1859-10-20 The Courant

The Courant A Southern Literary Journal

HOWARD H. CALDWELL EDITOR.] "Sic vos non vobis." [WM. W. WALKER, JR., & CO., PROPRIETORS VOLUME 1 COLUMBIA, SC., THURSDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1859. NUMBER 25

For the Courant "OUR GRAVES."

BY MONOS, JR.

She promised, when we parted, years ago, To love me ever dearly, e'en as then, And that Hope should cherish Love, she whispered— "Her love should one day make me prince of men."

She said she loved me, and I trusted her, And madly staked my heart upon the trust: How could I tell that one so formed for Heaven, Would stoop to write her vows upon the dust?

"Tis sweet, tho' sad, to linger near the spot Where hopes once flourished that are buried now; To dream that all the past is but a dream, To seal again the oft-repeated vow:

To chear the reason, and in fancy cling To that fiar form with all the joys it gives— To shut the heart against the cruel truth, That tells us rudely Love no longer lives:

To lose for aye the griefs that weigh us down, And never more the woes of life to know; But see again, with fond, prophetic eyes, The wealth of joys the future will bestow.

Oh, for some potent drug, whose magic power Could banish from my heart its bitter truth, Roll back the clogging cares that wait on age, And give me once again the joys of youth.

I will not curese her, tho' the scalding tears Of outraged love, in spite of reason, start; Tho' they should leave their furrows on my cheeck, And, never ceasing, drain at length my heart.

The Night enshrouds her, yet she stands A sweet memento of the purest Day; Yes, Day in Night, as stands the sinless soul A jewel in its tenement of clay.

The sweet memory of a happy time, That I shall cherish as the absent, home, While I sit gazing yet, with tearful eyes, At that far coming light that does not come.

WEARING ORNAMENTS.—An immense business is done merely in preparing ornaments for the person, and many people make up dismal faces as they mention personal ornaments among the frivolities of life. Used according to the dictates of taste and judgment, they greatly enhance personal attraction; but when used merely for the sake of display, they take from the effect of the personal and become merely a pecuniary consideration--a glittering bait to temper some covetous gudgeon, or to dirve to depair some rival, whose diamond mine has not yielded fo proligically. A correct taste sees in the simpler adornment more grace than in the profuse, and never exceeds the propiety of decoration; and, though her jewel-box sparkle as richly as Golconda with diamonds, she who possesses this tase will never endanger the effect of beauty, if simplicity is its best adornment, to display a fortune in gems that a princess might covet. The vulgar shine in the ostentation of decoration--they blaze in the quanity of magnificence, like a decoration of a temple for a fete day by one who believes that in the amount of bunting and Chinese lanterns is the summum bonum of decorative art. -- Knitting Work.

A KEEN REPROOF. --Did our readers ever hear the dry bon-mot of Talleyrand, which so too the conceit out of a young coxcomb at some table in Paris, where he canched to be dining. "My mother," said the dandy, "was renowned for her beauty. She was certainly the handomest woman I have ever seen." "Ah!" said Talleyrand, looking him through, and "taking his measure" at once, "it was your father, then, who was not good-looking!"

To speak harshly to a person of sensibility is like striking a harpsichord with your fist.

THE PINE WOODS.

"While the sunbeam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one." --MOORE.

