1859-10-13 The Courant

THE COURANT, A Southern Literary Journal. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ HOWARD H. CALDWELL, EDITOR.] "Sic vos non vobis." [WM. W. WALKER, JR., & CO., PROPRIETORS ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ VOLUME I. COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1859. NUMBER 24 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ For the Couran.t From HEINE's Buch der Lieder, or Book of Songs. THE GRENADIERS. ----- BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND. ----- To the land of France went two grenadiers, From a Russian prison returning; But they hung down their heads on the German frontiers, The news from their father-land learning.

For there they both heard the sorrowful tale, That France was by ruin o'ertaken; That her mighty army was scattered like hail, And the Emperor, the Emperor taken.

Then there wept together the grenadiers, The sorrowful story learning, And one said "Oh, woe!" as the news he hears-- "How I feel my old wound burning!"

The other said, "The song is sung, And I wish that we both were dying! But at home I've a wife and a child--they're young-- On me, and me only, relying.

"Yet what is a wife or a child to me?" Deeeper wishes my heart have shaken; Let them beg, let them beg, should they hungry be! My Emperor, my Emperor taken!

"But I beg you, brother, if by chance, You soon shall see me dying; Then take my corpse with you back to France, Let it ever in France be lying.

"The cross of honour, with crimson band, Shall rest on my heart as it bound me; Give me my musket in my hand, And buckle my sword around me.

"And there I will lie and listen still, In my sentry-coffin straying, Till I feel the thundering cannon thrill, And horses trampling and neighing.

"Then my Emperor will ride well over my grave, Mid sabres bright slashing and smiting; And I'll rise, all weaponed, up out out of my grave, For the Emperor, the Emperor fighting." ------------- A pine on a cliff is standing, In the North, where cold winds blow, 'Neath a white cover sleeping, Wrapped up in ice and snow.

He is dreaming of a palm-tree Which, far in the Eastern land, Lonely and silent sorrows, 'Mid burning rocks and sand.* -------------- From ancient legends springing, Beckons a snowy hand; With a ringing and a singing, And all of a magic land:

Where strange, large flowers are yearning In golden even-tides, All passionately burning, Gazing like longing brides;--

Where all the trees are speaking And singing like a choir, And fountains pure come breaking, Like music, to the air;-- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ * Few poems surpass this, either in beauty and simplicity of form, or depth of expression. That it was one of Heine's own favourites, may be inferred from his having placed a part as motto to "The New Spring," in his Pictures of Travel. The original is as follows:

Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam Im Norden auf kahler Höh; Ihn schläfert; mit weisser Decke Umhüllen ihn Eis und schnee.

Er träumt von einer Palme, Die, fern im Morgenland, Einsam und schweigend trauert Auf brennender Felsenwand.

Love's sweetest airs prolonging, Such as thou ne'er didst hear; Until a strange, sweet longing, Bewilders soul and ear!

And, oh, that I were yonder! How blest my heart would be, In that sweet land of wonder How happy and how free!

Oh, land of joy!--before me I see thee oft in dreams! But when the day dawns o'er me, It flits like foam on streams. -------------- I will be patient, though my heart should break, Thou love for ever lost! no 'plaint I'll make. But though thou glitterest in diamonds bright, There falls no gleam into thy heart's deep night.

I saw in dreams, I knew it long ago, I saw the night through thy heart's chambers flow, I saw the snake which gnaws upon thy heart, I saw, my love, how wretched now thou art. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE MAID OF THE CASTLE. From the Knapsack of Thomas Singularity. ----- BY THE LATE PROFESSOR NOTT. ----- A ROUND of good dinners with the hospitable inhabitants of Edinburgh, and little exercise, were followed by their usual shadow--dyspepsia. I therefore determined on a short rustication before proceeding with a second bundle of introductory letters. From the description of a friend, I was induced to select the village of Bamborough, in Northumberland, for my temporary sojourn. I found there, to be sure, pure, bracing air and fine sea-bathing, yet for some days I repented of my choice. There were few agreeable promenades, and but little landscape. Even the small grove or garden in the centre of the village was walled in, and kept under lock and key. My only resource was to saunter along the sands or ascend the battlements of the castle. This stately remnant of Anglo-Saxon and Norman times, though it has undergone many reparations, has still been renewed in its original taste. It stands on one of those lofty conical trap-formations that so frequently shoot in Scotland and the north of England, such as the Bass Rock, the Craig of Ailsa, and Dumbarton Castle. On the land side was a wide expanse of cultivated, but rather flat scenery, bounded by the blue and distant "Chevoit's mountains lone;" and seawards were seen the little farne Islands with their Basaltic columns, and farther off Lindisfarne, or Holy Island, with its magnificent ruins. As in most places in England, they had many things to show to a stranger; a small armoury, a life-boat, a well dug through the solid rock some two or three hundred feet, etc. There was, too, a library not badly composed, consisting of a great many old books, but likewise some modern ones of distinguished reputatation. It had, also, a harpsichord of antiquated structure, and a number of pourtraits, among which I have not forgotten the beautiful one of Lady Crewe. To pass off my time, I often stepped into the library, perhaps more for company than books. The librarian was a tall, slender girl of about eighteen, pretty and intelligent. Her conduct was a remarkable mixture of ease and modesty. At first sight she conversed with confiding familiarity, but exhibited, on further acquaintance, a constant propriety, and even timidity. Her dress, though plain almost to coarseness, was arranged with striking neatness, and fitted with an exactness that gave full effect to an uncommonly symmetrical and flexible form. Her complexion was of a pure red and white, so general in the healthy and humid climate of England, the rose perhaps paler than common. Young as she was, the simple manner in which her glossy brown hair was parted on her high forehead, and fell in clusters round her neck, gave her a still more youthful air. To a casual observer, her eyes seemed black, but the effect was owing to the long silken lashes that shaded their pure and deep blue. In my first conversation, her modest attire not awakening much attention, I inquired about various books, until I was forcibly struck by the uncommon originality and good sense of one of her remarks. It took me so suddenly that I fixed my eyes intently on the fair speaker. There was something in her steadfast, I might say melancholy gaze, that rivetted me like a spell. She was not at all aware of the effect she had produced on me, but continued her conversation with an intensity that seemed to abstract her from external objects. I could not reconcile her situation with the gentility of her demeanour and cultivation of intellect. After conversing on different books for some time, during which my mind was thoroughly disturbed, and my behaviour, of course, absent, I took my leave. On inquiring who the girl was I had met in the library, my landlord, Jobson, replied, "Oh, 'tis only Emily Glentworth, the miller's daughter." "The miller's daughter! what has she to do with the library!" "Why there is a bit of a wind-mill attached to the castle, but as little is to be made from it, the showing of the castle and the library to strangers is given to him as a perquisite; and so the old man has stuck Emily up in the keep, while he watches the hopper." "Is she not counted a very beautiful and intelligent girl?" "Indeed, I never heard any one say much about her; but now I think of it, she is pretty enough, and I believe a very good lass into the bargain." The next day I returned to see more of the miller's daughter. On entering, I found her reading; but she immediately closed her book, advanced and gave me her hand as if we had been old acquaintances. From that moment, I may say, we were friends. I was astonished at the extent of her reading. She appeared to know more or less of nearly every book in the collection, and spoke of them with equal taste and judgment. For two weeks after this I was with her almost every day, during which she exhibited the same sweet confidence, decorum and intelligence. Of the world she was perfectly ignorant; nor did she care much to talk about it. No matter how the conversation began, it invariably ended in literature--Shakespeare, Milton or Byron. Even when one spoke of scenery or life, it was blended with the images of poetry, and clothed in its language. On returning to Edinburgh, I took my leave of Emily, with the promise, and really the expectation, of speedily returning. I was doomed not to see her again. Two years afterwards I met on the Continent a lady from Bambro', who, when I inquired after the lovely librarian, gave me the following history: "You remember the appearance of Emily Glentworth, when you saw her two years since. My intimacy com------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

