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238 THE COURANT : A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.
For the Courant.

THE BABY.

BY SAMUEL L. HAMMOND.

I.
Another or frail and tiny barque
Launched upon the ocean dark,—
Drifting out on the stormy sea,
Oh! never may it sunken be.

II.
From Life's storm-rift sky afar,
Out peeps another little star—
Yea, another beauteous beam
Down upon the earth doth gleam.

III.
Another cherub less in heaven,
One more unto earth is given;
Another fair young flower
Blooms in Life's sunny bower.

For the Courant.

INDIANS.

"Lo! the poor lngine," remarked the Fifer to Ruby, one
day, pointing to the wreck of an engine which had collapsed and expanded and blown up, until what once was the beautiful
perfection of mechanism had become a mass of ruins, without
form, and void. They had just been discussing the question
whether Pope meant to pun when he said

''His soul proud Science never taught to stray
Far as the soul-ar walk, or milky-way,"

and had come to the satisfactory conclusion that the Indian
had often sought the milky-way when in infancy, ere yet he had
become accustomed to grosser nutriment. With a deep- drawn
sigh, Ruby remarked—"Heigh! the poor Indian," and, cowlike,
commenced ruminating, thinking of Indians : their past,
their glorious past, for ever past; their ignoble and degraded
present, and their sorrowful, lowering future.

When, in pristine days, the Indian roamed in uncontrolled
freedom through primeval forests, whose savage grandeur
filled him with grand ideas of the Great Spirit by whose word
they came into existence ; when in the sound of the winds
rushing down the valleys, or sighing through the trees, or howling
over waters, or clashing and shrieking and shouting around the
mountain-tops, he heard but the war-cries and battle alarums
of the spirits of dead heroes ancl braves; when the murmuring
of waters and the rustling of breezes were lo him as the voices
of good spirits from the cloud-covered lands of the blessed
hereafter ; when the flashing and blazing of the lightning,
as its electric fires illumined the heavens, or the rolling and
crashing of the thunder, as it reverberated from cliff and cavern,
were gleams from the wrath-kindled eyes of Manitou, or
sounds of his voice when he spoke from his empyreal throne;
when the warrior returning from the battle or the chase came
home chaunting the songs of victory, and was met at the lodge
door by the "Lily of the Waters " or the "Wild Fawn of the
Forest," daughters of the wild-wood, whose hearts were as
warm as the sunshine in summer, and pure as the wind-
driven snow of the winter, and whose souls were as kind and
true as is the turtle-dove cooing in gentle, loving tones to her
mate, and as brave as the swan when she drives the wild eagle
from the nest where her cygnets are gathered ; when Truth
and Honour were native to his soul, and before the while man
had taught him that these were of less value than gold, and
could be bought and sold as chattels in the market-place
—then,
when he "saw God in clouds or heard Him in the wind," and
was in constant communication with Nature, which was his religion,
his God; oh ! then was his past, his glorious past.

Driven away from the graves of his fathers, from the home
of his boyhood ; tribes scattered and nations dispersed ; hunted
from covert to covert, and driven beyond the blue mountains
of the West, to dwell in a strange land; contaminated by all
the vices which the Europeans brought, but blessed with none
of their virtues; wasted by diseases which followed civilization
and destroyed thousands in a day; preyed upon by harpies
whose god is an idol of gold; having tasted the cup and become
enthralled by the overpowering might of the Demon of
the Still, who has peopled hell with millions; down-trodden
and despised, vicious and depraved, liars und thieves,
robbers and assassins; honor, truth, virtue and valor forever lost—
such, alas ! is their ignoble present.

"There are fifty-four Indians remaining in Florida; there
are among these but fourteen warriors." This extract from a
late newspaper was the exciting cause of the present epistle,
and mournful were the thoughts concerning the future of the
Indian. Was this meagre handful all that was left in the beautiful,
flower-bearing, palm-crowned Florida, of those who were
once the proud lords of all its fertile lands? Would the teeming
savannas never more present for them their stores? Would
the thick-woven vine-covered coverts of the almost impenetrable
hammocks never more offer to them a refuge from the invading
foe ? In mounful [mournful?] cadence comes the answer, Never
more. Never again shall the Suwannee's bright waters sing a

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lullaby for the child left to sleep on its banks. Never again
shall the Ocklockonce reflect the grateful form of the dark-
browed maiden, as she views her beautiful features in the limpid
waters, or disports herself beneath its blue waves. Never
more shall the warrior launch bis light canoe on Withlacoochee's
stream, and glide along to the lodge where his loved one dwells ;
or hasten down the swift current, carrying death and destruction,
at the dead of night, into the silent camp of the slumber­ing
foe.