THE Piny woods! the piny woods! nothing but one continued series of perpendicular lines, terminating far above your head, with big distorted limbs, in figure the very paragon of mis-shapen nondescripts--while here and there your sandy pathway is intercepted by huge black masses, fallen trunks and shattered limbs, compelling the traveller to turn, howsoever reluctant, some thurty or forty paces from his direct route. Reader, are you fond of solitude? Here you can enjoy for many hundred miles, even from the Brassos river, in Texas (and I cannot say how much farther westward) to the shores of Carolina, one unvaried scene of sand and pine, sometimes for fifty or sixty miles, without one solitary house, or any thing like a human being, --human? I may say living thing, --appearing to your view, unless some solitary crow croak out of spite, lest you exult in the idea that this indeed is solitude. At the first view, nothing can be more sublime thatn these immense hightowering stems, with their green plumage nodding to the sky. The scene appears somewhat like the ocean, whose grandeur consists in its vast uniformity. Hill after hill presents the ensuing vale covered with the same dark verdure; and never did I more satisfactorily feel the truth of an old saying--"variety is the cream of life" --than when travelling through the piny woods. At sea you have a change of weather--the delights of a breeze after a long calm--a calm after a severe storm-- each of which posesses a seaman. Here you may travel all day, and when night comes on, should you chance to be weary, cold and hungry, without shelter or shade, you may light your fire, and while the fierce flame blazes around you, lay you down to sleep. In two or three hours the cold, freezing wind will wake you up, benumbed, cramped, and in the dark, nothing benefitted by your rest, and the wolves howing their doleful dirge around you. Why do they howl? How I do hate their savage grinning. Long, thin jars; their bones half bursting through their skin; their fiery eyes and dismal tone of voice--perfect pictures of war and famine combined--which, while they prowl around your camp-fire at night, have not the courage to attack you, unless they hunt in numbers; craving your blood, the food they lice upon--and when they fail to catch their prey, curse the moon for giving the light by which it has escaped, and the darkness because they cannot see to find it; and thus yiu may sit waiting for the morning stary, with all such luxuries around you. Is not this food for a philosopher? Day breaks. Now and then a rattle-snake's shrill sound warns you that this is no place for human foot to read. Or, should you chance to have a horse, weary and faint for want of food, the poor beast fags along; anon he pricks his ears, raises his head, and as small break in the forest--some dead and withering trees still standing there--announce a dwelling. What next?--the ruin of an old log hut, the miserable home of some poor wretch, who, to avoid the law, has fled into the forest merely to find out that the prison he has chosen is far worse than the one he has fled from; for here, after toil and anxiety, nature refuses to pay the industrious. He exclaims, "This is no place for man!" and leaves the ruined forest to become a forest once [Piece spans column 2 and 3] again. Here the traveller cannot rest, but disappointed man and beast pursure their weary course. What should Madam Trollope or Basil Hall know of America ? They have, indeed, told many truths, but they have left the main truths untold--selecting all the bad, which they have highly coloured through prejudice. The one wrote for money, and the other to please his country, and obtain promotion by gratifying that letty petty jealousy which still remains unextinguished. There must be good and bad in all countries; but the man who travels from stage-house to stage-house, can give no idea of the manners and customs of a private family. None but a prejudiced man would presume to condemn that which he had not seen, because he had seen that which he disliked. I would not, therefore, wish my reader to consider all America as piny woods, for there are some good spots of land, just as sure as there are some strange people, in the United States. The lands, however, which I am now speaking of are poor--miserably poor. I had wandered some two or three hundred miles through this part, from the banks of the Mississippi through Alabama and Georgia, when I lost my horse, and was, consequently, compelled to continue my journey on foot, having determind on going, unlike all other movers, from west to east-- meeting the rising sun, rather than chasing him as he sets. It was late in the evening, and as I had become weary, being unaccustomed to my new mode of travelling, I resolved on stopping at the first resting-place. In these thinly settled countries there are but few, if any, houses of entertainment or taverns, and the traveller seeks a welcome at almost every house he meets with. Some, however, dread the approach of strangers-- not lacking hospitality, but fearing lest a writ or warrant should be the remuneration of the kindness shewn-- not on account of kindness, but some little previous affair. It was my misfortune to find such an one, the very first I met with; and as I entered, after my first salutation was answered by a sullen reserve, I asked if I could remain that night, at least. "No!" was the abrupt answer. "But I am on foot, and the night is dark." "Can't help it!" was the surly reply, "arn't prepared to accommodate vagrants." " How far is it to the next house?" I asked. "Not more than a mile or so." This, at least, was cheerful news, for now, as the fire blazed up, I discovered a countenance but little, if any thing, more pleasing than the manners of its possessor. My task seemed but a short one, which appeared in some measure to excuse the surly conduct I had met with. It did not, however, prove to be so, for the road led through a swamp, and I had partly to feel my way on my hands and knees--now sliding from the slippery logs up to my middle in the water--now catching it at the briars to save myself from falling altogether into it; and more than once I could have cursed the fellow's lack of hospitality. Those little stinging pains will often make good men forget themselves. I thought I never should get out. Sometimes the branches of a tree came poking in my face. Once, thinking to put my foot on a stump, I sank up to my knee in a mud-bank. I grasped a branch-- it broke; I grasped another, hastily drew out my leg, and left my shoe behind it. It was some five or ten minutes [END OF PAGE]

194 THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.

before I could 'recover it. "Thank God!" I exclaimed, "that trouble's over!" as I once more got upon terra firma. Ascending the hill, I saw a large fire on the road-side. It proved to be the wagoners, going with their cotton to Pensacola. They had encamped by the roadside, feeding their horses in a trough which they carried at the back of the wagon. It made me think of Shakespeare and of Scott ; of Falstaff, Poins, and Hal ; of Effie Deans, and the great north road in England ' but it will be long, thought I, before I see a face as beautiful as I fancy Effie's was, in such a place as this, I saluted them with a "Good night !" and asked if I was in the main road.

"Faith, an' it's mane enough you'll find it! The horses stuck fast five or six times twixt here and the house."

Of all the places in the world to find an Irishman! But I am told you'll find them every where, and I have never failed in any part I have travelled through.

How strange are some of the coincidences of life! I left those men with a mind fully prepared for romance. Still the London road―the London wagons, with their bells―the pretty face of Effie―haunted my imaginatio, and I was vexed wtih the idea that this country was so void of romance, in itself so plain matter-of-fact. There was the wagon, there was the fire, but where was the interesting story connected with them? I had continued in this manner walking and ruminating for some distance, when a light announced that I was approaching another dwelling. Not looking for any much better reception than I had met with at the last house, I walked with some reluctance to the door. I knocked.

"Who's there?" inquired a voice in accents very different from my host of the swamp. It was a woman, and, if I could judge aright, not one of vulgar dialect.

I answered that I was a stranger, who wished to encroach on her hospitality for a night's rest.

"Come in!" was the reply, and there was kindness in the tone of her expression.