186 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ menced some time after your departure. From her childhood, I had often looked upon her as a pretty girl, and later in life was struck with her growing graces. Her parents, however, were poor, and she passed along unnoticed and unknown. Few strangers travelled through the village, but even the little gained from them was an object to poor Glentworth and his wife, to whom the library, as you know, was given as a perquisite. As Emily was small, and could do nothing else, the duty of attending and showing the library was assigned to her. From the age of ten years old her taste for literature became decided, and all her time was devoted to it. Day after day, and month after month, the habit had strengthened, until her whole existence was wrapped up in this one occupation, that was now her business, her pleasure, indeed, her only world. Her parents, laboriously employed in their own avocations, attended little to what she did. Besides the rapid improvement of her mind, her manners were also, in a measure, formed by the intercourse of the well-informed strangers that occasionally visited the library, and who, taken by her beauty and intelligence, would often prolong their conversations. She, meanwhile, was entirely unconscious of the attention she attracted, or, indeed, that she possessed either loveliness or talent to attract. Soon after your departure, a young stranger, Arthur Collingwood, arrived in our village on a visit to his uncle. I saw him several times at the houses of some of my neighbours, and each successive time felt more prepossessed in his favour. He was just grown up, and united the bloom of youth with the dignity of manhood. His form was not large, but moulded with an elegance that imparted grace to every movement. His features were regular, and a pair of large black eyes suited well with his rich raven hair and clear brunette complexion. He had read much, especially poetry, was a good musician, and drew admirably. Educated at home, and unacquainted with mankind, a degree of timidity, almost approaching to downright bashfulness, prevented him from making the figure in society that might have been expected from his noble form and fine talents. Indeed, it was not until the third or fourth time I saw him, that I began to appreciate his merit, although his appearance had pleased me from the first. "Collingwood, by accident, visited the library, and was delighted with Emily. There was, in fact, a most striking similarity in their tastes and dispositions. Both possessed ardent poetic imaginations, and warm and pure hearts. In a second visit he liked her still more, and a kind of intimacy soon sprang up between them. Day after day he would involuntarily stray off to the castle; and day after day his stay in the library was prolonged. They read the same authors together, or discussed their merits together. Soon they ceased to read. For hours they would talk together, walk on the battlements, look out over land and sea, and then look at each other. "One day Collingwood rushed in hastily, with pale and absent looks, his eyes filled with tears, and exclaimed, 'My dear Emily, I am come to bid you adieu! My father is at the point of death, and I must depart immediately!' Without waiting for a reply, he threw his arms around her neck, kissed her fervently, and was gone in a moment. "Overcome by a sudden tumult of emotions, Emily sank down in a chair, without any fixed thought. She felt as if every thing had passed in a dream. Pale, panting, she in vain tried to collect her thoughts. She remained half stupefied, with her head reclining on a table, until suddenly she was aware that night had overtaken her. Slowly, and almost fainting, she tottered to her home. Her parents observed that she was unwell, and anxiously inquired the cause. With difficulty rallying her mind, she mentioned that her head ached, for in truth her brain felt as if bursting. In hopes of obtaining repose, she retired to bed early; but she could scarcely be said to sleep. In her broken slumbers she heard the roaring of the ocean and the sighing of the night-breeze; but her throbbing pulse sounded more loud than either on her burning temples. Throughout the whole night, Arthur Collingwood appeared before her. At times she thought she heard him walking in the chamber, and could see him approaching through the gloom; but when she would rise up on her elbow, and strain her aching sight, she could only discover some dark shadow thrown out across the clear moonshine. "When morning came she endeavoured to look gay, and hurried off to the library. She took down a favourite author and began to read. The page swam indistinctly before her eyes. She tried another book-- another and another. It was useless. Poor Emily at last threw them all aside; and, utterly exhausted with her feelings, burst into tears. She was most wretched, and knew not why. On each successive day she would glide off immediately to the library, to escape the notice of her parents, who, though occupied with their own affairs, could not but remark the change in their daughter. She had read much, but she had seen nothing of the world. She had not a friend to confide in--scarcely an acquaintance. From her deep sorrow she began, at length, to examine seriously what was the matter. 'Why,' thought she, 'does this young stranger always cross my mind? Why is he always presented to my remembrance by day and dreams by night?' An idea began to dawn upon her as she recalled the theme of every poem and novel over which she had so fondly hung. She started back with horror. 'Gracious God!' she exclaimed aloud, 'it cannot be! Love!--oh no, oh no!' Something like a sickening certainty rushed over her mind. Worn out by the intensity of her feelings, the strength forsook her limbs, her eyes darkened, and she fell senseless on the floor. When she recovered, she attempted to dispel the illusion, and to believe that she was mistaken. Alas! the very attempt proved that her forebodings were but too true. 'What, then-- would he not return; did he not love her?' It was now for the first time she began to remember--to feel that she was poor, and that Collingwood was born to wealth and rank. For a while she was sunk in utter despondency, while she listened to the admonitions of reason. But her ardent and unsophisticated feelings soon spoke in a louder and more agreeable voice. After a few ineffectual struggles, she looked only to the aircastles deep love so easily erects. She essayed not to dispel them, but would remain for hours in a kind of day-dreaming, with her eyes half closed and a languid smile just marking her lips. Sometimes, indeed, the idea would intrude, 'Did he return her love?' But then she would recal the manner in which he used to gaze on her face and smile in her eyes. She remembered the circumstances of his departure, his expression, 'My dear Emily,' his ardent embrace, his glowing kiss. She did not doubt. She did not wish to doubt. "But time rolled away, and no news came of Arthur, until Emily's brilliant visions could no longer delude, and her heart felt heavy, like a weight of lead. A month had gone by--two months--three, in which she counted every tedious day. He came not, he wrote not. Hope gradually faded away from the sensitive being, and fixed despair assumed its place. 'Why should one of his rank and wealth stoop to a poor miller's daughter, who could only disgrace him!' "It was at this time," continued the lady, "that I visited the library by chance, and was moved by the pale, woe-begone countenance of the languid girl. Having often before noticed her with peculiar interest, I was struck, indeed appalled, at the rapid change in her sweet face and slender form. Sympathy drew me to her, and her wounded spirit needed sympathy. After but a little solicitation, she told me all; her acquaintance with Arthur, her deep love, her hopeless situation. Often would she sit upon the battlements where she had so often sate with Collingwood, and gaze vacantly on the ocean until night would veil the prospect from her view. At other times, stretched on her solitary couch, she would weep for hours. Perhaps her exposure on the battlements to the heavy sea dews had affected her health as well as her corroding feelings, for she began rapidly to waste away, though with her pure complexion it was hardly visible to the casual observer. Hers was a character peculiarly formed. Nursed in a world of poetry and romance, she had swam along amid sunshine and flowers, and never felt the sad realities and real vicissitudes of life. All nature had been clothed in the beauties she had culled from the glowing pages of prose and song. The wide-spread landscape, the broad expanse of ocean, the distant ruins of Lindisfarne, the tints of morning, the mild radiance of the moon, even the young stranger, were blended with the romance of that shadowy existence in which she had dwelt. Bitter was it to be awakened to real suffering. Perhaps active occupation might, in a measure, have dissipated her reflections; but as she was, they flowed in one unbroken series. I was often tempted to write to Collingwood, but I knew too well the aristocratic pride of his father. "And Arthur Collingwood, where was he the while? He had departed, as before stated, to attend the couch of a sick father. He found his parent indeed low; but the disease long lingered: during which the miller's daughter flitted painfully through his memory. His father at length expired; and, overwhelmed with grief, Arthur, by the advice of his physician and persuasion of his friends, passed over to the Continent. In proportion as time soothed his sorrows, remembrance brought back the deep-blue eyes and sweet-toned voice of the artless Emily. So vividly did she return to her mind, that he resolved to set out instantly for Bamborough. For what? He was a man of honour and a gentleman. 'Why,' thought he, 'should I hurry so far to see a miller's daughter? Never.' He felt ashamed of himself. He tried to plunge into amusements. He went to soirées, balls, theatres, masquerades and concerts. It was all in vain. He was a mere spectator of the gaiety, without being a partaker. In the busy throng, or in the stillness of the night, one face gazed on him, one voice breathed sweetly on his ear. He recalled Emily Glentworth's very looks, as they used to sit together, and thought, 'have I not won that innocent creature's affections? Am I not a villain to sport with her feelings?' His own feelings became insufferable. He departed for Bamborough. "Meanwhile, Emily's health had continued declining, and she often had fainting fits after exercise. She was still fond of the library, and of the battlements, till she could no longer move from home with safety. I requested her parents to let her come and live with me, to which, in their destitute situation, they readily assented. One evening I was with her, trying to keep up her desponding spirits, when my servant informed me that a gentleman wished to speak with me. As I entered the ante-chamber, Arthur Collingwood rushed wildly up to me: 'Where is Emily? How is she?' He was but just arrived, and had already learned at the hotel the situation of the poor girl. I requested him to wait until I could prepare her for his arrival, lest her weakness should be overpowered by the sudden revulsion. When I returned, I broke the news as gently as possible, and begged her to command her feelings. She clasped her hands vehemently, looked up and smiled: 'Thank God, I knew he loved me! Oh yes! I can now be calm. Let him come in.' "I then introduced him. He sprang forward--she rose; but as they embraced she sank back lifeless on her chair. For a long time we thought the vital spark had fled; and she was slowly brought to life by our unremitted exertions. "Flattered by hope, and the bliss of her feelings, Emily thought, on the succeeding days, that her strength was increasing, and Collingwood partook willingly in the delusion. As he had no one to consult but himself, his arrangements was speedily made. As soon as her health should be a little reëstablished, their nuptials were to take place; and then they were to go to the more genial climate of Italy. Often would they speak, in all the rapture of youthful enthusiasts, of the pleasure they would enjoy in visiting the beautiful Bay of Naples, Venice on her hundred isles, and the once proud mistress of the world, still magnificent in her decay. I saw the futility of their hopes; but so happy ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL 187

