sensation upon us rather than any other. "It is a temper into which many a good painter has fallen before now. You would not find it a pleasant thing to be left at twilight in the church of the Madonna of the garden at Venice, with the last light falling on the skeletons--half alive, dreamy, stammering skeletons--shaking the dust off their ribs, in Tintoret's Last Judgment. Perhaps even you might not be at your ease before one or two pale crucifixes, which I remember of Giotto's and other not mean men, where the dark red runlets twine and trickle from the feet down to the skull at the root of the cross. Many an ugly spectre and ghastly face has been painted by the glooomier German workmen before now, and been in some sort approved by us; nay, there is more horror by far, of a certain kind, in modern French works--Vernet's Eylau and Plague, and such like--which we do not hear any one declaim against--(nay, which seem to meet a large division of public taste,) than in this picture which so many people call 'frightful,' "Why so frightful? Is it not because it is so nearly beautiful? Because the dark green field, and windless trees, and purple sky might be so lovely to persons unconcerned about their graves? "Or is it that the faces are so ugly? You would have liked them better to be fair faces, such as would grace a drawing-room, and the grave to be dug in prettier ground--under a rose-bush or willow, and in turf, set with violets--nothing like a bone visible as one threw the mould out. So, it would have been a sweet piece of convent sentiment. "I am afraid that it is a good deal more like real convent sentiment as it is. Death--confessed for king before his time--asserts, so far as I have seen, some authority over such places; either unperceived, and then the worst, in drowsy unquickening of the soul; or felt, and terrible, pouring out his white ashes upon the heart-- ashes that burn with cold. If you think what the kind of persons who have strength of conviction enough to give up the world, might have done for the world had they not given it up; and how the King of Terror must rejoice when he wins for himsel another soul that might have gone forth to calm the earth; and folds his white wings over it forever--he also gathering his children together; and how those white sarcophagi--towered and belfried, each with his companies of living dead, gleam still so multitudinous among the mountain pyramids of the fairest countries of the earth; places of silence for their sweet voices; places of binding for the faithfullest hands; places of fading for their mightiest intelligence; you may, perhaps, feel also, that so great wrong cannot be lovely in the near aspect of it; and that if this very day, at evening, we were allowed to see what the last clouds of twilight glow upon in some convent garden of the Apennines, we might leave the place with some such horror as this picture will leave upon us; not all of it noble horror, but in some sort repulsive and ignoble. "It is, for these reasons to me, a great work; nevertheless, part of its power is not to the painter's praise. The crude painting is here in a kind of harmony with the expression of discord which was needed. But it is crude--not in momentary compliance with the mood which prompted this wild design; but in apparent consistency of decline from the artist's earlier ways of labour. Pass to his other picture--the Spring, and we find the colour not less abrupt, though more vivid. "And when we look at this fierce and rigid orchard-- this angry blooming, petals, as it were, of japanned brass; and remember the lovely wild roses and flowers scattered on the stream in the Ophelia; there is, I regret to say, no ground for any diminution of the doubt which I expressed two years since, respecting the future career of a painter who can fall thus strangely beneath himself. "The power has not yet left him. With all its faults, and they are grievous, this is still mighty painting; nothing else is as strong, or approximately as strong, within these walls. But it is a phenomenon, so far as I know, unparalleled hitherto in art-history, that any workman capable of so much should rest content with so little. All former art, by men of any intellect, has been wrought, under whatever limitations of time, as well as the painter could do it; evidently with an effort to reach something beyond what was actually done; if a sketch, the sketch showed a straining towards completion; if a picture, it showed a straining to a higher perfection; but here, we have a careless and insolent indication of things that might be--not the splendid promise of a grand impatience, but the scrabbled remnant of a scornfully abandoned aim. "And this wildness of execution is strangely associated with the distortion of feature which more or less has been sought for by this painter from his earliest youth; just as it was by Martin Schonganer and Mantegna. In the first picture (from Keat's Isabella) which attracted public attention, the figure in the foreground writhed in violence of constrained rage; in the picture of the Holy Family at Nazareth, the Virgin's features were contorted in sorrow over a wounded hand; violent ugliness of feature spoiled a beautiful arrangement of colour in the Return of the Dove, and disturbed a powerful piece of dramatic effect in the Escape from the Inquisition. And in this present picture, the unsightliness of some of the faces, and the preternatural grimness of others, with the fierce colour and angular masses of the flowers above, force upon me a strange impression, which I cannot shake off--that this is an illustration of the song of some modern Dante, who, at the first entrance of an inferno for English society, had found, carpeted with ghostly grass, a field of penance for young ladies; where girl-blossoms, who had been vainly gay, or treacherously amiable, were condemned to recline in reprobation under red-hot apple blossom, and sip scalding milk out of a poisoned porringer." ------------------------------------------ ALLEGED COPY OF THE SENTENCE PASSED ON THE SAVIOUR. ----- Can any of your correspondents inform me whether the inclosed extract from the Kolnische Zeitung is based on sound authority, and what that authority is? Also, when and where was this Kolnische Zeitung published?

