1859-10-27 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, OCTOBER 27, 1859. NUMBER 26 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ For the Courant.

DREAMS. MATER TENEBRARUM. ----- BY MONOS, JR.--(JOHN C. McLEMORE, Mobile, Alabama.) ----- Once upon a meadow, blessed with dewy lawn and happy rill, Bordered by a giant forest, in whose shades the whip-poor-will Sings his sad song when the joyous songsters of the day are still; In the calm and peaceful hour when the day dies into night, And the little stars appearing, glimmered faintly on the sight— Wearied with the world's commotion and its strife, I, grief oppressed,

On the bosom of the blessed meadow gladly sunk to rest. Lulled by that sad bird's repeating, in his mounrful monotone, The never-ceasing grief he feels thus singing to the dark alone; And by the brooklet, whose sweet ripple, as its wavelets flow along, Fills the air above, around, with silver tones of sweetest song, Sleep, the gentle Goddess of the Dreamland, breathed upon my eyes, Blessing me with wondrous visions of a second Paradise. ----- A glorious city, where marmoreal streets Grow bright with glittering gold-dust as they lie Bordered by trees, whose branches bear a fruit Of gold; where no horizon hems the view, But ever and for ever as I gazed Went on, as in some gorgeous dream we see Sparkling spires that die among the stars.

High marble-walled, inlaid with many gems, And many columned, Palaces arose And stretched along the borders of the streets, Until the eye grew dim with distance. Upon their polished fronts they bore engraved Hieroglyphs, most cunningly enwrought Of diamonds, set in glittering clusters, Which told, I ween, but in some stranger tongue, The story of the city and its lords. And I beheld no sign of living thing, But over all a ghostly silence dwelt, As when before the breath of some grand plague A people in their terror flee or die. ----- Within the Palaces (I entered one That seemed to me e'en fairer than the rest, At whose high portal brazen Lions stood, With massive faces, wrinkled like a sea) Such glories burst upon my gaze as when The sun, just setting in a cloudy west, Pours light thro' rain-drops on the gloomy east, Gilding all the earth with golden shadows. A Dome, whereof the roof but faintly seen, So great its height, sustained great chandeliers, Each bearling light that gleamed like pendent stars; Supporting this were columns, marble too, Pillared with gems that glistened in the light; An hundred columns resting on a floor Mosaic, in whcih were many colours blent, So that the pavement shone of rainbow hue. Niches there were cut in the marble walls, Wherein colossal statues, as of Gods, Inlaid with pearl and ivory and gems, With tufts of nodding plumes, bound round with gold, Stood crowned; but not in all, for there I saw Some slighter forms, that seemed to represent The rosy limbs of some fair ones of earth; (And long on these I sadly gazed in tears, Dreaming, 'mid this magnificence and show, Of that sweet home that I had left in dream.) And Painting lent her colours to the scene, And on the walls, betwixt the niches, glowed The glories of the mountains and the sea-- High mountains, round whose bases flowers bloom, And thence grow bleak, until, amid the snows, A sun-tinged cloud becomes their golden crown-- The restless sea, that on its chafing shores Wails long and loud for peace that never comes, As tho' the Maker, in his wrath, hath cursed Its coral bases and its snow-capped waves. And last, the crown of all, a lofty Throne Of whitest marble, gilt, and frothed like foam, Whereunto steps led up of burnished brass;

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And round about it hung, on either side, Great silken curtains, from whose ample folds A purple twilight breathed upon the Throne. And while I gazed, wrapt, the twilight deepened, And the shadows fell o'er all the Hall: Upon the chandeliers that gleamed like stars; Upon the mosaic floor of rainbow hue; Upon the mountains and the restless sea; And last, upon the white throne, frothed like foam, Whereunto steps led of burnished brass.


Then by soft arms, invisible, embraced, And charmed by tinkling tones of Fairy bells, I seemed (for I saw not nor cared to see) To leave the Palace where the shadows fell; Then, borne by wind-winged messengers, I came To where a brooklet gushed thro' fragrant banks, Sweet with summer flowers; and then the dark Which had begun within the Palace walls Died out in smiles of light from chrystal clouds.


And I woke, and heard the sad bird mourning to the dark alone, And the ripple of the brooklet singing still in silver tone, Where the gentle Goddess of the Dreamland breathed upon my eyes, Blessing me with wondrous visions of a second Paradise. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ A RESURRECTION. ----- "Ich erzäble eine Begebenheit, die vielen unglaublich scheinen wird, und von der ich grosen Theils selbst Augenzeupo war."


READER! if you do not know what that means, I advise you, by all means, to study German. You will derive more satisfaction from it than from any other living language. But do not imagine that because brod means bread, and wein means wine, it is an easy language to learn: it has more than four hundred thousand words—some of them very strange to behold—and you may make as many more as you please by placing those already made in juxtaposition.

I am extremely fond of some text like the above; for, in the first place, it looks Addisonian and classic, and has a tendency to disarm criticism on account of its imposing appearance; and, secondly, it is sub umbra a shadow of coming events, and conveys to you a nice foretaste of all that is to follow.

The great Burke once said that "he would rather be buried in the south-west corner of a country churchyard than in Westminster Abbey." There is so much of poetry and truth in this expression, that we are compelled to believe that he had a great horror of being disinterred in order to satisfy the demands either of science or of curiosity. He evidently wished to remain undisturbed where the evening sun might fall upon the green roof of his narrow resting-place. For my part, I must confess that when I see any one indifferent to these things, I cannot refrain from thinking that he is no better than he should be. My own sentiments on this subject have become convictions, through the agency of an incident which I am going to relate; and, if any of the inhabitants of the neat village of Dresden, in the State of New York, should read this account, they will recognize the features of an occurrence which disturbed their quiet not a hundred years ago.

The town of Dresden is prettily situated on the left bank of the strait or outlet through which the surplus waters of the Crooked Lake are discharged into the Seneca Lake. This last is as pretty of a sheet of water as you would wish to see your face or a fish in. Its shores

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are, in some places, cultivated to the water's edge; while, in others, dark green belts of woodland advance to its very margin, and here and there a fringe of hawthorn, wild-briar, etc., kisses the sleeping water; which, through some singular agency, absolutely refuses to be congealed by winter's cold; so that, like a beautiful mirror of truth, it always reflects what is going on above, beneath, or on the surface. If the sky is azure, there you have it! another firmament of blue; if red, then it blushes like a maiden; and, if the moon shines bright, look on the lake, and you can see the very spokes in her chariot-wheels.

I was sitting one night in the study of Dr. B———, when Tom McAuley, who was a student of medicine, with a queer mixture of cleverness, bonhommie and cockneyism, dashed into the room, announcing what he styled a glorious chance for a resurrection. B———, who was an enthusiast in his profession, and an old hand at these things, threw "Bell's Anatomy" on the floor, and jumped on his feet, as he exclaimed: "You mean the boatman who was drowned yesterday: do you Tom? for, mind ye! I'll not assist to disturb the remains of that lovely girl who was buried this morning."

"Have no fears of that," replied Tom. "I mean the boatman. Ego ipso vidi sepulerum: I know the topography perfectly."

"Have you asked G——— to go along?"—(this was was another student of medicine.)

"Non voluit iter facere: autem equum suum surripui; and he is now at the door," was Tom's answer.