I entered. A chair was quickly placed for me by a cheerful fireside, while the smile of welcome seemed to insure comfort while I remained there. I was both wet and cold―tired and vexed at the conduct I had before met with; but my attention was too much taken up with the features and expression of one that sate beside me to feel the inconvenience. It must be nonesense, strange romance, because I had imagined that in so wild a country nothing beautiful could be met with, that in that very spot I should chance to meet a black-eyed girl. I tried to persuade myself that she was not beautiful, and again I turned my eyes from the mother to the daughter. She sate gazing with a look of pity on me; but there was something sublime in her countenance. Her face was perfect in every feature, her colour beautiful, her hair was black―was very black―and her dark, full eye seemed to gaze steadily on me. One eyebrow was slightly elevated with an expression of sympathy, and I forgot my own troubles gazing at her. The mother, however, noticed my wet clothes, and immediately offered to have them dried for me, directing Maria―which was her daughter's name―to order a fire for me in the adjoining room. As she retired, I could not help observing to the mother my astonishment in the wilderness.

"She is very beautiful―very!" I observed. The mother sighed and shook her head.

"Yes, poor girl, she was very beautiful―the pride of all my hopes―all that my wishes could have made her; but , alas! the troubles we have met with, and her unfortunate circumstance―"

Here I found the mother's feelings began to get the better of her. She was in tears. I attempted an apology for my curiosity, which had caused these recollections; and, though anxious to hear about her, was reluctant to hurt their feelings by my inquiry.

"It is seldom that we see any one in this part," observed she, changing the subject. "The country is outlandish, and none but families moving to the western country, or the wagons passing down to the city with their crops, and returning with their mar [COLUMN 2] kets up the country to their homes again, ever call at our house."

"You are very retired here," I observed.

"Yes; that was the reason of our moving into this country. There is indeed, a great difference between Philadelphia and this. "

"Philadelphia!" I observed with surprise.

"Yes, sir; we once lived there―during my husband's life," she continued; "but our family left there on account of untoward events. We once were happy and gay in the midst of our friends; we now live retired, and have fled into the wilderness to avoid the gaze of those whose smiles once were so endearing to us. I do not think that I could literally bear to meet one of those old friends whose memory is so dear to me."

I felt interested in the warmth with which she seemed to speak of days gone by, and could have sate there in my damp clothes listening to her, had not her daughter returned, and, with a smile, told her mother all was ready for me. I now had an opportunity of noticing every thing around me without being observed. The house was simply composed of logs, or, in other words, a log hut; but the furniture, the arrangements, the neatness of the spotless white linen, indicated a family at one time accustomed to comforts, if not to luxuries.

We met at the breakfast-table, and, fortunately for my curiosity, it was rainy weather.

"Have you much such weather here," I asked.

"But seldom," was the answer I received from the mother. The daughter had not spoken. She was polite and attentive; her countenance still bore that plaintive look of sympathy, which added to its natural beauty an enchanting interest; and her black eyes shone with a lovely expression. She gazed at me, and on a sudden burst of tears. Her mother spoke abruptly, requesting her to leave the room. She instantly retired.

"You must excuse her, sir. This is the cause, or, at least, the result, rather, of circumstances whic drove us, as I was telling you last evening, from Philadelphia. Sympathy is dear to a sufferer, and though it cannot remove a grief, has its influence in lightening its sting. We all love to be pitied in our distresse, and I could almost feel inclined to place an embargo on your attention, whilst I relate our past misfortunes. I am sure," added she, "that you will not pretend to start in this weather."

She commenced her story :

"My husband was an officer in the custom-house. We never were wealthy, but our circumstances were far from being straightened. Neither were extravagant ―which you will believe, when I assure you that the whole of what I now possess was saved from our income. That poor girl which you see there, and her sister, were the only children we had, and their education was my greatest pride. I don't think that I can call to my mind any of those troubles which others witness in the earlier years of their children; and it used, in fact, to be remarked that our two girls were the prettiest and best conducted in our neighbourhood. They used to attend their church regularly, and my husband's regualr habits made our home one unvaried scene of happiness and content. It was truly enviable. But we all must see our share of trouble in this world. I know it is sinful to complain, for here we enjoy all the blessings of health―we want for none of the comforts of life― but now and then I look back upon the past, and my spirit seems to murmur, for this is not like the home I left to come here. Many complain of strangers, and object ot placing too much confidence in them; but take my word for it, sir, there is truth in the saying, 'Take care of your friends and your enemies won't hurt you.' It is natural for a man to guard against his enemies, but there are more injuries come from our neighbours and connexions than from any one else. Little did I ever dream that the child of our neighbour―our next door neighbour―whom I had suckled as one of my own, for he was of the same age as my first child, who died when an infant; and I have taken the child and watched him -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- [COLUMN 3] with as much care as if he had been my own. We used to look on him as such; and when some four or five years old, he would come to see his baby-sister, as he called her, when my second child was born, if I but told him she was not his sister, the tears would rise, and the poor little fellow would sob as if his parents had disacknowledged him. When he was nine or ten, the family left the neighbourhood, to retire on a farm which Mr.── had purchased in the vicinity. We saw no more of him for nine or ten years.