CORRECT TRANSCRIPT OF THE SENTENCE OF DEATH PRONOUNCED AGAINST JESUS CHRIST. The following is a copy of the memorable judicial sentence which has ever been pronounced in the annals of the world--namely, that of death against the Saviour, with the remarks which the journal Le Droit has collected, and the knowledge of which must be interesting in the highest degree to every Christian. Until now I am not aware that it has ever been made public in the German papers. The sentence is word for word as follows:

Sentence pronounced by Pontius Pilate, intendant of the province of Lower Galilee, that Jesus of Nazareth shall suffer death by the cross. In the seventeenth year of the reign of the Emperor Tiberius, and on the 25th day of the month of March, in the most holy city of Jerusalem, during the pontificate of Annas and Caiaphas. Pontius Pilate, intendant of the province of Lower Galilee, sitting in judgment in the presidential seat of the prætor, sentences Jesus of Nazareth to death on a cross, between two robbers, as the numerous and notorious testimonies of the people prove: 1. Jesus is a misleader. 2. He has excited the people to sedition. 3. He is an enemy to the laws. 4. He calls himself the Son of God. 5. He calls himself falsely, the King of Israel. 6. He went into the Temple, followed by a multitude carrying palms in their hands. Orders the first centurion, Quirilius Cornelius, to bring him to the place of execution. Forbids all persons, rich or poor, to prevent the execution of Jesus. The witnesses who have signed the excution of Jesus are: 1. Daniel Robani, Pharisee. 2. John Zorobabel. 3. Raphael Robani. 4. Capet. Jesus to be taken out of Jerusalem through the gate of Tournea.

This sentence is engraved on a plate of brass, in the Hebrew language, and on its sides are the following words: "A similar plate has been sent to each tribe." It was discovered in the year 1280, in the city of Aquila, in the kingdom of Naples, by a search made for the discovery of Roman antiquities, and remained there until it was found by the commissaries of art in the French army of Italy. Up to the time of the war in Southern Italy, it was preserved in the sacristy of the Carthusians, near Naples, where it was kept in a box of ebony.-- Since then the relic has been kept in the chapel of Caserta. The Carthusians obtained by their petitions that the plate might be kept by them, which was an acknowledgment of the sacrifices which they made for the French army. The French translation was made literally by members of the commission of art. Denon had a fac-simile of the plate engraved, which was bought by Lord Howard, on the sale of his cabinet, for 2,890 francs. There seems to be no historical doubt as to the authenticity of this. The reasons of the sentence correspond exactly with those of the Gospel--From Notes and Queries.--Translated from the Kolnische Zeitung. ------------------------------------------ ANECDOTE OF STUART.--Mr. C. of this city tells a good story of Gilbert Stuart, the painter, which illustrates finely the power a secret has to propogate itself, if once allowed a little airing and reach a few ears. Stuart had, as he supposed, discovered a secret art of coloring, very valuable. He told it to a friend. His friend valued it highly, and came a time afterwards to ask permission to communicate it under oath of eternal secrecy to a friend of his who needed every possible aid to enable him to rise. "Let me see," said Stuart, making a chalk mark on a board near by, "I know this art, and that is -- "One," said his friend. "You know it," continued Stuart, making another mark by the side of the one already made, "and that is--- "Two," cried the other. "Well, and I tell your friend, and that will be"-- making a third mark. "Three only," said the other. "No," said Stuart, "It's one hundred and eleven!" (111.)--Newport Mercury. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 85 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Courant. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, JULY 14, 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, W. C. WINN. Mr. MEETZE will visit Lexington and Edgefield Districts, Mr. BALLEW, Laurens and Newberry, Mr. WILKES, Chester, Mr. WALKER, Richland, and Mr. WINN, Abbeville, and adjoining Districts--during the present month. We cordially recommend these gentlemen to the kind attentions and courtesies of our friends. WM. W. WALKER, JR., & CO. ------------------------------------------ ROUSE'S VERSION. Our contemporary of the Due West Telescope is strangely mistaken in his interpretation of what we said in the Courant of the 26th of May. We spoke of fashion, as imperious in literature as in dress, and said that once "the much-abused Rouse's Version was the ton as much as Tennyson's 'Golden Languors' are now." Nevertheless, it is funny to us, in the nineteenth