I was to accompany the party, as an amateur, being influenced, I suppose, by curiosity, persuasion, and love of excitement, combined. The necessary arrangements were soon made. Having provided ourselves with a spade and hatchet, for the purpose of disinterring the body; with an old cloak and hat in which to envelop it, and with masks and over-shoes for our own security, we set off, the horse being led by Dr. B———. It was a night near the close of September--a soft and warm rain had recently fallen—many a star was twinkling above us, but the horizon was darkened by cumbrous masses of motionless clouds, behind which a sprinkling of silvery frost in the eastern heavens indicated where the moon was about to rise. The path that we took was as circuitous as a labyrinth, or the course of a modern politician. It led us now through a gateway or section of fence; then over the furrows of ploughed land or pasture ground; anon we crossed a babbling, brawling brook, and penetrated into a forest, on the verge of which the grave-yard was situated. The foliage of the trees sent down upon us its accumulated moisture as we disturbed the branches by our contact; and now and then a decayed leaf would come wheeling into our faces, as the slight western breeze frolicked through them.

We had been en route nearly an hour when we arrived at the grave, which was placed immediately under a huge beech tree. Here we halted; and, before proceeding to business, an accurate account was taken of every square of turf which covered the grave, and of every loose stone in its vicinity; some of which had probably been put there on purpose. There is system and method in all the sciences; and quite as much in this dis-integrated process as in any other. The ground was now broken just at the head of the grave, and as each one of us plied the spade in his turn, the necessary ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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202 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ excavation was completed in a very short time. The head of the coffin was then knocked off, and the subject was drawn out bodily towards us. "De profundis clamavi: his specific gravity is not so great as I thought it," exclaimed Tom, as he handed up the body. The excavation was then filled up, and every thing replaced with the most scrupulous care in its original order. The corpse, disguised by its hat and cloak, was now placed astride the horse, and secured by a surcingle passed around the body of Tom, who was mounted en croupe. Our despatch had been so great, that not more than twenty minutes had elapsed since we first came on the ground.

At this moment the disc of the moon was rolled up from behind the cincture of clouds that had hitherto concealed it, and poured a flood of silvery radiance over the white tomb-stones and through the dusky trees, producing a contrast of light and shade altogether indescribable. Near us the open greensward, with its millions of drops of distilled moisture, looked like the spangled drapery you have seen thrown over some sacred altar; while the clustering groups of the tall and graceful forest-trees hard by, with the rich moonlight streaming down here and there as through a chequered arbour, might be aptly compared to the springing columns and tessellated pavement of a superb Gothic cathedral.

A fragment of forest glade, about one hundred and fifty yards from us, was thrown into deep shadow; and from this spot we soon discovered that we were watched —for click, clack, flash, whiz, bang, and a rifle-ball whistled past us and lodged in the beech-tree just over our heads, the concussion scattering the big globes of water upon us unholy and scandalous resurrectionists. The interest of the adventure was now evidently on the increase, and I was in a fair way of finding that excitement which I came in quest of. As for danger, I was disposed to regard it as a just and natural consequence of our daring and nefarious enterprise, and quite commensurate with its rascality. If the bullet had passed through me, I could not have upbraided the one that sent it. As you may suppose, in less time than you could say "Jack Robinson," we were off for the lake, along the shore of which we proposed to proceed to the dissecting-room. Arriving there, we found that the greensward terminated abruptly in a bank shelving steeply some ten or twelve feet to the margin of the lake, which was not, in that place, more than four feet wide. I stood by on the very crest of the bank to receive the body from Tom. I lowered it away as gently as possible, but the ground, composed partly of rolled pebbles, yielded to my pressure—I fell—the old chap came rolling after me, and his dead weight was near crushing me in transitu.

"Sturnitur infelix!" cried Tom, from the top of the bank, "et dulces moriens rem"—ughpughoigh p-b-d-t-k. Several slaps in quick succession from an unknown hand, knocked the vowel sounds out of poor Tom into something like the above consonantial arrangement, and the next instant the unlucky fellow came tumbling down the bank head-foremost. I now found myself confronted with the stranger, who used his utmost endeavours to unmask me. I was much vexed at our bad success, and my blood was "a little up" at the unfavourable aspect affairs had taken. We were most essentially minus, and I was not long in resolving to shew up some interesting results, by resorting to a new controlling influence. It was high time to "fix prolonge for flank firing," so I delivered the stranger into his chops a blow—another, and another, which diddled him; and he measured five feet eleven inches or so on the pure silex. I verily believe I could at that moment have given a quietus to half a dozen more such fellows, and if they had been near me I should have attempted it as a matter of course. I was "fairly in for it:" the plot had thickened so fast that if the devil himself had stood before me, it would have created no additional surprise. The interest of the affair seemed now to have attained its climax. As for my own excitement it had gone on increasing in a geometrical progression, and it was now raised to the n-|-1 degree.

[Column 2] I had now a brief moment to look about me: and— heavens!—what were my sensations when, instead of the remains of the boatman, I saw before me those of a lovely female!—notwithstanding his assurances, the heedless Tom had carried us to the wrong grave. She had fallen so that her face was turned upward: the back of her head was in the water, and reposed upon some quartz pebbles which sparkled in the bed of the lake. Her grave-clothes, which were of some linen fabric of delicate texture, were much discomposed and soiled; and, being partially unrolled from her person, exposed a part of her bosom. The tangled tresses of her dark hair were waving to and fro like sea-grasses in the clear water, as the waves rolled up and receded in their gentle undulations—oh!—what a picture! There she lay with her placid features, as pure, as bright, as cold, and as beautiful as the Arctic moon when she shines upon the snows and ices of Greenland. Oh! I thought if that breast were only animated by a single spark of living fire, how eloquently would she plead for protection against such unfeeling usage! How would that modesty, which is stronger than life, which looks to the grave as to some holy sanctuary, urge its heaveninspired appeal to be respected! And if an informing soul could again occupy that postrate tenement, with what calm indignation! with what utter loathing would she look upon our folly. Quick as the lightning that rolls by night along the pathway of the weary traveller, and confounds his vision, did these and many other reflections rush in wild chaos through my mind, and, for the time, my predominant feeling was one of conscious humiliation, and even of degradation. I would have given half a year's pay to see that girl snugly coffined again. Our situation became more and more critical— every moment was precious, and three years in the penitentiary might be the consequence of our delay. B—, who had his wits about him all this time, composed the shroud as decently as possible, took up the precious burden in his arms, and beckoned to us to follow. Tom had, by this time, picked himself up, and stood gazing at the scene in mute surprise. The stranger also showed signs of recovery when we left the spot. The horse was cropping the herbage near by, and was left to shift for himself. B——— had resolved in his own mind that we should take the body to the dissecting-room, get to our beds as soon as possible, and, on the following night, or as soon thereafter as practicable, place the body where it could be recovered by its friends. Why it was not left where it had fallen on the shore of the lake, I do not know; but we had little time for thought.

It may be well to describe to you the dissecting-room. This was a species of cell or hypogeum, situated on the western shore of the strait which connected the two lakes. This stream has worn itself a bed, leaving on either side precipitous banks of rocks nearly one hundred feet high, composed of argillaceous slate resting upon compact carbonate of lime—veined here and there with gneiss and mica-slate. The cell or cavern in question was not far below the top of the precipice. It had been made by simply detaching several successive strata of slate, and allowing them to slide into the bed of the torrent—the excavation thus formed was covered over with the trunks and branches of trees, after which a coating of moss, dry leaves and decayed shrubbery was cast over all. The room was entered through a small wicker door inserted in one of the lower corners, to which you were conducted by a winding pathway. B———, who was a great tinker, had rendered the place as secure as the robbers' cave in "Gil Blas." It was so ingeniously arranged, and its wildness harmonized so well with the adjacent solitude, that the nicest observation would not have detected any uncommon appearance in that vicinity. If one could set aside all idea of the uses to which this spot was appropriated, it might be considered a grotto pretty enough for a Naiad to dwell in. When we arrived there, the moon was riding high in the heavens—her rays reached nearly to the bottom of the abyss, throwing into strong relief the jutting spurs and cliffs, while around you might see chrystals of sulphate of strontian, gypsum or quartz, twinkling and

[Column 3] gleaming into intense brightness. It was here that we left our charge, proposing to return on the morrow night.