"Our daughters, in the meanwhile, were sent to one of the best schools in the city. It was during the Christmas holidays that he returned, and came to see us. If he had been a relation whom we had not seen for many years, there could not have been more pleasure evinced than on his arrival. He was rich and talented, his figure prepossessing. His attentions to our Emma were but little thought of. This poor girl whom you see with me, used to be their constant companion. One evening, when they had walked out together, I was sitting alone in a little back parlour, indulging my imagination with the thoughts of happiness that seemed to glow around me. I had raised, at least in part─had suckled him as my own─and now he was about to be married to our daughter. I heard the front door open very abruptly, I thought; and my husband, for I knew his step, came hurrying along the passage. He called me, not finding me in the front room. I answered him, and he ran hastily up stairs, inquiring for the girls. His countenance told me that he was much agitated. I answered that they had gone out with ──.

"'I'll soon put a stop to that!' he replied, and left the house.

"They returned to supper, cheerful as ever. it was in the spring, and they seemed to me as beautiful as the evening itself. Supper was ready, and I dreaded my husband's approach. There was something wrong, I knew from his manner, and he was sure to return to his supper. We had sate down when he entered. His manner was very cold, and he took no notice of them. We sate down to the table, but he continued pacing the room. The young man asked him, in his usual cheerful tone, to join us.

"'I have sate down at the same table with you for the lasst time,' was his answer; 'and allow me to tell you that I think you would look better by the side of your own wife, at your own home, than sitting there.'

"I dropped my knife and fork with atonishment. Emma gasped for breath. The young man's countenance was red as scarlet.

"'I did not expect this from you, sir,' continued my husband.

"Emma would have fallen to the ground, had not the young man caught her. My husband pushed him aside, desiring him to quit the house, and that for ever. It was a long time before the poor girl recovered. We sate up with her all night. her father seemed much dissatisfied with her, as if she could have known any thing of the circumstances; and I was inclined to think that his harshness towards her was, in a great measure, the cause of her after conduct. Is it not a strange perversion, that what would have been a virute in the poor girl, had his previous conduct been different, was now considered a heinous offence? The first thing she requested, on her recovery, was, that she might be allowed, to see him once more. Her father grew violent. The first breath dishour had not sullied one of his family.

"If virtue but open her door to look out, vice will enter before it can be closed again─will become a familiar─and at length drive the original tenant from her home. All was in vain; what could not be done openly was achieved by stratagem. Long after we had imagined the young man had left the city, she and her sister used to meet him, under the pretence of taking their evening walk. Their father heard of it. He had frequently observed to them the necessity of full and implicit obedience to his injunctions, as the only security for his protection and love; for he could not acknowledge those as children who would not acknowledge him as a father; obedience was the first attribute of a duti