century to see what pleased the sterner and better men of other times. Read, for example the following: (then followed an extract from an exchange.) "It is now some years since the old-style HYMNS, originally adopted and sung in the Puritan Churches," &c. We then quoted some very absurd stanzas from some of these hymns. We have rather too much Scotch-Irish blood in our veins to be ignorant of the fact that the version of ROUSE is of the Psalms; and we hope, too much manliness to be ashamed to acknowledge with reverence that brave old ancestry which sang the stern English of Rouse's version to the swelling Music of "Dundee" or "Mear," or the "Old Hundredth." Besides, Rouse's version is an important item in the history of our language, and it would be strange, indeed, if a man who ever hopes to be a scholar should go to laughing at an author or a version because it happened to be different from the prevailing dialect of his own time. Personally, some of these Psalms are dear to our heart as the first poetry we ever learned; while others must always remain models of stern, manly English, and that far engage the attention of every ingenious and discriminating critic of our language. ------------------------------------------ "LIZZIE CLARENDON." We are sure that all our readers will peruse, with melancholy interest, the appreciative and genial paper on this gifted child of song, contained in this number of the Courant. It is, as may be seen, from the pen of Mrs. MARTIN, herself a poetess, and therefore better qualified to speak of the early lost and highly-gifted Lizzie Clarendon. Had she lived to a good old age, we doubt not that she would have ranked with the Hemans and Osgoods; as it is, she has left some striking monuments of her genius, which show what she would have attained to, by the culture of the art which she loved with such ardor. Not that we would be understood to say that she left nothing but "buds of promise;" far from it--some of her productions are in the highest strain, and would have done credit to Mrs. Browning. Her poetry was remarkable for fluency, grace and tenderness. ------------------------------------------ RUSSELL'S MAGAZINE. The July number of our Charleston monthly has been duly received. Mr. TRESCOTT'S admirable oration before the South Carolina Historical Society, is the first article--and in spite of the stupid attempts of the N. Y. Tribune to ridicule it, we are sure that it will command everywhere the respectful attention which it deserves. The papers on Henry the Fowler, the Numancia of Cervantes, Aztec Civilization, &c., will well repay for the time occupied in a careful reading. The Editor's Table contains a just and very feeling tribute to the memory of Mr. JAMES LEGARE, the Carolina poet--author of "Orta undis," &c. The Magazine is now firmly established in respect of the patronage which it has commanded, by the monthly publication of some of the best articles which have ever graced the pages of an American periodical. ------------------------------------------ SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER. For July has duly arrived. The leading article is a very able paper, taken from the London Times, on Sir William Hamilton's Philosophy. "The polite art of novelling" is continued; it has some rather striking points; some decidedly good hits, and much tart criticism. The Editor's table is good, and the notices of new books discriminating. For the compliment paid to ourself we are under obligations to the Messenger, while we agree with his correspondent that it would be well for our journal if we had some more such contributions as the exquisite Sonnet in English and Latin by our gifted Professor of Latin in S. C. College. The Sonnet is quoted in this issue of the Messenger; as it deserves. ------------------------------------------ La BORDE'S HISTORY OF THE COLLEGE. We are glad to learn that Dr. La Borde's long-expected volume on the History of the College will be published on the first of August. All former Students, and alumni will, of course, procure copies of it. This book will contain as much interesting and valuable information, inasmuch as, in the words of the publisher, it comprises "a full and accurate history of the College, from its first endowment by the State Legislature, with Biographical Sketches of its Presidents and Professors, and a complete catalogue of its Students down to the present administration. Orders will be received by P. B. GLASS, and the work will be forwarded by mail on receipt of TWO-DOLLARS, and TWENTY-TWO CENTS in postgate stamps." ------------------------------------------ SHELLEY. We find the following statement going the rounds of the press: "The Shelley Memorials," edited by Lady Shelley, the wife of the poet's son, will be published some time in the present month. They are intetnded to counteract the injurious