Great and peculiarly social was the fermentation in town the next day. The poor horse was seized and convicted; but not so with his owner, who was the student that declined going with us. The brother of the accused testified that, to the best of his knowledge, he had not left his room during the night. The footsteps at the grave were carefully measured and compared with the pedal dimensions of Tom and Dr. B———, but their over-shoes saved them. As for myself, I do not know that I was suspected.

The parties concerned in this transaction were so closely watched that it was not possible for them to visit the dissecting-room, until the third night after the occurrences detailed above. It was near the hour of midnight when we all assembled and repaired to the cavern. The position of it was indicated by a blasted oak, the gigantic arms of which, after some searching, we could at last discern projecting a faint outline against a sky charged with clouds of almost inky blackness. Reader! have you ever been on the Mexican Gulf? If so, you may have heard on a perfectly tranquil morning before a September gale, a distant sound of surging billows. At one moment loud, harsh, and fearful; in the next whispering as softly as a summer breeze in a pine forest. Such was the hollow roar and such the lulling sound that the rushing torrent sent up from its rocky bed far below us, as the night wind rolled in fitful and threatening gusts through the deepening gloom. A solitary screech-owl made night horrible from an opposite cliff; while a poor whip-poor-will uttered its plaintive note in singular contrast. Every thing was in perfect harmony: time, place, circumstance, and my own feelings. But it was a harmony of horrors! After some difficulty we descended to the cavern, and, groping about in the darkness, I placed my hand upon that icy face!—What a thrill rushed through me at that instant. I soon recovered myself, however. We now removed the body, and conveyed it to the lake in the immediate neighbourhood of a farm-house, from which we knew it would be observed in the morning. We left it there moored by means of a large stone in some two feet of water.

About this time the day broke; the clouds were rolled away from the heavens, the hushed wind was as soft and gentle as a sister's kiss, and soon every thing stood revealed in the blessed light of morning. It was like Michael Angelo's painting of the rising of the sun, where the blue skies and seas, the green shores, and the white temples of Greece seem just to have thrown off the livery of night. When I saw the yesty waves sporting and purifying the stained shroud of that lovely girl, I experienced a feeling of satisfaction to which I had been a stranger for some days.

On a morning in the next spring after these occurrences, as an idle angler was lounging along the banks of the strait, he found his left leg sinking under him. He endeavoured to recover himself with his right leg, but that sank too; and the attraction of gravitation soon launched him into the floor of the dissecting-room. On looking about he saw some hieroglyphics and Chinese characters which Tom had, in former times, made upon the walls, with some red fluids used for injecting veins, and naturally concluded he was in the den of a necromancer, or some worse place. He soon made the best of his way out, and related his adventure, which brought many admiring crowds to look at the curious cavern. I speak the truth, dear reader, when I assure you that if you take the trouble to go there you may see the same spot.

----------------------------------------- THE ACTOR AND THE MINSTRELS.—Bartley, the eminent actor, was called upon by the midnight minstrels on the morning of Boxing Day. "We are the parish waits, an' please you," said the spokesman, "we played before your door last night." "You did, indeed," was his reply, in mournful tones; and he looked upon his visitors with the air of a man who knew not their errand. "We have come to hope, sir," went in the clarionet, "for your kind contribution." "O, dear," said Bartley, with affected surprise, "I thought you had come to apologize!" ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL 203 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- From the Alabama Whig. A WISH—TO * * * *. ----- BY MONOS. ----- If some good Fairy of the past Would grant one wish to me, The selfish world could never tell What that one wish might be.

For one would wish for jewels rare, And hoards of shining gold; But what would be their empty glare, If still the heart were cold!

And one would wish for God-like power; And false Ambition's prize Would stand for love within his heart, And beauty in his eyes.

Jewels and gold are basest dross; Whate'er be my degree, They cannot drive my grief away, Or purchase love for me.

And power, though it bring the crowd To worship at my throne, It cannot bring what more I prize-- A heart to call my own.

If some good Fairy of the past Would grant one wish to me, Whate'er the selfish world may think, This my one wish would be:--

"That she I love with all my soul, The only light I see, May know the love I bear for her, And bear such love for me." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- FROM VANDENHOFF'S "Leaves of an Actor's Note Book," we take the following:


"Kean was at a super-party of friends at Liverpool, after having played Richard, that same evening, to an audience most enthusiastic in their applause. Elated, and in the very best of spirits, the actor was full of chat, and the wine passed freely round. The conversation naturally turned on his recent visit to America, thence to Cooke's death, the place of his burial, and the stone that Kean had raised above his head.

"'All that is wanting now,' said Kean, 'is an epitaph, worthy of the man; and I should be infinitely obliged to any one who would furnish me with an appropriate line or two.'

"Several quotations from Shakespeare were offered from various points of the table, but nothing that was suggested seemed entirely satisfactory. Among the company at supper was an eccentric and somewhat sarcastic fellow named Taylor, noted for his cleverness and ready wit. To him Kean at last appealed:

"'Come, Taylor,' said he, you can do the thing in a minute if you like; come, give us an epitaph for George Frederick Cooke.'

"Taylor, thus appealed to, smiled, took a pencil, wrote something on a scrap of paper--the back of a letter--and passed it up to Kean at the head of the table. The tragedian, smiling graciously, in anticipation, probably, of some well-turned compliment to himself, coupled with the name of Cooke, proceeded to read aloud what was handed to him--thus:

'Beneath this stone lies Cooke interred, And with him—'

Kean paused with a darkening brow; but he was in for it; there was no help, and with ill-subdued vexation, he read on, thus:

'And with him—Shakespeare's Dick the Third ! '

I leave you to imagine the blank silence that ensued, and 'the clouds that lower'd' on Richard's brow—a face peculiarly strong in its expression of scorn and hate. The wicked Taylor had 'stolen, like a guilty thing, in haste away,' and the rest of the company shortly followed."


"I remember, on one occasion of the queen's visiting the theatre, the late Lord Adolphus Fitz-Clarence (Dolly Fitz, as he was familiarly called) was one of the royal party who, at the end of an act, came behind the scenes. Lord Adolphus was, as all the world knows, the son of the late King William IV., when Duke of Clarence, and the celebrated comedienne, the most enjouée and fascinating actress of her day, Mrs. Jordan. The royal duke, in his youth, had been devotedly attached to this woman, and they had lived many years together, (the law did not allow of their marriage—that is, she could not be made Duchess of Clarence,) and the result of their union was several children. State reasons, and the command of George III., separated them, to the royal duke's great grief; and Mrs. Jordan died at Boulogne, in France, in an obscure lodging, and in indigent circumstances. This, it must be confessed, was not to the honour of the royal duke, to whom she had been faithfully devoted, and had given her best years, when he could do nothing to advance her interests or her future, (for he was strictly and scantily allowanced by his rigid old father, George III.,) and had lavished on his pleasures, and in his society, the treasures of her charms and the large earnings of her genius. But so it was! The duke married Adelaide of Mecklenberg Strelitz, afterwards Queen Adelaide, and the poor actress perished forgotten, abandoned, and in distress, on a foreign shore!"