THE COURANT A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL 195 ful child. In the evening of the same day on which he heard of their conduct, he earnestly repeated this remark; it was in vain." Here we were interrupted by a voice singing delightfully, "They are gone, all gone, to the mountain's brow", and executing the latter part of the melody in a most plaintive cadence. I thought the voice beautiful. It was, however, interrupted by an hysteric burst of sobs. "It's only my daughter," observed the mother; "she is often thus. But to continue my story. The next evening they started again, for I was totally ignorant of the fact. My husband was by no means so communicative to me as he might have been, or I would have prevented their going out. Their father came before they got back, and immediately commenced telling the whole affair. He declared, with an oath, they should never darken his door again. He had returned home, he said, by a different route on purpose to meet them. He had heard from a friend which way they usually walked; he had met them, and that villain, too, was with them. "I prayed for them—I entreated; it was to no purpose. On my knees I begged for them in tears. The only answer I received was, that I might go with them, if I wanted to. No—he would not do that, either, he said, for I had never injured him; and he would not allow me, even though they were my own children, to be with such wicked wretches. He embraced me in deep sorrow, and his warm tears trickled down my neck as he declared that I was now his only comfort. when the girls returned they found the door of their home closed against them. They knocked, but no one answered. What would I not have given, had I but dared, to open it! Never, never shall I forget the night I spent. I fancied them at one time wandering the streets, the victims of some dissipitated and drunken wretch, who might be returning homeward from his night's debauch; at another time exposed to the night air, exhausted, hungry and broken-hearted. I woke him. " 'They are not both bad alike,' I said ; ' though Emma has done wrong, her sister is innocent. You might fetch her home ; the night is cold,' and I could say no more; my feelings got the better of me. "'Nonsense—nonsense! they're both alike; don't mention them again,' said he; 'her sister is every bit as bad as she is.' "Our family was ruined ; our happiness, our respectability, gone for ever. I heard no more of them, and if he received letters from them, he never mentioned the subject to me. One Sunday, after church, a gentleman, a perfect stranger, called. at our house. He called, he said, although a perfect stranger, entirely from motives of charity; nor should he have taken the liberty, had he not been requested by our children to do so. My husband turned pale with anger, for although he had in some measure recovered from the misery he had endured on their account, the mention of the subject seemed to revive all his latent anger. He spoke impetuously, assuring the stranger that if his business was connected with them, his room was preferable to his company, adding, 'And you, sir, I presume, are one of the wretches who have added to their infamy !' The stranger looked at him with a calm dignity, and answered in a mild voice: 'l am a clergyman, sir, and consequently dare not, for my character's sake, have undertaken such a trip if my motives were not honourable; and I insist on your hearing me in His name whose servant I am. Your eldest daughter is in Baltimore, where I reside. She is about to be married to Mr. S──, whose wife has obtained a divorce from him. Your youngest daughter I believe is a virtuous girl. A young officer, a friend of Mr. S──, promised to marry her, but has been gone to sea. She is now left unprotected, and it is your duty to save her. If the parent turns his back upon a child, who can he expect to countenance her! She is your daughter still. The mother bird hovers nearest to its nestling when dangers threaten, and rushes even into the serpent's mouth fighting for "With such arguments, and in a good cause, he at last prevailed on my husband to accompany him. Never was I more delighted than whilst preparing his things for him to start─never more eager to get him off. I packed some of the girls' clothes in a trunk with his, and as they were about to start, he noticed the uselessness of taking so many things. I stopped him with an embrace, telling him not to open them until he got there. He smiled as if he understood me. Never was I more willing to part with him─never had I more cause to have mourned. Five days afterwards the clergyman returned alone. He had come, he said, with painful news─I must prepare myself for the worst. On their arrival at Baltimore he called on my daughter, (this one that is here with me,) to tell her that her father was there, and was willing to receive her—that he had been successful in his errand. The young man, however, had returned in the meanwhite, and it was her determination not to leave him. "' Here he is in the other room; you can speak with him,' said she. " ' The young man came out. I knew him, madam,' said the clergyman; 'he was it libertine, a gambler, and a perfect vagabond ; he was no officer. I immediately left the room, and went down to your husband, informing him of the whole affair. His daughter, I told him, might be saved, but it required resolution. She had been deceived, it was evident, and our best plan was to get the aid of justice. Your husband was impetuous— he rushed up stairs. The door was locked. He broke it open—attacked the young man; they fought, and your husband was mortally wounded in the struggle. I came into the room as they were fighting; the young man was on the floor, with a dirk knife in his hand; your husband was kneeling on his chest. The poor girl, thinking that the young man was about to be killed, rushed up to her father and seized him by the arm, exclaiming: 'Don't kill him, for God's sake !—for the love of mercy, don't kill him!' and pulled her father from his hold. At that moment the young man plunged a knife into his beart, and he fell back into her arms, uttering, 'Maria, you have—you—you—' He spoke no more. The young man escaped me; I was not strong enough to detain him. Maria has not yet recovered her senses. You, therefore, had best accompany me to Baltimore.' "I did so. My poor girl has been childish, idiotical, or deranged, ever since. Emma was married, and I retired with my brother and this poor creature into the piny woods. My brother is dead. She is my only companion. Sometimes she will spend days without speaking. Once or twice she has partly recovered her senses for a week or so; but ou a sudden the fit returns, and she will burst into tears in her most cheerful moments.'' I was not a little affected by this narration. In the afternoon the sun broke out, and I started on my journey. I fell in with the stage, and was glad enough to meet with an opportunity of travelling in a less lonesome manner.

SISTERS AND MOTHERS.—These are ties which, like the invisible strings of conscience, bind man to the world of kindly affections, and are the last things forgotten when one leaves life. The marriage situation may be one of pure 'and uninterrupted felicity; there may be no cloud in its whole happy horizon; it may be ever sunny, and flowers spring in it at every season of the age; but even these happy ones, who are in this clime of bliss, remember long and late the claims of a sister or a mother to their best affections. The feelings inspired by both sister and mother, are all derived from sources pure as the Divinity that inspired them.

VERY CONCLUSIVE.—" John," inquired a dominie of a hopeful pupil, "what is a nailer ?"—''A man who makes nails," replied hopeful, quite readily. "Very good. Now what is a tailor?"—" One who makes tails," was the equally quick reply. "Oh, you blockhead," said the dominie, biting his lips; "a man who makes tails, did you ever! "—" To be sure," quoth hopeful; "if the tailor didn't put tails to the coats he made, they would all be jackets! "—" Eh ?—ah !—well !—to be sure. I didn't think of that. Beats Watts' logic! Go to the top of the class, John ; you'll be a Member of Congress some day."