[column 1] were they in the bright schemes they projected, that I dared not dispel the charm.

"As Emily's malady was rather seated in the entrance of the throat than the lungs, her oice was not affected; but rather acquired, as the never-ceasing hectic wore he away, a tone more silvery than usually belongs to humanity. Indeed, with her pure complexion and beautiful colour, the diamond clearness of her eyes, her delicate frame and musical tones, she seemed like those embodyings of nature's fairest proportions, imagined by the painter and the poet in their highest strivings after an ideal.

"From the strength with which Emily still conversed, and even walked, I was far from fearing an immediate dissolution. Collingwood was with us one beautiful and mild summer evening, and was again speaking with enthusiasm of his approaching expedition. Emily scarcely spoke, but listened with a placid smith to his glowing narrative. At intervals we had looked out upon the still, blue vault of the skies, with its thousand lights. A pause ensued in the conversation, while everyone glazed steadily on one large star, shining brilliantly alone. Suddenly the star dipped beneath a dark cloud. Arthur, at that moment, felt a strong convulsive pressure from the hand of Emily, which he held in his own, and looked her eagerly in the face. My attention was also arrested. Emily's eyes were upraised, her lips unclosed, and there was a slight apparent struggle of suffocation. Water was immediately sprinkled on her face, her temples chafed and perfumes employed. But she moved not, breathed not. I applied my hand to her pulse, and instead of regular beating, it vibrated like the loosened chords of a musical intrument. Poor Emily was no more."

APPROACH OF DEATH.—An article on "Death," in the New Cyclopoedia, has the following:—"As life approaches extinction, insensibility suervenses ; a numbness and disposition to repose, which does not admit of the idea of suffering. Even in those cases where the activity of the mind remains to the last, and nervous sensibility would seem to continue, it is suprising how often tehre has been observed a state of happy feeling on the approach of death. 'If I had strength to hold a pen, I would write how easy and delightful it is to die,' were the last words of the celebrated William Hunter, during his last moments. Montaigne, in one of his eassays, describes an accident which left him so senseless that he was taken up for dead. On being restored, however, he says, 'Methought my life only hung on my lips, and I shut my eyes to help thrust it out, and took a pleasure in languishing and letting myself go.' A writer in the Quarterly Review records that a gentleman who had been rescued from drowning, declared that he had not experienced the slightest feeling of suffocation. The stream was transparent, the day brilliant, and as he stood upright, he could see the sun shining through the water, with the dreamy consciousness that his eyes were about to be closed on it for ever. Yet he neither feared his fate nor wished to avert it. A sleepy sensation, which soothed and gratified him, made a luxurious bed of a water grave."

A CHILD'S FAITH.—In the Highlands of Scotland there is a mountain gorge twenty feet in width and two hundred feet in depth. Its perpendicular walls are bare of vegetation, save in their crevices, in which grow numerous wild flowers of rare beauty. Desirous of obtaining specimens of these mountain beauties, some scientific tourist once offered a Highland boy a handsome gift if he would consent to be lowered down the cliff by a rope, and would gather a little basket full of them. The boy looked wistfully at the money, for his parents were poor ; but when he gazed at the yawning chasm, he shuddered, shrunk back, and decline. But filial loe was strong within him, and after another glance at the gifts and the terrible fissure, his heart grew strong, his eyes flashed, and he said : "I will go, if my father will hold the rope!"