"The Duke of Clarence, on the death of his royal brother, George IV., suceeded to the throne. The queen of comedy was, alas! no more—she lay in a country church-yard in France. But her memory rose up before her former lover's eyes, and such reparation as he could, he made. The two sons had been educated in a suitable manner; the eldest of them was now created, by his royal father, Earl of Munster, and the other, an officer in the navy, was made Lord Adolphus Fitz-

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Clarence; a daughter was also ennobled, and married, I believe, to an earl. The Earl of Munster, unfortunately, died by his own hand, a victim of melancholy gloom! On the accession of the present queen, by the demise of William IV., she appointed her cousin, (de la main gauche,) Lord Adolphus, to the command of her yacht, which many of my readers may have seen, and been abord of, off Cowes, perhaps."


"Well, Dolly Fitz-Clarence was a green-room visitor on the night in question. Now, Covent Garden Theatre had been the scene of some of Mrs. Jordan's greatest triumphs in comedy. Some early memory was awakened in his heart, and he requested to be shewn to his mother's dressing-room. He was conducted thither by Madame Vestris, I believe, herself. He entered the room that had, some twenty or thirty years before, been his mother's, in silence—stood there, looked round a moment, as if recalling old recollections, and noting changes in the room, then, shading his eyes with his hands, exclaimed, in trembling accents, 'My poor mother!'

"Vestris told me this incident herself, and I relate it, as honourable to the heart of the man in whom courts and royal favour had not obliterated the holiest feeling of humanity; and who, ennobled by fortune, did not blush to shed a tear to the memory of his actress mother." ----------------------------------------- The Power of Words.

A word is the body of a thought, and the very common mistake of not looking beyond the mere external, is made as often here as elsewhere. It leads men, and sensible men, too, who happen not to be wise upon this point, to refer a mere power of words, effects and influence which belong to the thought within. It is such a mistake as that which should attribute to a man's muscles the triumph which he had won by his mind, or the excellent material and form of his clothing; work which only the strong frame within could do. There are triumphs which muscles alone can win; there is a charm which dress alone may possess. But the triumphs are not those which men, men with souls as well as bodies, should estimate very highly; and the charm of dress is one which is not usually valued greatly by those whose high estimation is very desirable. And yet, it is surprising how constantly the mistake of referring to words alone, to the mere power of utterance, a work and a success which are due to faculties of which these words are but the instruments, is made by sensible men.

In the life of George Stevenson, the engineer, a man of very remarkable ability, I recently met with this anecdote: At a dinner party at Sir Robert Peel's, whom he was visiting, with a large company, he engaged in a controversy with Dr. Buckland upon some question of geology, and the Doctor silenced him soon and easily. After the dinner he fell in with Sir William Follett, then the leading lawyer of England, and complained to him of his defeat. "It is too bad," said he, "for I know I was right, and if I had only Buckland's power of words, I should have made it appear." Follett amused himself with mastering the points and principles of the question, and the next day at dinner, the subject was again brought up, and Follett joined in the conversation, and very speedily and effectually baffled and silenced Buckland. "What do you say to that, Mr. Stevenson?" said Sir Robert Peel. "Why," said he, "I will say only this, that of all the powers above and under the earth, there seems to me no power so great as the gift of the gab."

By this somewhat coarse expression, Stevenson simply meant the gift of words; the power of utterance. But was it the gift of speech which enabled the lawyer to look through the mists of their loose talk, and see plainly where Stevenson was right and could be defended? Or was it the clear and trained intellect, and the prompt and perfect logic, which gave Follett the power of penetrating to the very heart of the question, and of keeping his opponent to the exact point at issue, and of compelling him to abandon sophistries and side issues, and when he had been driven to his inmost citadel, of forcing him to surrender that as utterly untenable. And yet, not Stevenson only, but very possibly every man at the table, as they enjoyed this gladitorial amusement of the great lawyer, looked upon it as a mere victory of words. I have related this anecdote because it seems to me to illustrate perfectly a very common mistake in relation to Mr. Choate. His victories, too, were sometimes regarded as victories of words.

I cannot but regard word-painting as among the fine arts, and as standing very high among them. A word, gentlemen, is it not the instrument of mind as much as the pencil or the chisel? It is not its instrument for as high a purpose? Will it not present to the mind's eye the beauty of thought and feeling, nay, all that one human soul can offer to another of majestic truth, of tenderness, of strength, of purity, of grace? An anecdote which has come down to us from the land and the age of Phidias, imports that the sculptor finds his statue in the marble, and htat it is his work to liberate it from the stone. Not so. The canvas and the marble only present, transferred to their natural substance, the lines, the hues and forms which must first exist in the mind of the artist. It is his first work to bid them live definitely and completely in his imagination. It it his second work to bring them from within, without, and invest them for the employment and the instruction of others in the permanent material he employs. ----------------------------------------- FRIDAY.—It is strange enough that Friday is regarded in all countries as a peculiar day. In England it is generally considered unlucky; many people will not commence any undertaking on that day; and most sailors believe that the vessel is sure to be wrecked that sails on a Friday. If a marriage take place on that day, the old wives shake their heads, and predict all kinds of misfortunes to the bride and bridegroom. Nay, they even pity all children who are so unlucky as to be born on a Friday. In Germany, on the contrary, Friday is considered a lucky day for weddings, commencing new undertakings, or other memorable events; and the reason of this superstition is said to be the ancient belief that the witches and sorcerers held their weekly meeting on this day; and, of course, while they were amusing themselves with dancing, and riding on broom-sticks round the Blocksberg, they could have no time to work any evil. And by all sensible people, Friday is regarded no better and no worse than any other of the six. -----------------------------------------

SHIRLEY BROOKE has completed the "Gordian Knot."

[Column 3]

Buttermilk and Longevity The constant use of buttermilk as food, it has been asserted, would be the means of just doubling the term of man's life, and women, too, we suppose, though nothing is said about that. On the subject of longegity, the New Orleans Surgical and Medical Journal contains some interesting facts:

It seems that an eminent French chemist, M. Ed. Robin, in a memorial presented to the Academy of sciences, has expressed the belief that human life may be prolonged, and he gives his reasons for it. He thinks human life may be compared to a furnance always kindled ; life exists only in a state of combustion, but the combusion which occurs, in our bodies, like that which takes place in our chimneys, leaves a residue, a detritus, ashes. This detritus, which is always accumulating, is, according to M. Robin, the principal cause of old age and senile death. He thinks that the mineral matter, which constitutes an ingredient in most of our food, after the combusion, is left in our system to incrust and stiffen the different parts of the body, and to render imperfect many of the vital processes. M. Robin sets forth many facts to prove the reasonableness of his position, but proposes to institute a series of experiments on animals whose lives are of short duration, to verify his theory. Among the series of experiments which he proposes, is one which consists in administering lactic acid with ordinary food. The lactic acid is known to possess the power od dissolving the incrustations which form on the arteries, cartilage, and valves of the heart: and as buttermilk abounds in this acid—it is, moreover, an agreeable kind of food—its habitual use, it is supposed, may free the system from those causes which inevitably produce death between the seventy-fifth and the one hundreth year.

The author of one of the articles in the New Orleans Journal expresses his approbation of the labours of M. Ed. Robin, and gives, moreover, a reason of his own, as to the probability that the period of human life may be extended. He makes the following formula, namely: "Every quality which appears to be an exception in a species, indicates a new rule to which this species may be subjected." The author says: "Applying this principle to the present subject, we say there are macrobites or centenarians in the human species; that macrobie is compatible with human organization, and, since it exists, its cause may be determined." Now, to possess a knowledge of the cause is to be master of the effect; and that which has heretofore been an exception may become a rule.