GEN. WASHINGTON AS A REJECTED SUITOR. THE BEAUTIFUL MARY CARY. A writer in the New York Century, says of the lady who won Washington's young heart, and whose father rejected the tall young soldier because he had not a carriage for his daughter to ride about in : I shall go back iu her life a number of years, and speak of the event which made her name one of curious interest. Before she became Mrs. Edward Ambler, she was called Mary Cary. Her father was Wilson Cary, Esq., of "Celeys," in the county of Elizabeth City, descended from the noble family of Hunsdon in England. His relative, Colonel Archibald Cary, of "Ampthill," in Chesterfield, was, at his death, the heir apparent to the earldom. The worthy old gentleman seem, from all we know of him, to have been as proud as the Coneys or the Somersets, and to have thought hiti family the noblest in the land. He lived in great state, with chariot and horses, plate and velvet and embroidery—a worthy of the old school, fully satisfied with the general "order of things," and enjoying serenely the good gifts of Providence. His beautiful daughter was a great heiress, and had many suitors—the accident which befel one of them has made her remembered in many books. He was a young man of very high character, a relative of George William Fairfax, Esq., who lived at "Belvoir," on the Potomac; and here he met with Miss Cary, who came to visit Mrs. Fairfax, her elder sister. The young man at once proceeded to fall in love, which he did with an ardour characteristic of his nature. When Miss Cary went back home to "Celeys," on James River, he followed her like a courageous gallant, and laid open seige to the fair fortress. In the good old times, however, something more was necessary than the consent of the young lady, and so the youth duly asked a private interview with the awful old lord of the manor, who listened to him silently throughout. When the lover had finished, Mr. Cary rose, made him a low bow, and said that if this was young Mr. Washington's errand at "Celeys," his visit had better terminate; his daughter "had been accustomed to ride in her own chariot.'' And, with this allusion to the poor condition of the younger son, the interview terminated. Young Washington bowed and went away, and in clue time married Martha Dandridge Custis, who "resembled Miss Cary," says my authority, "as much as one twin sister ever did another." But the old tradition does not end here. Many years fled away—Mary Cary was Mrs. Ambler—and her discarded suitor was the man who had just received the sword of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown, whom the whole civilized world hailed as the greatest among the great, "the foremost man,'' not only of America, but "of all the world.'' He passed through the old metropolis, Williamsburg, at the head of his victorious troops, and the people were crazy with joy and adoration, almost. The vast multitudes nearly prevented his horse from proceeding—the calm statue on horseback passed serenely. All at once he perceived at a window, or in the crowd, his old love, Mary Cary. He raised his sword and saluted her. She fainted. Thus the story is told, and it must have had a truthful foundation, at least. But it does not seem that the lovely woman was to blame. She had not been able to return the affections of the youth—that was not all. She married him who won her heart—Edward Ambler. He was not unworthy of this noble lady in rank or character. He was descended, through his mother, from the great Huguenot house of La Roche Jaquelin, in Vendee, and inherited the honest instincts of his race. At twelve he had been sent for his education to England—he graduated at Cambridge, then made the grand tour of Europe returning to Virginia when he was twenty-one. He was married to Miss Cary soon afterwards, became collector at York, and was so much respected, that when Lord Botetourt came to Virginia as Governor, he brought a letter of introduction to the collector. He died at thirty-five, and the revolutionary war breaking out soon afterwards, his beautiful widow moved away from the scene of her grief, and took refuge in the "Cottage," far up in Hanover.

"I DO not think, madame, that any man of the least sense would approve your conduct," said an indignant husband. "Sir," retorted his better half, "how can yon judge what any man of the least sense would do?"

"I DON'T think, husband, that you are very smart.'' "No, indeed, wife; but every body knows that I am awfully shrewed.''

"WEIGH your words," said a man to a fellow who was blustering away in a towering passion at another. "They won't weigh much if he does," said the antagonist, coolly.

196 THE COURANT A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL. For the Courant.

A VISION. Folded arms o'er a clay-cold heart, Stiff and chilly; Long lashes o'er a bloodless cheek, Resting stilly; Marbly brow 'mid raven hair, Gleaming strangely; Whited lips close together pressed— Never change they. For in this weary world again Ne'er shall I see Aught of life in this statue cold, That haunteth me. In haunts of deepest solitude, 'Mid ball-room's glare; In hours of wildest gayety, Of calmest prayer; 'Mid dearest friends and direst foes, Every where, It silently follows, yet sees My dark despair. SUSAN M. BRADFORD.