And then, with unshrinking nerves, check unblanched, and heart firmly strong, he suffered his father to put the rope about him, lower him into the wild abyss, and to suspend him there while he filled his little basket with the coveted flowers. It was a daring deed, but his faith in the strength of his father's arm, and the love of his father's heart, gave courage and power o perform it.

LOVE is like a diamond with flaws in it ; it is precious, but imperfect.

[column 2] HEARING THROUGH THE THROAT — "Notes and Queries relates that a friend, who is so utterly deaf as to be almost beyond relief from any of the mechanical inventions now in use for the aid of persons afflicted with deafness, walked into a chapel and took his seat on one of the open benches. He heard nothing of the sermon then there delivered, until, from mere listlessness, he placed the rim of the crown of his hat in his mouth, when he heard distinctly. He has frequently repeated the experiment in the presence of the writer, with the same result : and where the opportunity is offered him, he places his hate between his lips, and carries on a conversation, speaking in the usual way, and hearing as described. The experiment has been made with many deaf persons, and generally with success. The "query" is : Is it the open mouth, or has the vibration of sound on the hat any thing to do with the effect produced? Look on a crowd of listeners, eager to catch the voice of the speaker—they sit with open mouth : "With locks thrown back and lips apart," "in listening mood," etc., is the poet's description of the "Lady of the Lake." It is almost impossible to make use of the hat as an auricle ; but it may be that if science would apply its efforts to hearing through the throat, following nature as a guide, more would be done for the sorest ecil that can afflict humanity than has yet been effected. "The obstructed path of sound" may, perhaps, be uniformly reached in this way.

It is a familiar fact that sound is conveyed to the sense of hearing through the medium of the teeth. A striking experiment of this may be made in the following manner: Take a bar of steel, of convenient weight and size (say a steel poker(, suspend it by a string, hold the end of the string between the teeth, and put your fingers to your ears. Then let the steel strike against the fender, or the grate, and you will hear a ringing clang, like that of a deep-toned church bell.

Col. —, of New York city is one of the deafest men we ever saw, excepting of course, the deaf and dumb. But he is passionately fond of music, and strnage as it may appear to the reader, there is nothing that he more enjoys than a concert. We have seen him listening enraptured, not only over performances upon the piano, but quartettes, and other concerted music, it which stringed and wind intstruments have parts.

The process by which he does this is exceedingly simple. The Colonel stands by the side of the piano during the performances, holding between his teeth one end of a pine stick, the other end of which rests upon the sounding-board of the instrument ; and is thus enabled to enjoy the music as keenly as any of the rest of the party. And, what may be considered the most remarkable feature of the exhibition, it is a fact, that by this process the deaf man can hear the performance, even when there is no part for the piano and the other instruments, while the latter are sounding, and the harmony is conveyed to the sense of hearing by the simple medium we have described.—N. O. Picayune.

AN OLD COIN.—The Wilson (N. C.) Ledger tells the following of an old coin ploughed up in a field near Rocky Mount, Nash Co., N. C. :

It purports to have been coined in the year 734, A. D. Two lions, with extremely curly tails, occupy opposite angles on the one side, while the corresponding angles are filled with altars. This side is similar to the old Spanish pistareen. On the other side we have every conceivable mark and sign. Two pillars surmounted by two somethings with the figure 8, shockingly executed, intervening. Beneath the 8, and paralell with the base of the pillars, are the letters P. V.—then follows the date of its coinage, as before stated. We think, with others who have devoted some degree of attention to such matters, that it is a Spanish coin and as the jewellers say, of the purest gold. Its worth by weight is about seventeen dollars. This is the oldest known coin now in possession of any living mortal, as the oldest coin in the Duke of Richmond's famous collection only dates back to 922, A. D.

BUNKER HILL RELICS.—One of the places in England just visited by the Hon. R. C. Winthrop, was the old Chapter House of the Chester Cathedral, which is now the library ; and here he saw two standards, somewhat tattered and torn, suspended over the doors. On enquiry, he was told that they were the standard of the Cheshire regiment, and that they were used in America, at a certain battle called Bunker's Hill : where it was said only three of this regiment escaped without injury of some sort. The keeper said it was understood that the Americans got behind some sort of a fence or hedge, where they could shoot others without being hit themselves!

[column 3] ARE BABIES TO BE TAUGHT TO WALK?—We copy the following from the Southern Medical and Surgical Journal :

"People talk about 'teaching babies to walk;' but babies do not need teaching, for they will be sure to get up and walk when their legs are strong enough, and it does them harm to do so before ; in this as in very many other things, babies would be all the better for being left to themselves. But this does not suit some mothers, who are in a hurry to see their children walk ; such mothers cannot rest content without putting their children into leading-strings, or go-carts, or leading them with the hand. All that they generally get for their pains is the sight of their children's bandy legs and crooked ankles, caused by being forced to talk before their time. Who would be a baby?

"But though a baby should not be hurried in walking, it should be allowed to keep moving all day long, while it is awake, for the limbs cannot get strong unless they are used. The best plan is, to put a piece of soft matting and a piece of carpet on the floor, and put baby down upon them to stretch, roll, and tumble about like other young creatures. If it has a ball or a rag doll to crawl about after, it will be 'as happy as the days are long,' and will besides, be very little trouble, and be making its limbs strong, ready to walk by-and-by. It is a great pity to accustom a baby to be nursed, for it only does it harm, and gives the mother a world of trouble in the bargain. In the summer, it is a good plan to spread the matting and carpet on the grass in the garden, and put baby down on them, to use its limbs in the pure air and light. In short, wherever it is, and whatever it does, it should keep moving all the time. The birds, the beasts, the fish, and the creeping things are scarcely ever five minutes together in the day-time. Moving brings life and health to all things, babies among the rest."—Ranking's Abstract.

THE LONDON TIMES OFFICE.—Mr. Story, son of one of the proprietors of the Rochester Democrat, writes to that paper an account of his visit to the office of the London Times. We copy a portion of his narrative :

"One of the most interesting and novel departments of the establishment is that in which the stereotyping process is carried on. You know, perhaps, already, that every number of the Times is printed from stereotype plates, thus saving a great part of the wear and tear of the type. The sterotype plate is taken from the 'form' in three minutes, by a new process, invented by a Swiss, and known only to him. A thin layer of soft and damp papier maché first receives the impression of the type, and after it has been hardened by the application of heat, the melted lead is poured on, which is to fom the stereotype plate. The papier maché has the power of resisting the action of the melted lead, and comes out of the fiery trial uninjured, and almost unscortched.

"The plates are re-melted every day after the issue of the day is printed from them, and the waste of typemetal from the day to day is very slight. By this power of multiplying the number of form from which the same side of the paper can be printed the Times can use three or four presses at once, and thus print its 59,000 copies, on an emergency, in two hours' time. The Times employs in its establishment some 350 persons. It has eighteen reporters at the Houses of Parliament, and for these, as well as the majority of its compositors, the working hours are the night hours, exclusively It owns four cabs, which are employed solely in carrying reporters and reports at night to and fro between Printing-House Square adn the palace at Westminster. The reporters relieve each other at the Houses every quarter hour, and thus, though the debate in the Commons last till four o'clock in the morning, the Times give it in full by sunrise, though it cover two whole pages of the journal."