Alas! the red men have departed, and are as though they
were not. Where once the shrill war-whoop was reëchoed from
the forests, is heard now the shrieking of the locomotive, as it
hurries along on its iron path. The ring of the woodman's axe
breaks the solemn stillness which once reigned throughout the
orange gloves. And even tho mounds which were raised over
the graves of the dead, are worn down and destroyed by the
ploughshare. It requires no prophetic eye to see, for the vista
of years is not long, how, gradually, the Indians will disappear ;
how, one by one, they will pass away, until of the aborigines
of America not one will be left to tell the story of the glory of
his ancestors, or the sad fate of their posterity. They are
fast disappearing from the present, to take their place among
the nations of history. Their relics will be preserved among
the curiosities of museums, and, in the words of another,
"theirs will soon be the dead language of a dead people." And, to pass away and be forgotten ; this, indeed, is their
mournful future.

If you ask why is this? the answer is, that it is a necessity
of the scheme and plan of civilization. It is an obstacle which
must be overthrown, in the course of progression. It is a barrier
which must be passed, which impedes the westward march
of the Anglo-Saxon race, ever following steadily and resistlessly
in the path illuminated, by the beacon light which gloriously
beams from the radiant "Star of Empire."

And thus, having summarily disposed of Indians in different
places, it is time that I should sign myself,

As usual, RUBY.

From the Daily Carolinian of the 19th.

THE SCHILLER FESTIVAL.
The Schiller festival, gotten up by a number of our enterprising German citizens, was a most successful and happy affair.
Kinsler's Hall was tastefully decorated with wreaths of
evergreens, and the stage fitted up with appropriate national
emblems. On the right ancl left were two transparencies bearing,
respectively, the inscriptions, " We Starkes sich und Mildes
paren da giebt es cinen guten Klang, " "Where the strong and the
mild are united, a harmony of sound is produced." "Ein
erhabenes Loos, ein gottliches. isl ihm geworden," "An elevated
and Divine lot has befallen him." Over all was suspended the
tri-colour national liberty flag of Germany, with the American
flag on either side. The portrait of FRIEDERICH VON SCHILLER
was placed conspicuously behind the speaker's desk. On the
right of President BACHAM was his Honour the Mayor, and
Professor REYNOLDS, of the South Carolina College ; on the
left, the orator of the evening, OSCAR M. LIEBER, Esq. There
were from one hundred and fifty to one hundred and sixty in
attendance. A. KOEPPER, Esq., with a full orchestra, commenced
the exercises with singing, accompanied by the piano.
At the conclusion, the President. addressed the audience as
follows:

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: Heaven smiled on Germany when
FREDERICK VON SCHILLER was born, ou the banks of the Neckar.
One hundred years have passed since that event, and
Schiller, "though dead, yet liveth." In the temple dedicated
"to all the glories of Germany," the name of Schiller is inscribed
as a name dearer to his countrymen than any other
name, for he was as good as he was great ; his writings combine
purity of language with purity of thought ancl feeling,
and occupy a place conspicuous in the literature of the world.
In the fruits of his genius, he has left a rich and abiding legacy to his country.

Throughout all christendom, wherever the German name is
known, the centennial anniversary of this great. man's birthday
will be remembered and celebrated as a most important era
in the history of his fatherland.

By the invitation of our German fellow-citizens, it is our
privilege to join in this world-rendered tribute, and to cast our
wreath of immortelles on that honoured tomb. The subject is
suggestive—one upon which I would fain linger; but it is my
pleasure to announce to you that there are others here who
will treat this noble theme in detail, and render a worthy offering
to the great name of Schiller. In honouring the memory
of the most popular poet of a country, the occasion assumes
national features. I beg to introduce Mr. LIEBER, who has
been invited by our German fellow-citizens to address them in
their native language.

Mr. LIEBER addressed the audience in German, and was frequently
interrupted by applause. We are indebted to the
author for a revised copy of the translation :

MR. PRESIDENT, AND LADIES AND GENTLEMEN :—I thank you
for the honour which you have conferred upon me; but addressing
you in a language with which, notwithstanding a
somewhat protracted visit to Germany, I have now grown less
familiar, I may justly entreat your lenient consideration, if I
should fail to furnish a suitable contribution to this festival.

We celebrate the hundredth birth-day of Schiller. To do
honour to the great intellects of one's country, is the pleasing
duty of every feeling man ; and to commemorate their names
with such festivities, awakens the purest sensations of the
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heart. We have not assembled here to solemnize the memory
of a proud victor, whose crowning laurels have sprung from a
bloody field-not to renew the recollection of a great monarch,
whose conquered territories may yield treasures to us but grief
to others—we devote this hour to poetry, the gentle gift of
heaven, and unite to give due honour to that countryman of
yours, whose lofty song has contributed more than aught else,
within the realm of the poetic art, to elevate and ennoble the
intellect of the German nation. Goethe was far less a poet for
the people ; few can raise themselves to his high poetic sphere;
but Schiller beckoned the muses down, and has made us familiar
with them. With Goethe, we must be elevated by the
intellect; but with Schiller we are borne aloft by a gentler love
and sweeter purity. Schiller addresses the soul. Intelligible
to all whose feelings are true, he accompanies us himself into
the field of poesy.