effects of some recent biographies, and to put the public in possession of all the facts requisite to form a true and impartial estimate of the character and actions of Percy Bysche Shelley, and will contain letters and documents of interest never before published. Among the letters is an "Essay on Christianity," calculated, it is said, to present the poet's religious ideas in a very different light from that in which they have been hitherto viewed." The principal matter to be "corrected" in reference to this mis-used and misunderstood genius, is the villainous edition of his poetical works which Messrs. LITTLE & BROWN, of Boston, have been circulating, with the other miserably imperfect editions of the British poets. Some of the finest passages in Shielley's works have been omitted, while the corrections are, almost, all of them, the deadest failures that it has ever been our misfortune to meet with. It is said that the Boston edition of the British poets is copied from the Pickering (English) edition; but in the case of Shelley, the American Editor has made all sorts of improvements (?) of his own. ------------------------------------------ THE HOME JOURNAL AND THE MERCURY. Of all the papers published at the North, there is not one so uniformly just to Southern men, books and journals, as the Home Journal of MORRIS & WILLIS. The extract below will show how well they appreciate the merits of our excellent contemporary, the Charleston Mercury. It is, we suppose, generally understood that the literary department of the Mercury is presided over by Dr. GILMORE SIMMS. THE CHARLESTON MERCURY.--Of the southern journals, among our exchanges, there are few for which we look more anxiously than the Charleston Mercury. Although, strictly speaking, it is a commercial sheet, yet it contains so many fine, original poems, admirable literary articles, and high-toned editorials, that we take pleasure in its perusal, and feel confident that its conductor, R. B. Rhett, jr., is a scholar as well as an able editor. An important feautre of the Mercury--particularly for business men in all parts of the country--in its review of the southern market: containing the most reliable quotations of prices of native and foreign productions. This complete and correct summary of the market makes the Charleston Mercury an almost indispensable paper in the counting-houses throughout the entire land, while its criticisms, under the head of "Our Literary Docket," stamp it as an acceptable journal for the library and the centre-table. ------------------------------------------ BELLE BRITTAIN IN SOCIETY. We have no doubt that our readers will all laugh heartily to see the absurdity of Col. Fuller, alias "Belle Brittain," reproved as it deserved, and as every other toady ought to be. The idea of a man going about self-glorifying, on the score of some little attention which he received abroad! "The London Critic, of June 11th, commenting on a statement in the N. Y. Tribune to the effect that Col. Fuller was quite a lion in the elegant circles of the British metropolis, remarks that 'the fact will be entirely new to those who have the honor of moving within the circumference of those circles.'" ------------------------------------------ "ADAM BEDE." From the Saturday Press we extract the following, which is certainly as refreshin as controversies of the sort usually are: "A Mr. Joseph Liggins--"Phœbus, what a name!"--has not only declared himself the author of "Adam Bede," but has been receiving contributions on the ground that the Messrs. Wm. Blackwood & Sons gave so little for the work in question, a fact which the Messrs. Blackwood deny, and also publish a letter from Mr. George Eliot, the reputed author of the work, claiming the honor for himself. The whole question is one of the literary disputes about which the public can hardly form an opinion, as not knowing either party and having to decide between two flat contradictions. The best way we know of, is to decide upon the probability of a book like "Adam Bede" being written by a person named George Eliot, or by one having "nothing to wear" but the name of Mr. Liggins." ----------------------------------------- GHOST.--The result of a disordered nervous system, or a vivid imagination, assisted by a little credulity, and judiciously mixed with a moderate dose of mental anxiety, or, better yet, as much remorse as will lie in the point of a dagger. There is more meaning and philosophy than at first sight appears in Coleridge's answer to Lady Beaumont, when she asked him whether he believed in ghosts--"O no, madam, I have seen too many to believe in them." He had sense enough to see that his senses had been deceived. ------------------------------------------ LITERARY NOTICES. ----- "THE POETICAL WORKS OF EDGAR ALLEN POE, WITH AN ORIGINAL MEMOIR." Redfield: New York, 1859. Blue and Gold.