OYSTERS..—Regarding oysters, these delightful esculents enter so largely into the comforts and happiness of life, that a word in the praise may nt be amiss. No entertainment is complete without oysters. Men bet oysters; women dote upon oysters; children cry for oysters. Before the sotening influence of oysters, human austerity bends, and kindness irradiates features before dark with clouds. Their odour is as grateful to the nostrils as the odour of virtue is to the inward sense ; we inhale the steamy and savoury effluence from the kitchen as a harbinger of pleasant tastes ; fancy burns in anticipation of fancy roasts, or indulges in stupendous imaginings of stews, and poesy winds its shell—an oyster shell.—in sounding the praise of oysters.

A DEVOTED Christian woman was instructing her little nephew in serious things, and showed him a picture in Fox's Book of Maryrs, where Christians were being torn in pieces by lions in the ampitheatre. THe child looked on for some time in silence and evident sympathy, when all of a sudden he exclaimed, "See that poor little lion; he can't get any!"

188 THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.

For the Courant.

BELLS.

The old cathedral bell, With its deep and solemn knell, Is sounding on the air With a voice deop as despair, Sadly, sadly,

Its voice is harsh and dread, For behold, a king is dead; And all the bells must toll Dirges for the passing soul, And cowlèd priests must tell Masses, while each convent cell Echoes to the wondrous bell Sadly, sadly.

Through the old house where I dwell Sounds the grand cathedral bell, Working with its wondrous voice Thoughts that make me to rejoice Gladly, gladly.

From this town, antique and old, With its sights strange to behold, My thoughts wander astray, To a village far away. And the city whore I dwell, I forget, as round me swell Tones of that old village bell, Gladly, gladly.

My heart cries "all is well," As that little village bell Seems to sound upon my ear, With its olden voice and dear, Gladly, gladly.

Thus it rung when I was wed, Thus, when first my true-love's head Pressed my bosom, all his own; But, dear God, it changed its tone, And a death-toll did it tell, With its grand, slow-throbbing knell, And hearts answered to the bell Sadly, sadly. HATTIE TYNG.

From the Philadelphia Bulletin Leigh Hunt and His Contempories.

At fifteen minutes past two o'clock, Monday afternoon, we received the foreign news, in which the death of Leigh Hunt; at London, in his seventy-fifth year, was announced. Our notice, written instantaneously, almost, in eight paragraphs, went into the hands of eight compositors, and in twenty minutes the news-boys were selling the "second edition" containing it, in Third street.

Such rapidity is peculiarly destructive of a tendency to every thing except the sternest matters of fact, and we feel like lingering a few moments longer over the life of an author to whom we have been indebted for some rare fancies and most agreeable hours. As we stated, Leigh Hunt was the son of a clergyman, and was educated at Christ's Hospital—a school which numbered among its pupils Coleridge and Lamb. It is commonly called "the blue coat school," and was founded about A. D. 1553, in Newgate street. Every reader of Hunt's work on Lord Byron and some of his contemporaries, will remember how genially Hunt describes tbe lovely-spirited Elia, and the "logician, metaphysician and bard," as Lamb called Coleridge. In the same work will be found noble criticisms on Shelley and on Clare, whom Hunt not only admired as poets, but loved as friends, and defended as brothers in arms. Then, too, he loved Keats, and they read and walked together over Hampstead Heath (where Hunt introduced Keats to Coleridge); they wrote together, and in every way mingled thought and feeling. Speaking of the sympathy between them, in consequence of his imprisonment for libelling the "Adonis of fifty," Hunt says: "No imaginative pleasure was left by us unnoticed or unenjoyed, from the recollection of the bards and patriots of old, to the luxury of a summer rain at our windows or the clicking of the coal in winter time." It was at Hunt's house that Keats saw the lock of Milton's hair, and at his request he wrote a poem about it, [see p. 61, Milnes' "Life of Keats."] One or two threads of this lock of hair, we may remark, are now in this country; they were given by Hunt to Mr. Boker, the poet, and the messenger who delivered them (along with some of Lucretia Borgia's beautiful hair), was Bayard Taylor. Hunt had other friends in America, and at one time he owned some property in Dauphin county, Pennsylvania. We presume this property belonged to his father in Revolutionary times. It was to John Keats that Hunt addressed these lines:

" "Tis well you think me truly one of those Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things; For surely as I feel the bird that sings Behind the leaves, or dawn as up it grows, Or the rich bee, rejoicing as he goes, Or the glad issue of emerging springs, Or turf, or tree, or 'midst of all, repose: And surely as I feel things lovelier still, The human look, and the harmonious form Containing woman, and the smile in ill, And such a heart as Charle's wise and warm,— As surely as all this I see, even now, Young Keats, a flowering laurel on your brow."

The "Charles" alluded to in the sonnet was Charles Cowden Clarke, who was also one of Hunt's friends. Haydon, the artist, but still greater writer, as his Autobiography has proved, was a friend of Leigh Hunt, and many a jolly time they had together. We should like to quote from the letters of the authors whose names we have mentioned (now lying before us) some sketches, showing the feeling between them. We should [COLUMN 2] like to take a few leaves out, describing the "time " when a whole party of t.hem, including Fuseli, Bonnycastle (author the algebra), John Clare (then not emancipated from his country dress and rustic manners), Charles Matthews and others, were all sketched in a group by Hunt. There is rare fun in the talk between Fuseli and Bonnycastle, about a "superb locale," and in the way he folks of Bonnycastle "looking like a horse. His laugh was equine. A bag of oats would have hung well on him." Shelley writes to Maria Gisborne:

"You will see Hunt; one of those happy souls Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom This world would smell like what it is—a tomb; Who is, what others seem :—his room, no doubt Is still adorned by many cast from Shout, With graceful flowers tastefully placed about; And coronals of bay from ribbons hung, And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung, Tho gifts of the most learn'd among some dozens Of female friends, sisters-in-law and cousins. And there is he with bis eternal puns, Which beat the dullest brains for smiles, like duns Thundering for money at a poet's door ; Alas! it is no use to say 'I'm poor!' Or oft in graver mood, when he will look Things wiser than were ever said in book, Except in Shakespeare's wisest tenderness."

Such was Shelley's picture of Hunt. Hunt's sketch of Shelley is equally charming. lt will be found in the life of Shelley, affixed to the "Blue and Gold" edition of his poems. Shelley became acquainted with Hunt through his sympathy with his "Liberal" views, and for years they dreamed of conducting a magazine together. Lord Byron listened favourably to the project, but backed out, making Hunt his enemy in so doing, and the "Liberal" was begun without much aid from him. The last lines Shelley ever wrote took the form of a "Welcome to Italy" for Leigh Hunt. About this time, too, says Lady Percy Shelley, in the "Shelley Memorials,"—"Leigh Hunt and Shelley spent a delightful afternoon together in Cathedral at Pisa. Here the noble music of the organ deeply affected Shelley, who warmly assented to a remark of Hunt's, that a divine religion might be found out, if charity were really made the principle of it, instead of faith." At the burning of the body of Shelley, Hunt and Byron were present, with Trelawney. Then Mrs. Mary W. Shelley was one of that wonderful group of genius. So was Horace Smith. Wordsworth and Southey knew something of Lamb and Shelley, and had a slight acquaintance with Hunt.