To shew that people may somethimes live to be very old— whether owing to buttermilk I cannot say—I condense some facts from the articles before mentioned:

Ponce Lefage lived . . . . 121 years.

Eleanor Spicer . . . . . 121 "

Madame Barnet . . . . . 123 "

Grandez . . . . . . . 126 "

John Newell . . . . . 126 "

John Bayles . . . . . . 130 "

Polotiman . . . . . . 140 "

Thomas Parr . . . . . . 162 "

Obst . . . . . . . 155 "

Joseph Surringen . . . . . 160 "

John Bowin . . . . . 172 "

Peter Zostan . . . . . . 185 "

And many others of similar ages, who have lived in modern times, might be mentioned.

The instances of longevity below one hundred and twenty years are frequent.

Some curious facts are related as to the habits of these aged individuals. Polotiman, a surgeon, who lived to be one hundred and forty years old, never passed a day without being intoxicated; and the peasant woman, Obst, who lived to be one hundred and fifty-five, drank ordinarily two tumblers full of brandy daily. A French resident of Detroit, who lived to one hundred and sixteen, never drew a sober breath during one hundred and four years.

On the other hand, many of the folks lived remarkably temperate lives. Jean Causer, who died at the age of one hundred and forty-six years, lived chiefly on milk food. Thomas Parr, who lived one hundred and sixty-two years and nine months, "subsisted all his life upon bread, old cheese, milk, whey, and table beer; " and Peter Zostan lived solely on vegetables—we think buttermilk must have been added to his fare —and attained the remarkable age of one hundred and eightyfive.

After this statement, we have no doubt all the churns in the country will be kept busy, and all the people be converted to Oliver Twists, crying incessantly for that beverage of life, "More, more!"


A FRENCH WOMAN THE BEST WIFE. —"So far as nationality goes, I should prefer the French woman to all others in the world. The German is all love and gentleness, full of childlike purity, which transports one to Paradise. The English woman, chaste, exclusive, thoughtful, and absorbed in her home affections, so loyal, so firm, and so gentle, is the ideal of a wife. The passion of the Spaniard bites deep into the heart; and the Italian, in her beauty and softness, her warm imagination, often, with her touching frankness, renders resistance impossible, and you are enraptured, conquered. However, if you desire a wife whose soul shall respond to your own by the sympathy of intellect, as well as love—who shall renew your heart by a charming vivacity and gaiety, a helping wit, womanly words, or bird-like songs—you must choose a French woman. You risk very little in marrying a plain woman in France. She is most frequently so simply for the want of love. When she is loved, she becomes quite another person—you would scarcely recognize her." —Michelet's "Love."


SMALL FEET IN PERU.—The ladies of Lima are noted for their extremely small feet, the secret being, that infants of the female sex undergo, as a rule, amputation of the little toe of each foot. So general is the custom, that many women think that five toes on each foot is a state of things peculiar to the male sex. It is said that a Peruvian surgeon is coming over to London and Paris, where he expects to make a fine harvest. He warrants the ladies the tiniest and most graceful foot by means of the above-named amputation, and confinement to the house for only one week. A custom of this kind prevailed pretty generally in Paris some years ago, kept up by the very reprehensible complaisance of a surgeon, who had acquired some celebrity touching this silly mutilation.—Paris Journal.

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Needs Review

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204 THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL Our European Correspondence.

Berlin, September 19th 1859.

From Dresden I went to Leipzig, for the purpose of getting some luggage that I had left there on my depature in July. Of course there was nothing to prolong my stay for any length of time; so, after wandering through the museum, and hearing an opera, I left the grey old city, I verily believe, for ever. But, before we bit it an enternal farewell here, let me rectify some errors which your devil (whoever set it up played the d—1, pro tem., at least) made in the printing of my first letter. He made me say there were grand pictures in the museum. Now I only thought and wrote good ones. If he is willing to take the consequences of the assertion he has put into my mouth, he may—I shall not. There is a "Madonna" of Murillo there, which is very beautiful, and an admirable exhibition of his characteristics softness and sweetness. There is, also, a fine pourtrait of the first Napoleon. But I should never characterize the collection as grand. This is no great matter; but the gentleman from Plutonia makes me talk of Frederic William First, of Prussia, as living and action in 1830! Now, my reputation is nothing—the error of one small century would not, perhaps, make people consider me much more of a nass than they always have done. But, for the sake of accuracy, of history, for poor dead-and-gone Frederic William's sake, out of regard for the feelings of these unhappy Prussians—do say next time that it was 1730. I have heard stout men boast that they would knock an enemy into the middle of the next week, but I have never known any one to knock, or even imagine he could knock, a common man, much less a king, clear into the middle of the next century! And this you have done, and without boasting of it!

From Leipzig to Berlin, where "I remain, yours truly."

I have a shocking case of the blues to-day—it is my birthday. I am not one of those who cast up accounts daily, but when I come to making yearly balances, the labour is all the sadder and heavier for former negligence. If I am capable of being modest, I am so to-day. I seems to me that a year has not advanced me one whit—that suns have flown, and moons changed, and seasons come and gone, with a thousand accompanying mutations in the world of matter and in other people's world of thought, yet left me just as they found me—that

"My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom sheweth."

The feeling, I suppose, is not peculiar. Every reflecting man, however laborious he may have been, must have been often impressed, on a retrospect of a single year, with the vast amount of time frittered away in stolid idleness or bestial enjoyments. Most persons rejoice over a birth-day (except females who have entered the gloomy vale of that most uncertain of ages—a certain age); while too often

" 'Tis too clear,

"Tis but the funeral of the former year."

Heigho! I've begun to preach: but I will say one thing serious, before I have done, and that is, that if usefulness is a thing to be aimed at, the most advisable plan for me, is to give up brooding, and endeavour to hatch up something to amuse my fellow-mourners. For our age, and our nation, of all others, is most absurdly long-faced—shutting up the gates of light and life, to mourn in a sort of sickly twilight of sentimentality —writing it on its forehead and proclaiming it in the highways, that the chief end of man is "weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth." We cross-car our cheeks, and hang "NightThoughts" at the corners of our mouth, and will not be comforted. Lord love you! Why, there is a way of being wise and good, without being miserable about it; and there is more practical wisdom in on light-hearted, free-breasted man's laugh, than in that whole book. A man never climbed by seeking out what was below him, but many a one has fallen by indulging in too many downward looks. Trust me—he who laughs and enjoys himself performs thus far a duty, however he may neglect others. And he who affords the weeping miserables of our day amusement, is much more of a benefactor than the age has generally conceded.

Well, I will tell about my great self to-day. I have had a time of it getting fixed here. I walked over all Berlin, visited every house that had a pasteboard sign over the door with "Hier ist eine Stube zu vermiethen" on it (and it seemed that at least a third of the town was to be let), found most of them deserving to be let—alone!—advertised—did every thing humanly possible. At last, however, chance brought me "way up town," where I found two nice rooms, a quiet neighbourhood, a jewel of a landlady, and Damm the euphoneous name of her. I pitched my tent, and here I am. My landlady is a jewel, "as sung above"—and I want to tell you about her.

