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THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL 203
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From the Alabama Whig.
A WISH—TO * * * *.
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BY MONOS.
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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."
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FROM VANDENHOFF'S "Leaves of an Actor's Note Book," we
take the following:

KEAN AND COOKE.

"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 com-
pliment 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 Tay-
lor had 'stolen, like a guilty thing, in haste away,' and the rest
of the company shortly followed."

THE DUKE AND THE ACTRESS.

"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. Jor-
dan 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 faith-
fully 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 AND HIS CHILDREN.

"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 be-
lieve, 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 ap-
pointed 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."

LORD ADOLPHUS AND HIS ACTRESS MOTHER.

"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 re-
quested to be shewn to his mother's dressing-room. He was con-
ducted thither by Madame Vestris, I believe, herself. He en-
tered the room that had, some twenty or thirty years before,
been his mother's, in silence—stood there, looked round a mo-
ment, 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."
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The Power of Words.

A word is the body of a thought, and the very common mis-
take 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 ques-
tion, 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 Steven-
son 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 feel-
ing, 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.
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FRIDAY.—It is strange enough that Friday is regarded in all
countries as a peculiar day. In England it is generally con-
sidered unlucky; many people will not commence any under-
taking 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.
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SHIRLEY BROOKE has completed the "Gordian Knot."

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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 combus-
tion, 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, accor-
ding 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 dis-
solving 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 fol-
lowing 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 hun-
dred 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 hun-
dred and four years.

On the other hand, many of the folks lived remarkably
temperate lives. Jean Causer, who died at the age of one hun-
dred 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 vege-
tables—we think buttermilk must have been added to his fare
—and attained the remarkable age of one hundred and eighty-
five.

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!"

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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 child-
like 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 imagina-
tion, 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, woman-
ly 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."

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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.