Of Hunt's numerous books we recal the following: "Foliage," a very characteristic book of rather youthful poems, full of conceits. "The Story of Rimini," written about the same time, and possessing the same characteristics. "Juvenilia," school-boy productions. Criticisms in the News, the Examiner, on actors and authors; "Classic Tales," "Feast of the Poets," "The Descent of Liberty, a Masque," "A Translation of Tasso's Arminta," "The Literary Pocket Book, a Poem." Then there were the periodicals, called "The Indicator," "The Companion and Indicator," and "The Round Table." In the letter, Hazlitt assisted. Such exquisite criticism would be difficult to parallel or define; we can simply say that they are a "feast of fat things" to any one who loves the genuine love of books, authors and plays. Hunt's last work was, we think, "A Book for a Corner," a copy of which we were fortunate enough to pick up at a stall several years ago, as we stood reading— though not like Charles Lamb's boy, who had to sigh and lay down the volume, when the owner of the stall came along and saw him. The "Book for a Corner" does not contain much original matter, but is a selection of quaint and pleasant letters of Gray and other writers, Steele and Addison's account of their clubs, and other out-of-the-way reading, in choice bits and snatches—airy and delightful as the orchestral music between the acts at the theatre.

The brothers Hunt continued their labours while in prison for the libel on that silly Prince Regent, and, although Shelley and other "Liberal" friends offered to pay their fine of two thousand pounds, they refused the offer, and paid it themselves. Leigh was not much of a man of busineas, but John, his brother, was almost exclusively a business character, and made most of the money for "the concern.'' We do not know whether John Hunt is alive yet or not. The date of Leigh's death is given as the twenty-eighth of August.

As old age grew upon Hunt, he must have felt sad to see his old friends and fellow-authors drop off one by one. First Keats, then Shelley, then Byron, Scott, Coleridge, Southey, Lamb, Lloyd, Clare, Smith, Haydon, Mathews, Wordsworth, Mrs. Mary W. Shelley, his "ancient enemy." Tom Moore, and others who filled a large space in the literature of England, from the beginning of the present century until the rise of Tennyson. He must often have thought with emotion of his old friend Charles Lamb's "Old Familiar Faces," which our readers may not think inappropriate at the close of this article:

"I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhod, in my joyful school days,— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

"I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

"I had a love once, fairest among women ! Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

"I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him to muse on the old familiar faces.

"Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

"Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling? So we might talk of the old familiar faces.

"How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces."

UNPLEASANT—a first-rate appetite and nothing to eat. Quite as agreeable—plenty to eat and no appetite.

[COLUMN 3] For the Courant.

MR. EDITOR: I have observed, of late, that the editor of the Charleston Mercury, and Mr. JOHN W. OVERALL, of the New Orleans True Delta, have been engaged in quite an animated discussion touching the merits of Mr. SIMMS as a poet; Mr. OVERALL denying to Mr. SIMMS the exalted position claimed for him in the realms of poesy, while the Mercury persists in unmeasured terms, the pretensions of Mr. OVERALL to just and impartial criticism.

Now, as an outside observer of this warfare, I must be permitted to remark, that the Mercury's attack of the 2d inst. is simply a piece of personal billingsgate, beneath the dignity of the character of the journal , an wholly unjust to Mr. OVERALL, as a man, an author, and a gentleman.

It is conceded, I believe, that every man, in this land of liberty, has a right to his own opinions, and is allowed the free and full expression of them; and editors, especially, are wont to avail themselves of this glorious privilege, by giving to the world, through the medium of their respective sheets, their pre-conceived opinions of men and things. Exercising this right, Mr. OVERALL, while connected with the Daily Delta (which paper, by-the-way, he edited with signal ability and success for eighteen months), published a lengthy and able review of Mr. SIMMS' poems, in which he clearly pointed out the numerous and glaring defects with which the volumes abound, and which, though unanswered at the time, has recently brought down upon him the anthemas of the Mercury and of Russell's Magazine. The Mercury has attempted to prop up the the tottering monument of Mr. SIMMS' fame, at the expense of Mr. OVERALL's private character, thus compromising the dignity of the Press and the principles of courtesy.

The object of the Press should be to instruct, not to mislead; to scatter the clouds of ignorance and error from the atmosphere of reason; to remove the film of prejudice from the mental eye, and thus to irradiate the benighted mind with the cheering beams of truth. How far the Mercury has observed this rule, or in what particular it has refuted the arguments of Mr. OVERALL, remains to be determined by the impartial and discriminating readers of this controversy.

An intimate acquaintance, of years' standing, with Mr. OVERALL, both as regards his editorial capacity and the social relations of life, justify me in asserting, that he has done more to develop, foster and encourage young Southern genius, than any man in our sunny clime. No young writer of promise has yet appeared, who has not received a kind word of cheer from his pen; and many have been stimulated to strive for higher excellence in the "art divine," through his sympathy and encouragement, who might have been killed, KEATS-like, by the venom of jealous critics, in a State not far remote from this. Has Mr. SIMMS, except in the case of Mr. PAUL HAYNE, ever published a word in favour of the young writers of the South? On the contrary, has he not repeatedly dipped his pen in the gall of jealousy, when reviewing the productions of those who had a right to some degree of clemency at his hands, and many of whose poems will live when his are forgotten?

The Mercury is labouring under an idle delusion, if it really thinks that its personal attacks upon Mr. OVERALL will "confer upon him the only species of fame within his reach." His reputation as a chaste, graceful and vigorous writer, is too well established in this and other States, to be affected by Mercury's fling, while his claims to a high and enviable position in the Temple of the Muses, will not suffer by comparison with those of the Magnus Apollo of Southern song.

I have the temerity to assert, that the "Funeral of Mirabeau," "The Bards," "Hymn to Hesperus," "A Picture," and "The Girl of the Rhine," exceed in strength of diction, beauty of sentiment, and musical rhythm, any poems in Mr. SIMMS' volumes, and will be so regarded by all unprejudiced critics.

A sense of justice to Mr. OVERALL, as a gentleman and a writer, has induced me to pen this crude and hasty defense against the bitter invectives which have been so unscrupulously hurled upon him by the presiding genius of the Mercury. New Orleans, Sept., 1859. JUSTITIA

Prof. Nott.

Our readers will find a beautiful article on our first page, "The Maid of the Castle," by the late highly-gifted Professor NOTT. It is many years since it was published, and we doubt not that every body will thank us for reproducing it.

Asleep.

The last number of the "American Publishers' Circular" actually quotes from BELLE BRITTAIN's (Col. Fuller's) new book, "Sparks from a Locomotive." They will be quoting Dr. MACKAY next.