"Not learned, save in gracious household ways"—

not a flesh-and-blood Minerva—not a she-Mercury, except that she is passably swift of foot—but a woman, and a German woman at that. She does not know which of the seven cities really deserves the honour of being considered Homer's birthplace - does not know what song the syrens sung, (although she probably imagines it was "Wenn die Schwalben") or what

[Column 2]

name Achilles bore in his disguise—perhaps never even heard of that swift-footed one: but she if profoundly versed in the ways of brewing coffee, is mistress of all the mysteries of a biscuit, knows hem-stitch and back-stitch, and, above all, knows how to hold her tongue. Nor is she quite a Venus or a Sylph —her waist (I have measured it—with my eye) would doubtless go a full thirty inches and over, and I would venture several groschens on her sending a hundred-and-sixty pound weight bouncing higher than Satan's side of the scale in Milton. But she is sweet of countenance, and when she come in of mornings, with the coffee-tray on her arm, a little white cap set jauntily on the back of her really beautiful black hair, and with a merry good-morning on her lips—I can tell you, it makes the solitary heart of me right glad. She is simplicity itself: you should have heard her exclain "aus America!" when I told her where a bundle of Courants came from. But then she talks so about Berlin, and gets so "fearfully eloquent" on the news of the day, that I am sometimes half inclined to believe she thinks. She is the only being I ever see about the house. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of a feeble shadow, which I take to be the terrestial remains of a paternal heDamm, and once in a while I hear a shrill echo, which experience leads me to imagine is the last relict of a maternal sheDamm; but I know no further of them.

The crowning glory of this "distinguished female" is, that she keeps things clean and decent of odour. Perhaps you don't appreciate this trait in America, where people are neat, but here———! Why, you should have gone with me on my searches! Such darkness—such smells! The darkness of the passageways would make Egypt and Erebus turn pale with envy—and smells! I have lived in odoriferous Leipzig—I have been in Cologne, where Coleridge counted his "seventy separate and well-defined stinks"—I have, from my youth up, been the victim of the vile perfumes with which womankind are wont to be-scent themselves—but none of these equal in variety and intensity the odours of Berlin. Now, strange as it may sound, I don't love a stink—that is, I am not passionately enamoured of stinks—if a bad room with a stink, and a good room without a stink, are offered me, I should choose the latter—if two rooms, in other respects euqal, are offered me, one with stink, one without, I should not insist on paying more for the former: to come to a last point, if the same room is placed before me, with the choice of stink ot no-stink, I am very much afraid I should say, "no-stink." Some things bad of smell, are otherwise good—cod-fish and potatoesm for instance, and Schweizer Käse. But a stink is not a favourite of mine. These premises, then, being stinkless, you will not wonder at my satisfaction. Then the Fraulein is very domestic and industrious. I sometimes imagine I see her out of nights, with a gay Lothario of a soldier, but, on inspection, I find myself mistaken, and on returning home, if it is before eleven, P. M., here I find her, sewing, and singing some ditty, largely interspersed with sch's.

Phrom the phoregoing, you will not pheel surprised that I have phixed up phrom phancy a phew rhymed phlumeries on the phine pheatures of this phair phemale phenomenon. Here they are, and I hereby devote to immortality.


O Fraülein Damm! in all the jam

Of Berlin folks with rooms to let,

'Tis but in thee I've found a she

Of sense and moderation yet.

And though no Grace would steal thy face,

And though thy waist might be some thinner,

With pleasure I do glorify

Thy virtues while thou cook'st the dinner.

In vain I walked and ooked and talked,

And sought a room through thick and thin—

E'en advertised, as one advised—

When, lo! the notes came pouring in,

In a many a poke from divers folk—

One viduous she amond the bidders,

But I bethought how one had taught,

"Son Samivel, bevare of vidders!"

Till, wandering round, at last I found

A pasteboard sign above thy door,

Declaring how a man might now

Here comfortable rooms secure.

I climbed with care the dim, dark stair,

Was shewn the lodging, neat and tidy,

Nor long delayed to strike a trade—

And here I am this happy Friday.

It is not thine to boast a line

Of lofty dames and hero sires—

Honest descent, with groschens blent,

Is all to which thy soul aspires:

For Berlin can scarce show a man

More worthy than A.-Damm (the he-Damm),

And ma-dam's like you scarce shall strike,

Save she affects another Schie-dam!

In youth he wooed and pressed and sued,

And her tired ears with pleading crammed,

Till she did say, one luckless day,

"Go, then, and let your tears be damned!"

[Column 3]

He did not "take," so, for her sake,

Went badly, till mamas did bellow,

When youth did stray from virtue's way,

"He is, indeed, a Damm bad fellow!"

But, though o'erthrown, he still pressed on,

Until the maiden fair exclaimed:

"I tell you true, if I love you

I hope—I hope I may be—Dammed!"

What awful words! Yet clerk records

The sad wish came to pass too fully;

Indeed, she loved, and, as it proved,

Was at the altar (!) Dammed most truly.

Thus was the debt that Eve did set On A-dam, in a fruit-fond whim, Here well repaid (same whim, 'tis said), For she was truly Dammed for him. Yet once again this first of men, A Damm or Adam's machination Dammed her, but now, fair one, 'twas thou Was't added to the Dammed's Damm-nation.

And thou did'st grow by high and low Well loved, although no Dutchman's bride, But chief of joys to Dutchman boys, And one poor youth from t'other side. Thou are to him the synonym Of loveliness, all things adorning— So when day's light flows in all bright He says, "Fraülein, a Damm fine morning!"

In Berlin here sweet maids appear, With health and beauty all a-flame; But his fond heart doth sigh apart, "Ah! none of these are worth one Damm." A guttural from thee doth fall Soft music, and when he is huffy, With laughter light thou put'st to flight His humors, bringing in the coffee.

O, long live thou, but not as now, In singleness, worst of female peches Deign to receive some youth, believe His gutturals and sch's ; Live peacefully, live happily With him through many a generation, And every year add to thy cheer, And items to thy dear Damm-nation.


–——————————————— The Tuscan Peasant,

Poor in quality, and often scant in quantity is the food which sustains the lives of the Tuscan peasantry. When the landlord's share is deducted out of their small patch of wheat, the portion that remains serves but for a short time to afford a supply of white bread for family use. In the absence of this luxury, a dark, vile-looking compound of rye and other inferior kinds of grain, made into a thick, flat cake or clumsy roll, is generally eaten. Acting upon the idea that things are not in many cases at all so bad as they appear, I ventured on the experiment of trying the unattractive-looking fare; but found that in this case, at least, the decision of the taste full confirmed the judgement of the eye; for, though I am very far from being dainty on the score of food, and am even obnoxious to the reproach of having eaten, with positive relish, dinners which had been indignantly denounced as insults to civilization and humanity, I must in truth confess that it would require me to be tolerably far advanced in the process of starvation, before I should feel the least inclination to repeat the experiment I made on the black bread which constitutes the peasant's simple food.

The French or kidney bean forms a favourite article of food; the young pod is not eaten as with us, but the bean only, in its maturity. Every peasant has his patch of beans; and this vegetable seems to rank in popular estimation above the potato. Rather a strange preferance, it seemed to me; for, though I strove to divest my mind of every insular prejudice, and to attain to an exemplary judicial state of feeling on the question, I could come to no other decision than that the merits of a dish of potatoes were incomparably superior to those of a dish of kidney benas; particularly when the latter was served up in oil, the usual and favourite condiment to every thing.