It can surprise none that the people, as a body, should do
most honour to that poet whose feelings every individual perceives
to be most in unison with his own, and far more edifying
must this brotherhood be to him than the distant respect
which Goethe enforces.

In another important point must Schiller be distinguished
from Goethe and all other German poets. The great national
unity which is so forcibly exhibited in Germany, notwithstanding
her endless political divisions, is certaonly in a great measure
produced by her common propietorship in literature, science
and art—more especially in music, in song, in poetry ; and
in this respect the Germans are particularly indebted to Schiller.
Schiller belongs to the nation—to the people. Goethe
was a courtier, and his poetry affected the mass in the same
way as also the highest science ultimately reaches it—
through
the mediation of other causes, and not direct, like Schiller's.

But why should we extend this comparison? Why endeavour
to obtain more distant evidence that Schiller has most prominently
won the hearts of his people, than that afforded by this
very celebration? Here—far from your native land, in a
trans-oceanic country—the love for your chosen poet survives.
Truly, this is fame—immortality—the poet's richest reward !

Nor is it altogether advisable to attempt a comparison between
these two friends—Schiller and Goethe. They are totally
different ; both equally lofty in their respective fields of poetry :
and we would do well to remember the assertion of Goethe,
that the Germans are great fools for quarreling, to whom most
honour is due. "They ought to feel grateful," he says, in the
conscious dignity of his own prominence, "that they may
claim both of us."

The creations of Schiller, as well as hls own character, are
probably chiefly distinguished by the elevated and earnest morality
which pervades his writings. Thus, Madame de Staël
says of him, that " he lived, spoke and acted as if evil-disposed
persons had really no existence, and when he is forced to depict
their characters in his writings, he describes them with
more exaggeration and a less minute comprehension than would
have existed if their true features were known to him." Bulwer,
his English biographer, scrutinizes this peculiraity farther:

* * * * *

Thus far have I given the words of Bulwer, because his as-sertions
most concisely depict the peculiar gifts and virtues of
Schiller. And gratifying is this praise from an author, not a countryman of his. No blame is here to be detected—no faults
are here ascribed to him. His individual characteristics alone
are pointed out. Schiller, even in his plays, is less a describing
dramatist than a creating poet. Too pure ever to obscure
truth, he may sometimes have permitted his own feelings to
colour his creations almost too distinctly. He was incapable of holding himself and his high objects in the back-ground ; but
a fault we cannot call it, if in Schiller's works, Schiller himself
is always visible ; and assuredly his people have it not in their
power to do more honour to themselves than by furnishing the
sure evidence of their own high sentiments in pledging Schiller's
love of truth. It may be to this fact that the affection is
preeminently due, which the German nation concedes to
her
great poet. It is not the mighty intellect which is here chiefly
honoured, but the virtuous purity and encouraging love of justice.

A deep piety characterizes his writings, and by the well
known ballad of "Rudolf von Habsburg," " The Fight with the
Dragon," and "The Song of the Forge," this is probably known
to the most of my German hearers.

A strong love of liberty pervades his works, but it was a true
and law-abiding liberty. That he, an author—but too frequently
annoyed by the political censorship—should have bestowed
the chief importance upon intellectual freedom cannot surprise
us; and that in politics, with the days of terror of the French
revolution before his eyes, he should have devoted his pen to
the service of a more permanent and milder, although monarchial
government, can only attest his honest love of right.
Thus,
in his "Song of the Bell," he has gloriously painted
the unchecked madness of a blind revolution. What German
does not know those words?"

* * * * * * *

In his song to the new century, he expresses himself in
mournful strains on the same subject.

* * * * * * *

With regard to intellectual freedom, Schiller ever expressed
himself with fervour: " From the cradle of my intellect, " he
says, " I have been forced to battle with fate ; and since I have
learned to value the liberty of the mind, I have been constrained
to feel its want." As particularly depressing, his poverty
appears to have been felt by him. In the earlier portion of his
life, this must have been exceedingly painful, for he was then
obliged to enforce the service of his rapidly creating mind to
enable himself to escape the rudest want of bread .

It was too lofty a view of mankind, and an exalted conception
of ideal virtue, as Bulwer says which combining with
these pressing circumstances, in those early days often exposed
him to temporary melancholy. "I embraced half creation,"
he exclaims with ardour, "and found a lump of ice within my
grasp." Yet this gloomy feeling was gradually dispersed, and
it may well be asked, whether the sad school of depressing
grief is not indeed necessary to every truly great poet? Almost
all have passed through this fiery ordeal, and Schiller himself
appears to regard poverty as the just inheritance of the poet.
You all know the "Division of the World."

* * * * * * *

It was [not?] until a much later period of life, in the seqestered
retreat of Weimar, that Schiller had it in his power