MARRIAGE IN HIGH-LIFE.—Miss Mason, daughter of the American Minister of Paris, was married on the ninth of August, at 11 o'clock, A. M., to Mr. Anderson, of Virginia, The persons present were the particular friends of the family. Miss Mason selected for her wedding-day the twenty-eigth anniversary of the marriage of her parents. Some large bouquets of American flowers were broughto ut by the steamer Vanderbilt for the occasion. They looked as fresh as if just taken from their native bowers.

THE OOURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. 189

The Courant.

COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, OCT. 13, 1859.

THE COURANT. The office of the Courant has been removed to No. 144 Richardson Street, over Flanigan's Shoe-Store. WM. W. WALKER, JR., & Co.

"The Grenadiers."

We refer our readers, with particular pleasure, to the beautiful translation which we publish in this issue. It is from the graceful pen of CHARLES G. LELAND, who translated and published, a few years since, HEINE'S "Reisebilder," which we would advise every body who desires to read, by turns, a sharp, sarcastic book of travels and some of the sweetest poetry, to purchase it if possible. A very good-natured kinsman of ours stole our copy; can Mr. WEIK, the publisher at Philadelphia, furnish another ? It is a shame that HEINE has not been translated entire into English. He was one of the most extraordinary thinkers and most eccentric writers that ever lived. His "pictures of travel" are made up of short sketches, written as the mood suggested, grave, gay, bitter, firm, doubting, or lovesick —yet, withal, the book is the most wonderfully beautiful mosaic.

Magazines for October.

In addition to those already noticed, we have received Russell's Magazine for October. We regret to see that Mr. RUSSELL desires to sell out, for we doubt not that his extensive business relations, and his well-known energy, have had much to do with the success of the Magazine in a financial point of view. It will be hard to find a man who will combine his business capacity and his discriminating taste. The present number contains a most valuable article on the "Dual Form of Labour," which every body ought to read. The other matter in the body of the Magazine is well done, and will repay for its perusal. The Editor's Table and the Literary Notices, are up to the high standard of this excellent periodical.

The Knickerbocker comes freighted with the good things of all sorts. This old favourite has lately got into the habit of adorning herself with divers illustrations and beautiful sketches of scenery. The Ollapod of Song and Travel—Sketch and Critique and Story, is as good as usual. The Editor's Table groans under the rich collection of autumn's "good things," in the way of jokes, although, occasionally, some of the fruit is a little over--ripe.

New Music.

We are under obligations to Mr. J. RAWLS, successor to Mr. W. RAMSAY, for the following pieces of new music: "Darling Little Blue-Eyed Nell," which is a plaintive, simple song, in favour of which we are much prejudiced by having heard it beautifully rendered by a chorus, who did not sing every thing prestissimo. "Fairy-Belle," by FOSTER, the popular composer, will be a great favourite; the air is simple and taking.— "Stolen Kisses are the Sweetest" is a very lively and pleasing song : the music and the words are exactly agreed. Mr. RAWLS has a fine selection of every style of music, from the Methods up to the Operas.

Brownson's Review,

For October, is on our table. There are several articles of great interest in this number: as, for instance, " Charlemagne, his Scholarship;" " Ecclesiastical Seminaries;" "Romanic and Germanic Orders." The first four articles are contributions, which is a new feature, almost, in this Review; contributions heretofore having been very few. Dr. BROWNSON, it is acknowledged, by friend and foe, is a man of extraordinary mental vigor, and we see no abatement of his former power. Published by J. B. KIRKER, New York, at three dollars per annum.

That Legacy.

The following, taken from the Mercury of Friday last, will doubtless prove of interest to many of our readers : PERSONAL.—We were gratified yesterday, by a call from Mr. W.W. Walker, Jr., of the Columbia Courant. Mr. Walker's visit to Charleston was for the purpose of meeting Mr. Ashmead, the London Attorney, who was charged with the transmission of the necessary legal documents to Mr. Walker, relative to his English legacy. The chief papers were yesterday arranged before Robert Bunch, Esq., Her Majesty's Consul at this port. This visit of :Mr. Ashmead to South Carolina will preclude the necessity of Mr. Walker's contemplated visit to New York. For the full reception of the legacy, he will be obliged to visit London about the middle of December. The gentleman who made Mr. Walker his heir was Mr. Richard Aubrey, of Devonshire, England.

In the absence from editorial duties of our Associate, Mr. WALKER, we must return his thanks to our brethren of the press in Charleston—the Mercury especially—for their kindly notices and attentions during his recent visit. Such courtesies will never be forgotten.

The extract from the Mercury, given above, is entirely correct, with the exception that it was Mr. H. PINCKNEY WALKER, acting British Consul, before whom the papers were arranged, instead of ROBERT BUNCH, Esq.—the latter being now absent.

LITERARY NOTICE.

"THE ALBION" (of New York,) for October l, 1859.

Every nation has its own peculiar characteristics; the Germon being famous for love of his father-land, the Frenchman for volatility, the Spaniard for hauteur, the American for "don't-care," and the Englishman for the impudence of self-conceit. The English in this country will be abusing our beef while cramming down three times as much as an American can he will jest at our wines, but take good care to get a supply for himself. We scarcely ever meet an Englishman whose staple of conversation is not the glory of England, and the exceedingly unhappy condition of civilized men in America. The Albion is the organ of this charming class : see the polite and very Americanizing motto of this journal: "Cœlum, non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt." That is to say, "we get naturalized in order to obtain the protection of the laws ; but while we renounce our allegiance to England, we love her, only, and submit to our exile here with the greatest bitterness of soul.'' Beautiful, loyal citizens of the United States! This journal lately undertook to make a notice of Mr. COOKE's "Henry St. John"; alas! it is a revolutionary story, and in spite of what the editors knew to be its merits, the John Bull would show itself, and damn with faint praise. Mr. COOKE's novel is full of history, instead of having "a very little history." His plot is admirable, and has been so pronounced by far more eminent critics than the man who "does" the literary notices of the Albion; yet, with true British impudence, he pronounces Mr. COOKE unable "to construct a plot." Read the following ; it is evidently the writing of one who dare not blame much, but who will not praise:

"Among the novels we find 'Henry St. John, Gentleman,' by John Esten Cooke, from the press of Harper & Brothers. Mr. Cooke is one of the few American writers of fiction, who treat American subjects in a chaste and agreeable style. His books are entirely free from the vulgarity and the extravagance, which deform so large a proportion of the many works of fiction which have been written of late years by Americans. In this book, for instance, which is an historical novel of the early revolutionary period, 1774-'75, although Mr. Cooke leaves the reader in not the slightest doubt of the warmth of his patriotic feeling, he is notably free from that pretentious bembast, which has been so well styled spread-eagleism. It is true that the tale is not entirely built upon revolutionary incidents, and that although it is historical, it is discreetly made up of a good deal of love-making and miscellaneous adventure, and a very little history. But still the revolutionary cast of the work is very decided, and, whatever the prejudices of the reader, contributes greatly to its interest; for the author has mingled his elements with equal skill and discrimination. Of the thread of the narrative we cannot even attempt to give our readers a notion; the task would be so difficult and so long. For Mr. Cooke's fault as a novel writer is his apparent inability to construct a plot. He only presents scenes and characters; the former full of spirit, the latter very life-like. The hero of this story is a fine fellow, and one who cannot but enlist the sympathy of all the ladies;—a trifle too melo-dramatic in action, perhaps, but still manly and sensible at the core."