Black bread, kidney beans and porridge made of Indian corn, constitute, it may be said, the fare of the Tuscan peasant. Occasionally he has in the summer of autumn season a few luxuries, such as peas, tomatoes, cherries, figs and chestnuts. to vary his unattractive food. Milk he seldom tastes, for the Italian peasan't cow is looked on as a means of rearing calves, and not of providing a nutritious beverage for himself and family; and butter, it may be said, as a general rule, is absolutely unknown. The wife of a peasant, possessing several cows, asked me one day what it was, then, how it was made, and listened to my explanation with much apparent interest and curiosity. The butter I used at the Baths of Monte Catinin came some thirty miles, from the dairy farms at Florence; and at Albano, a town containing several hundred inhabitanats, the luxury was unprocurable; indeed, it is only in those places in Italy where the English congregate, that butter is entitled to take its place in the list of Italian produce.

From the ordinary dinner of the Tuscan peasant an English labourer would turn away with a sensation of scorn and disgust, and more so, when he found that a cup of water was to prove its only accompaniment. Not always, however, was the peasant solely indebted for a beverage to the neighbouring well or brook, for, up to a recent period, his vines, now worthless from the blight, afforded him a grateful, wholesome, and strengthening drink. —Life in Tuscany ——————————————— SIDNEY SMITH, one day describing to a friend the people whom he met at a dinner-party, said, "There was Hallam, too, with his mouth full of cabbage and contradiction."

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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 office of the Courant has been removed to No. 144 Richardson Street, over Flanigan's Shoe-Store.

WM. W. WALKER, Jr., & Co.

Dr. Lieber.

We publish to-day, on our sixth and seventh pages, a portion of Dr.LIEBER'S admirable "Introductory Lecture." Like all the writings of the illustrious professor, it is characterized by deep thought, wide learning, and great logical consistency.

Susan Archer Talley.

In our last number the many-sided "Barry Gray" found reason to express his surprise that MISS TALLY'S works were not in book-form. He only uttered the distinctly-felt opinion of hundreds. But now, Messrs. RUDD & CARLETON, of New York, announce her poems as forthcoming. We trust that the publishers will employ the proper means to make the book known, and possible to be bought. We are sure that every one who reads it, will be forced to speak of it, and with admiration. She has rare gifts, this MISS TALLEY, and we predict for her a world-wide reputation.

The Southern Litarary Messenger for October

Has arrived after a long delay. Still, it comes in good season-- just after we have done reading the other issues of the month, and always before the arrival of the next monthlies. This number contains a goodly variety of original and selected matter. But the "Editor's Table" and the book notices are by far the most observable features of the magazine. This issue has a very searching, but at the same time appreciative, critique of "Henry St. John."

Mecklenburg Fair.

We return our thanks to P.J. LOWRIE, Treasurer, for a complimentary card to the Mecklenburg Agricultural Fair. Much would we like to visit this old birth-place of Freedom : we fear that our miserable health will not allow it. However, we sincerely hope that the Fair may be, in every way, quite as successful as its promoters can desire. Immense good is accomplished by this annual coming together of practical people, and it is wise to cherish all such exhibitions.

St. Agnes

"Quelqu'un" writes again to ask a question, which we should have answered by a private note, had he not informed us that others are quite as much in the dark about it as he is. "TENNYSON and you," says Quelqu'un, "have each written a poem on St. Agnes. How is it that Tennyson's poem can say

"Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are glittering in the moon,"

whereas St. Agnes lived long before Convents were heard of? How is it, that when he says nothing of maryrdom, while you say nothing of her having lived in a Convent ?" This confusion we had occasion to explain before. It arrised from the fact that our poem celebrates St. Agnes, the martyr, in the persecution at Rome, under Dioclesian; TENNYSON commemorates the Abbess of great sancity, who died in 1317; she is usually known as "St. Agnes of Monte Pulciano." She was a remarkable woman in many respects, and doubtless her history attracked the eye of the poet, on account of her very wonderful piety. Quelqu'un will find a full account of the Saint of Mt. Pulciano in the Breviary and the "Lives of the Saints." As for the information concerning St. Agnes the martyr, see the works of St. Ambrose, sermo 48, St. Augustine and Prudentius.

A Slight Mistake.

One of our contemporaries says : " A translation of the plays of Shakespeare has been the occupation of Victor Hugo, in his melancholy exile."

The translation has already been published, and extensively noticed. It is not by the great VICTOR HUGO, but by his son. It is said to reproduce the spirit of Shakespeare far better than the older versions, some of the absurdities of which we published some time since--absurdities quite as great as the rendering, in the translation of "Guy Mannering," of the phrase, "the prodigious Dominie," "un ministre assassin."

"It is sweet to be remembered," and particularly so by the happy who are not too happy to forget their friends! We have smacked our chief-editorial lips over some of the bridal cake of our young friends whose happiness is chronicled just below. May Heaven shower its richest blessings on them!

Married, by the Very Rev. T. Bermingham, on the 11th of October, at the residence of Dr. John H. Burt, Edgefield District, S. C., JAMES A. DOZIER, Esq., to MISS SARAH MARY A. ROPER, both of Edgefield.

HERR APPELLES has recently arranged several American melodies, as marches, for the West Point military band.


TO "C," of Charleston.

Our correspondent "C" sends us a very sensible letter from Charleston, and one which we would glady publish, except for the fact that it is anonymous.

We can not, under any circumstances, publish articles which are unaccompained with the author's name.

Books. One of the most tantalizings things in this world, to us, is to go into the stores of Mr. GLASS or Mr. TOWNSEND and keep our resolution not to break the Commandment which forbids "to covet any thing that is thy neighbours." The new editions of old authors are tempting, the new books, hot from the press, the stationery, the pictures -- which is not much recognized here yet-- and say if the niggardly publishers will not send us our justly-earned property, we will buy none of thei books, but thanking God for what we do get from PETERSON, whose print will blind your eyes, and EVANS of the "MammothGift Concern," we will make our booksellers blush by reviewing "The Life of Davy Crockett," or " Three per Cent. a Month" DERBY & JACKSON send us many admirable books, such as "Beulah," "From Dawn to Daylight," "Sylvia's World," "Miss Slimmens' Window," etc., etc., while about once a month we get a stray volume from the HARPER'S SCRIBNER or REDFIELD. Why don't the publishers wake up? If they were all as penurious of Messrs. "TOWNSEND, publishers of Cooper's novels, who go into mourning whenever they invest a volume in a critical notice, we should not be surprised. Gentlemen publishers! the people in this section of the world—in this "province"—buy and read books, and some of them read our critiques; so pray quit sending us blood-and-mud stories—we will neither read nor notice them—but send us sensible books, as DERBY & JACKSON do, and we will promise you perfect critical justice.

The Schiller Festival in New Orleans.

From the True Delta we learn that the Germans are making ready to celebrate SCHILLER'S Centennial with extraordinary pomp. We have hopes to see a worthy commemoration of the great aesthetician-poet in Columbia. A man who does not feel SCHILLER cannot feel any thing; so let us have a great feste.

"The President of the Schiller Festival Commitee, has placed before us the following information in regard to the coming fête; On the evening of the 9th November, the great drama of the poet, the "Robbers" is to be performed, concluding with an appropriate after-piece. The place of representation is not yet selected. On the morning of the 10th (the centennial birth-day) a procession is to move to Odd Fellows' Hall, where addresses in German and English are to be delivered. And, on the evening of the 11th, there is to be a grand concert at Odd Fellows' Hall, conducted by sixty musical artistes and sixty choristers. A bust of Schiller, moulded expressly for the occasion, will then be crowned, the prize prologues read, and the prize awarded to the sucessful author."