Literary Women of the South. LETTER FROM BARRY GRAY. DEAR "EDITOR·IN·CIIIEF" :—I will not be positive, but it seems to me that one day, during your visit to Gotham, just after we had partaken of a modest dinner, and while yet the "Widow Clicquot:' was beading in the glasses, I was insane enough to promise to contribute either a poem, an essay, or a story—I have forgotten which—to the columns of The Courant. I am aware, now, how very rash it was of me to make such a promise; for, after numerous trials, I have come to the conclusion that I can accomplish nothing in either of the above-named walks of literature, and, consequently, you ought to release me from my obligation. The most pleasing incident that has occurred to me recently, was an interview with Miss EVANS, author of "Beulah." My interest in her dates from the time when, at your suggestion, I read "My Cousin Blanche," from her pen, published in The Courant. Although it did not impress me as possessing much merit as a story, still, I recognized in it the germ of genius, and was astonished at the metaphysical learning displayed in it. Therefore, when "Beulah " appeared, I was led to read it with more than usual attention, and though perceiving faults in it, such as are common to all young writers, and which a judicious pruning, especially in the early portions of the book, would in a great merisure remedy,—found sufficient to convince me, not only of the wonderful powers of its author, but to clearly establish the fact, in my mind, that Miss EVANS, as a writer of fiction, took precedence over any of her sex in this country. After having read "Beulah," my desire to become acquainted with a young lady who so ably discussed the most important and philosophical questions of life, though great, was tempered by a feeling that I would not be able to come up quite to her standard in the matter of conversation. Possessing a decided affinity for simpletons, I feared I could not harmonize, mentally, with so scholarly a being as Miss EVANS; but, nevertheless, I ventured, one pleasant afternoon in September, to enter the St. Nicholas, where the author of" Beulah" was staying. Yielding my somewhat modest card into the hands of a servant in waiting, I desired him to convey it to the lady I named. That. little bit of posterboard, 0 Chief, accomplished its mission, and I soon had the plensure of meeting one whose genial greeting favournbly impressed me, and whose acquaintance, thus formed, ripened, I trust, during the brief hour I passed with her, into a friendship which time can not destroy. Miss EVANS converses well—better, indeed, thah the generality of women. In good sooth, her conversation often reminded me of th:1t of her heroine—Beulah—who, I judged, was, in some particulars, modelled after her own proper self—which will account for the naturalness and truthfulness of the character as pourtrayed. Miss EVANS possesses a most interesting countenance, clrnracterized by thoughtfulness and repose. Her carriage is dignified and graceful, and her manners cordial and unaffected. Like Beulah, Miss EVANS, if I mistake not, has large, expressive, grey eyes, full of a "brave, glad, hopeful light." Mrs. GRAY and myself, unfortunately, were able to call upon her only a day or two previous to her departure for the South, when her remaining time in the city was much occupied, so that we were unable to pay her those a tentions which were her due. Quite different from Miss EVANS, in many respects, is another Southern authoress and belle, charming, lively, coquettish LIZZIE PETIT, of Virginia petted child of fashion, though, singularly enough, unspoiled by the praise and flattery lavished upon her. She has given to the literary world two delightful volumes-" Light and Darkness," a story of fashionable life, and "Household Mysteries," a romance of the South—besides having another one, entitled " Stars of the Crowd," ready for the press. Miss PETIT's first book, as you may, perhaps, be aware, was written when the author was only eighteen, and, work of one thus youthful, certainly evinces much real genius. Lizzrn is a brunette, with the brilliant complexion, sparkling dark eyes and glossy hair, emblematic of many of your Southern belles; and, like my own little Southern Maid—for an account of whom see past Home Journals —she delights in pearls and orange-flowers. But LIZZIE, not satisfied with being an authoress, is even now on the point of carrying out a long-cherished clesign, that of appearing upon the stage—and one for which inclination, natural talent, and study have, to a certain extent, prepared her—but which, I fear, will not, after all, fill that craving of her nature ; that desire for the unattained; a something—she scarcely knows what—that a woman of genius invariably hopes for, but which neither fame, nor position, nor wealth can ever supply; and which is only attained when her life, blessed with the love of husband and children, is crowned at last by that perfect "peace which passeth all understanding." I am fully satisfied that you have as much, if not more talent at the South than there exists in the North. Certainly, among the female writers of the day, there is none who surpasses Miss EVANS. Then you have Madame LE VERT, whose "Souvenirs of Travel" are household volumes among us, Miss PETIT, Miss MARTHA HAINES BUTT, the author of a number of pleasant tales ancl sketches, Mrs. JACOBS, of Augusta, whose story of "The Second Wife," which appeared in the Home Journal, created a marked sensation, and who has a novel— "Dorset "—in MS. almost ready for the publisher, and last, though not least, Mrs. ANNA CORA RITCHIE, who, if not a Southerner by birth, is one at least by adoption. Then, there is Mrs. KING, of Charleston, whose "Busy Moments of an Idle Woman," "Lily," and "Sylvia's World," are so much esteemed by the lovers or' society-pictures, and all who like piquant and sparkling stories. Mrs. CAROLINE GLOVER, also of Charleston, won for herself many friends by her admirable "Vernon Grove," a book of very uncommon merit. Then there is Mrs. MARTIN, of Columbia, from whose poems you have quoted to me passages of such merit that she must be enumerated amongst the gifted women of the South. I, however, only know her through you. Then there is the young and highly promising Miss REEDY, who must one day make her mark in the world of letters. Then the strong, clear thinker, Mrs: McCORD, for whom no quest.ion is too abstruse, and the gifted Mrs. M., of Wilmington, who wrote "Edith Trevor," one of the most noteworthy of the productions of the Southern mind. In the catalogue let not the name of SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY, of Virginia, be omitted ; her praise was sung by the great POE himself, and our only wonder is that her works are not collected in a volume; and your favourite correspondent, Mrs. STRATTON, several of whose poems are beautiful. So you see the ladies of the South have not kept behind her literary men, although you have MEEK and SIMMS, BARRON HOPE and HAYNE, TIMROD and REQUIER, OVERALL, THOMPSON, COOKE, GRAYSON, ROQUETTE, and ALBERT PIKE and yourself, and doubtless there are others, whose names I do not now recal. But as my letter, O Chief, is quite long enough for a first one, I will bring it to a close with the wish that The Courant, and all connected with it, may meet with success and long life. BARRY GRAY.