But a book on the Revolutionary War, although aggravating, he did not dare abuse very fiercely. An innocent novel, called "Beulah," a work lauded by some of our best critics, and pronounced by them "one of the most extraordinary productions of our day," this is the theme for letting off his rage, which had been held in check in noticing "Henry St. John." A Southern authoress! a tale of Southern life! Doubtless some artful work to deceive the people of the North and Exeter Hall about slavery! "Down with it!" cries John Bull, "I'll write it down by low insinuations of imitation. What? only imitation? Nay, downright plagiarism. Of course, England must have the honour of claiming the good of this book."* Then, with a stupidity which is really astonishing, he says, "it seems to us a palpable imitation of Charlotte Bronte ; almost a direct plagiarism from her ;—though the appropriation may very well be unconscious. The books which Miss EVANS very plainly had in mind while she wrote, and when she planned this, are Jane Eyre' and 'Villette.' Beulah, the heroine, is but a distorted reflex of Jane Eyre, and Dr. Hartwell, her guardian, whom, after refusing again and again, she finally marries, blends the characteristics of Rochester and the instructor-héro of Villette, whose name we cannot now remember, and even has the life-experience of the former, in having been already married to an utterly worthless wife.''

Any one who has read "Jane Eyre" and "Villette," will at once see how ridiculously stupid this criticism is, as applied to "Beulah." Dear soul! you surely never read "Jane Eyre" and "Villette," or else you never read "Beulah.'' You shew by these absurd sayings, that you have no sort of proper conception of any one of the three. You don't know what you are talking about. "Beulah" is as entirely different from any of the Bronte novels as "Corinne" is from the "Countess Faustina.'' We appeal to those readers who can understand what they read, to put the seal of their disapproval on all such criticism as that of the Albion. No man who understands these works can, for a moment, pretend to believe that "Beulah " is a plagiarism.

* Among other unfair things, he says that "it professes to be somewhat more than a story, and deals in metaphysics, and psychology, and dialectics." We should like to see the page and line where any such thing is "professed" at all.

The subjects are kindred, "woman's life pourtrayed by woman;" but the charge of plagiarism is not only not established, but we challenge the editor of the Albion to try to establish it. If Miss EVANS is a plagiarist because she wrote about woman's everyday life, a subject treated by others before her, so, then, are DESTAEL and HEMANS, and all the rest. Do, Mr. Editor of the Albion, read the Bronte novels the next time when you undertake to charge some book with being a plagiarism from them. Another part of the criticism we re-print, just to shew how widely the Albion differs with our best critics: "Beulah, by her fixedness of purpose and her talent, raises her.self, from a dependent and almost menial position, to it state of independence and social consideration. She does this, we say ; that is, the authoress makes her do it; but as her character is absurd and inconsistent, so her mode of life is extravagant, unreasonable, almost impossible. She also gets befogged as many more rational persons than she is have done before her about the destiny of the soul; but her thoughts on this subject are shallow, and she finally passes, we don't know exactly how to the serene realms of absolute, unquestioning faith. There is a certain dramatic power in this book which prevents it, from becoming tedious; but it is a reflected, imitative power, in so far as it is at all peculiar or striking. A certain ability to describe a scene or express a thought, which is not at all uncommon, the authoress undoubtedly has; but we have looked in vain for any characteristic traits of style or thought.''

He does "not know exactly how" Beulah passes from Scepticism to Faith : this shews precisely how little he understood of the book. "Beulah" is the minutest, record of the way by which a woman makes her progress from doubt to belief. Yet the sapient critic has not seen "exactly how" it is.

After quoting some passages which do not please our critic, he concludes his ridiculous notice by saying:—"We understand that the authoress of "Beulah" is quite young; and taking that fact into consideration, it must be admitted that the book is not without promise."

"Audi Alteram Partem."

The readers of the Courant must be aware that a controversy has been waging at intervals for several months past, concerning the productions of Dr. WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. It is also known that this controversy has excited a very unusual degree of feeling on both sides.

Now, from the beginning of the Courant, it has been the editor's desire to keep out of this controversy. But the other day a communication came from a highly responsible source in New Orleans, explaining the real position of Mr. OVERALL, Editor of the True Delta. Personally, I owe obligations to Mr. OVERALL, and if I did not, I should publish the article as an act of justice to a man who has been put in a false position. It is queer logic which will undertake to shew that Dr. SIMMS had the right, as editor, to review Mr. OVERALL's productions "punningly and with a sneer," and yet, that Mr. OVERALL, as editor, has no right to review Dr. SIMMS! TENNYSON, LONGFELLOW and Mrs. BROWNING rank rather higher as poets than Dr. SIMMS, yet every body who chooses reviews their composition without the charge being made, in bitter invective, that it is "private spleen they are gratifying-it is personal rancour," etc. So, also, DICKENS and THACKERAY are most severely reviewed—but do their friends cry out "persecution," "personal motives," etc.? No body, here of late, can find fault with Dr. SIMMS without incurring the risk of the fiercest sort of abuse, seldom an argument,.so far as I have seen. Why do they not exhibit the "beauties of SIMMS' works"? Why can't an honest man honestly regard SIMMS as a tenth-rate poet? or a fifth-rate novelist, if his deliberate examination of the works bring him to such a conclusion? One thing is certain, it is stupidly absurd to at.tempt to answer literary criticism with abuse and lofty declamation.

For the life of me, I can not see why all other authors in the universe are amenable to criticism, and Dr. SIMMS alone free and above the reach of public opinion. The Mercury plead; the public services of the man in the way of historical labours —every body admits the value of these services, but I scarcely thmk any serious thmker would allege this as a ground of universal immunity from criticism. But the Mercury, for some strange reason, seems to think that all the fault-finding with Dr. SIMMS proceeds from persons who have made "concerted personal attacks." Why not say that all the fulsome flattery which has been showered upon him at different times, came from his personal friends, who were blind to his faults and therefore, not to be regarded? The rule will not work both ways to snit the tastes of Dr. SIMMS' fiery defenders, and hence it is a miserably bad rule.

WE ARE NOT GOING TO ESTIMATE DR. SIMMS IN THIS NOTICE— we are only asserting his liability to criticism, and the right of those who do not admire him—and their name is Legion—to find just as much fault as they please with his works, so long as they restrain themselves within the limits of legitimate criticism. One thing is certain, when I get one of his books to review—I have yet only his "Cassique of Kiawah"—I shall review it as I think it deserves-as I have already done: if it be worthy of praise, it shall have it—if it sins against established laws of literary propriety, I shall unhesitatingly expose all such sinning, without reference to the wrath of his defenders in Charleston. If the matter is serious enough to provoke all this indignation, it seems to me that it is getting high time for