"PERSONNE," of the Saturday Press, we think may be very safely said to "have a style of his own." Read the following excerpt from the last number:

Your sensible man—to whom a "subject" is as necessary as to a dissector—is always a bore; while as for sensible women— why, under favour of the fair sex, I never saw but one in my life, and Page's "Wenus" forbid that I should ever see another.

Sense, in fact, is good for nothing except to aid us in grubbing after what Branch calls the "insensate mineral."

And what do Feuilletonists and Poets care about that? Ask Personne. Ask Aldrich. Ask the Undersigned. I know that the Oldest Man can't see this; but the Oldest Man can't see any thing. He is all can't; or rahter, he is what Shakespeare calls —a purblind Argus, All eyes and no sight.

He can't see Cortesi. He can't see Geraldine. He can't see (or didn't) the Aurora Borealis. He can't see the Great Eastern. He can't see (who but Yeadon can?) the great "Orator

Patriot, Sage, Cicero of America, Laudator of Washington, Apostle of Charity, High Priest of the Union, and Friend of Mankind"

And now he is preparing not to see Speranza and Sam Cowell !

Pauvre Aveugle ! He sees nothing but the American Eagle, the Star-Spaangled Banner (not Bonner) and The Saturday Press. Perhaps the latter has, at last, made him.

Blind from the excess of light !

But after all, "there is none so blind" ( I wonder, though, if this hasn't been said before) " as those who won't see"

And the Old Man won't even go to see—the old land-lubber! But I am right, in this matter of sense, whether the Old Man sees it or not.

The world is too sensible by half. This "rush of brains to the head" will be the death of it.

John Brougham ruined his last comedy simply by puting too much sense in it.

As though you could make a Ruling Passion out of sense. Nonsense! Sense never did rule this world ("since gentlemen came up") and never will again.

If it should, we should all become idiots in the flower of our youth. Some of us have, as it is.


"Calhoun and his Contemporaries."

From the Mobile Tribune we extract the following :

REYNOLDS ON CALHOUN.—We publish a Supplement this morning, containing a comparison of Jefferson and Calhoun, from the concluding chapter of the second volume of "Calhoun and his Contemporaries," by Benard A. Reynolds, Esq., of this city. This volume contains sketches of Gen. Hayne, Gen. Hamilton, Mr. McDuffie, Dr. Thomas Cooper, Hugh S. Legare, Wm. C. Preston, Robert J. Turnbull, Judge Wm. Smith, Judge Andrew Pickens Butler, Col. Pierce Butler, Henry L. Pickens, Gov. John L. Wilson, Col. Sammuel Warren, Maj. James Hamilton, Capt. Richard Bohun Baker, Dixon H. Lewis, and others. The sketches of Hayne and Hamilton occupy the entire chapters, and may be called biographies, rather than sketches. Most of these notices, it will be remembered, appeared in this paper in the year 1853. The early companions of Mr. Calhoun— Lowndes, Cheves, and Gen. David R. Williams—are described in the first volume, which embraces the period from Mr. Calhoun's birth to the time when he became a member of Monroe's Cabinet, as Secretary of War. The second volume, which concludes with a comparison of Jefferson and Calhoun, extends from 1817 to 1833, when Mr. Calhoun, as a Senator, defended South Carolina against the powerful combination which had been arrayed against her by Gen. Jackson and the Northern manufacturers. In addition to the personal sketches already mentioned the second volume has a parallel of Madison and Monroe, in which the author endeavors to portray the eminent character and great services of the last-named statesman.

"As we said afew days ago, there is a necessity for a consecutive history of the life and acts of Mr. Calhoun. He is our representative man—a grand man, whose wisdom is demonstrated as the years roll by. His history ought to have been written long ago, and would have been, if the gentleman (Mr. Cralle) deputed by act of the South Carolina Legislature had not, by his procrastination or incapacity, stood in the way of a more zealous and ready writer."

Mr. REYNOLDS writes to the editor of the Tribune to mention that some points had been omitted, which might have been used in the comparison of Jefferson and Calhoun.

"For instance," he says, " they differed as to the policy of the Monroe doctrine, Mr. Calhoun condeming its promulgation at the time by Mr. Monroe, and Mr. Jefferson favouring it, the latter being its undoubted author, as any one will perceive who is familiar with Randall's Jefferson. They differed again on the embargo, the non-intercour and the non-importation acts. These restrictive measures were condemned by Mr. Calhoun. 'What shall we gain by restriction? he asked 'The memory of Saratoga and Eutaw is immortal, but what will history say of restriction? These points were omitted in the present publication for the sake of brevity."

Apropos of this work we will present our readers with a very masterly sketch, by Mr. REYNOLDS, of Jefferson and Calhoun.

These eminent statesmen, standing in the clear, calm light of history, reveal traits of character which are strongly marked. Mr. Jefferson was a studen all his life. Mr. Calhoun is reputed to have discarded books at one period of his life, as injuri ous [ maganize was a bit folded] to the reasoning faculties. He was a great talker, being equally great in his conversation and his speeches. Mr. Jeffer-son was exceedingly agreeable in conversation, but was unequal to the task of public speaking. When the Committee from Congress waited on him, and informed him of his election to the Presidency, he attempted to reply, but failing, he dropped into a seat and wrote his answer. Mr. Calhoun's conversations were something more than is generally understood by that word. "He comes from lecturing in the Senate" said Miss Martineau, "to lecture at his fireside." They both abstained from contributing to the newspapers. Mr. Jefferson never having, as he says, written an article for the papers in all his life ; and Mr. Calhoun is believed to have reversed the rule in a single instance only, when, over the signature of Onslow, he engaged in a controversy with John Quincy Adams as to the powers of the Vice President. In point of morals, it might be said of them, as Jefferson remarked to Lafayette of Monroe, "you may turn their souls wrong side out without their exhibiting a blemish to the world." In point of style, as writers, they were distinguished for graceful elegance, glowing fervour, and graphic power of grappling with the mightiest arguments. In power of thought and analysis, Mr. Calhoun was not only superior to Mr. Jefferson, but to all the writers of his time, including the authors of the Federalist. This opinion will be sustained, we fancy, by any one who reads the criticism of Calhoun on that work in his essay on the Constitution of the United States, particularly where he treats of divided sovereignty, Alexander Hamilton having asserted that the powers conferred on the Federal Government by the Contitution were partly national and partly federal, which Mr. Calhoun denied; thus proving that the framers of the Constituion did not really comprehend its character in all its phases and aspects. The style of Mr. Jefferson is to be found chiefly in his letters, and that Mr. Calhoun must by sought in his speeches and occasional reports to Congress when Secretary of War, and to the Senate when a member of that body, for his private letters have not been published in the edition of his works. But if Mr. Calhoun's mind was more analytic than that of Mr. Jefferson, yet the mind of Jefferson was far more copious than that of Mr. Calhoun, for he was a general scholar, and thoroughly imbued with all the scientific attainments of the age. His letters abound in disquistions on every variety of subject, from poetry down to politics, and even touches on the construction of chronometers, as well as Greek particles. It is really amusing, as well as interesting, to read his correspondence with John Adams—the one eighty and the other seventy-five—and about the construction to be placed on certain Greek sentences, the theme being pursued by both with the zealous adour of two rival school-boys. That was the era of encyclopeadias. The French ideologists, whose theory comprehended the circle of the sciences, had given an impetus to knowledge in every portion of the civilized world, and the encyclpeadias were to be found in every library. Hence the affluence of scientific learning which we discover in the works of that day, and hence it is that Mr. Jefferson, who was himself what is called an ideologist, acquired so much knowledge of the sciences as to be regarded even by learned men as a wonder and a marvel.—Mobile Mercury.

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