The complex term, Blue and Gold, is very well understood with us now; so much so, that it conveys all that is necessary to say of the mechanique of this little volume. It seems to us a fair specimen of that style. It contains a portrait of POE, an original Memoir, the collection of his poems that he himself approved, and his Lecture on the Poetic Principle. We think highly of the edition, and commend it to those who wish POE'S poems in so convenient a form. It is a pity, however, that the Editor should have left uncorrected a blemish in one of the finest poems of POE. We refer to the close of the fourth stanza of Annabel Lee. The last two lines in this edition (so in all of Redfield's editions) are, incorrectly, given thus:

"That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee."

This is false measure. Poe himself saw it, and in the MS. copy, left with Mr. Thompson, of the Southern Literary Messenger, it is writen thus:

"That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling And killing my Annabel Lee."

To those holding the same theory of poetry with POE, this is not an unimportant point. Another error, typographical perhaps, is in the Poetical Principle. The name of Edward Coates Pinkney, in the two other editions, was given as Edward Coote Pinkney. In this we have Edward Coate Pinkney. These blemishes are quite inessential, we hold, and deserve notice mainly because of the persistency with which they are retained; for the Editor has not wanted in advisors we are aware. Upon the portrait we are not competent to testify, for we ourself never saw POE Nor shall we take this occasion of discussing the Poetic Principle. The poems themselves do not call for comment at this day. And in the "Original Memoir," there are only a few poitns that call for mention. It is written in simple narrative style, unambitious and clear. It gives a succinct epitome of POE'S erratic and lonely life. If humanity could profit by the knowledge of what a sensitive and gifted being can suffer, it might be well to give all the details--tell what they said of him, however unfeeling the tale--"drag his frailties from their dread abode," whatever be the consequences. We do not oppose the course. We rather like it; at least, we pass it without censure. But the extreme difficulty of getting at the "plain unvarnished tale," the very truth, is so great, that it should teach all, except those without sin, to be very cautious in receiving, but especially so in repeating, so-called facts, in such cases. We are speaking of POE. Dr. Griswold had some reason, doubtless--a credulous nature, some personal wrongs, an unforgiving heart, we dare not guess--for giving the array of damning circumstances and insinuations against POE, that so swell the "Memoir" he wrote. We judge not. We have elsewhere endeavored to show that Dr. Griswold's statements are not all correct; and we would not have mentioned his name in this connection, had not the anonymous Memoirist before us, taken occasion to indorse, in a general way, Dr. Griswold's Memoir. But our anonymous Memoirist has gone a step farther--has repeated some of Dr. Griswold's misstatements. It is painful to use such a term; but we intend to show that "misstatements" is the correct word. We select, prominent among them, that story of POE'S engagement to "an accomplished literary lady of Rhode Island," and the dissolution of the engagement. The terms and phrases here used, are similar in every respect to those used before; and we quote the statement before us: "The day was appointed for their marriage; and to disentangle himself from this engagement, he visited the house of his affianced bride, where he conducted himself with such indecent violence, that the aid of the police had to be called in to expel him. This, of course, put an end to the engagement." Dr. Griswold wrote in 1850. Two years after that--in April, 1852--the statement was repeated in Tait's Magazine (British); and, in reference to this, in a letter to the New York Tribune, in June of the same year, William J. Pabodie, Esq., of Providence, says: "Mr. Poe wa s frequently my uest during his stay in Providene. In his several visits to the city I was with him daily. I was acquainted with the circumstance of his engagement, and with the causes which led to its dissolution. I am authorized to say, not only from my personal knowledge, but also from the statements of ALL who were conversant with the affair, that there exists not a shadow of foundation for the stories above alluded to." Mr. Pabodie is a native and citizen of Providence, a lawyer, and a man of letters, occupying a position in society that entitles him to an audience under any circumstances. The anonymous Memoirist before us, with a carelessness that might be called unscrupulous, has ignored Mr. Pabodie's testimony, and gravely repeats what the friends of POE might be excused for considering a malignant falsehood. We believe that our Memoirist, though careless, is not guilty of intentional wrong --that he did not know that the statement was not a fact. We infer this from the tone of the Memoir, which seems fair enough. If we were noticing Dr. Griswold's Memoir, there are some ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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