Letter for the Courant. NO. I. HORSE-BACK AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. Bulwer and the Horse—A Tour on Horse—The Nantihala Basin—Grand-Father Mountain—Extent and Geographical Features of the Basin—Inhabitants—Products—The Grape Culture—A Phenomenon. MY DEAR CALDWELL:—Do you not think that the shades of McDONALD's "Selim," and HORSE-SHOE's "Captain Peter," haunt BULWER LYTTON for speaking so unbecomingly of their race in "My Novel?" Trickey, faithless, he styles them, and puts any old maid's poodle above them. A bridle-rein never soiled his kid-skin. Well, I must confess, I have a fondness for the animal myself. To mount. upon his back and gallop briskly over hill and dale, across stream and by cottage, in the buoyant air of the morning; to wind along pathless mountain- ranges at noon; to drop down a thousand feet into the deep valleys as the sun sets, and move leisurely on to the Inn that sleeps under the up-curling smoke a mile ahead ; did you ever try this for asthma—any thing? It is a panacea. It has triumphantly cured me of the fever this summer. I have just returned from a tour on horse through the Switzerland of America. I call it Switzerland by common consent of all European travellers who have quenched their thirst at the fountain-heads of Savannah, Tennessee and French Broad rivers. It requires only the eye, the energy, the adventure, of a WILLIS; to convert this lovely region into ten thousand Idle-wilds, It is endlessly the beautiful; and I use the term in that broad sense which embraces all BURKE says in his splendid essay on the Sublime and Beautiful—and more. I have seen Toccoa, Tallulah, Cullasaga, Skiguskeh and White-Water, Falls; Whiteside, Black-Rock, Hog-Back, Chimney-Top, Table-Rock and Cresar's Head, mountains; I have passed beyond the limits of wagon-roads, and pursued "trails" as they led their "many-winding way" along the loveliest streams and most romantic dells; aye, and I must say, if Switzerland, or Scotland, or Italy, or Greece, or the land of Crow-Nest, Hudson and .. Storm-King fill the soul any fuller with pictures any more life. giving and ethereal, I long to see them. The loveliness of these scenes is all their own. They borrow but little from association. There are here no lakes, sleeping in the tranquil bosom of rock-ribbed mountains, where a Mary Stuart pined; no glaciered peaks, that half-conquered a Hannibal or a Napoleon; no ruined castle on toppling cliff, gloomy and grand in the hues of old romance; no Ætna or Vesuvius, burying cities in its lava-tide: no Rome, with its crumbling arches and domes, and world of renown; no moon-lit Adriatic, serenading its "Bride of the Sea;" no murmur of Ægean waves; no Athens, sitting in her weeds and lamenting the decay of a once preeminently glorious people. There are no dykes of history or tradition to stop the tide of fancy as it washes the unlegended shores of their dim and sublime past. They have the seal of God upon them, and "They tell of a season when man was not." The geological and geographical features of this region are exceedingly interesting. The Alleghany and Blue Ridge ranges, after running parallel several hundred miles, come together in Burke county, N. C., at Grand-Father Mountain. The Alleghanies, called southward of this point the Smoky mountains, from their intense blueness, shoot off in a straight line to the south-west. The Blue Ridge deflects to the south, and then winds, like a great serpent, westward, till it meets the other range at Ducktown, thus forming an immense basin or valley in the bosom of th!l mountains. This valley, which I have taken the liberty to dub the Nantihala Basin, is from two hundred to three hundred miles long, and from fifty to one hundred miles wide. Nantihala, or Nantiyalée, some say, means "maiden's breast;" others say, "between the rocks." "Nanti," according to all, means milk. This is the name of a lofty belt, extending across the Basin, and connecting the Blue Ridge with the Alleghanies. There are several other belts of this kind, with the most beautiful streams running between them, all collecting in the valley of the Tennessee or "Spoon" river, as it flows on to the mighty Mississippi. On all of these streams, and the brooklets forming them, as they sing and dance and leap down the mountain-sides, there are hundreds of the loveliest cascades imaginable, making this region the seat of immense mechanical power, as well as the temple and throne of the beautiful. On the southern side of the Blue Ridge, a range now and then radiates, or a peak, standing in solitary grandeur apart, commands the view of the whole country. As the head waters of the Savannah and Broad river break through their mountain barriers, they form the falls of Tallulah, Toccoa, White-Water and Suckling, or Slicking. The eye may rest upon these scenes for a whole life-time, and never weary with contemplating their [?upernal] loveliness. This is shewn by the attachment of our highlanders to their homes. Their stirring life, their hardihood, and their general want of a high culture, are beautifully relieved by their hospitality, their love of freedom, and their love of nature. Indeed, I am inclined to retract the assertion that they are uncultivated, when I reflect that they possess so fully these three noble virtues of the truly educated man. Nor must my reader imagine that they have no learned men among them. But their great teacher is Nature, to whom they listen as she utters her most soothing and peaceful, as well as grandest homilies. It is a very common thing to hear them use such expressions as these :— "You might stay here a month, and see new beauty in these Falls every day;" "I have been living here near thirty years, and even now I catch myself sometimes standing in the fields and gazing at that mountain ; " " If we had railroads and turnpikes through our country, all the Southern people would come to see us of a summer;" etc., etc. The valley lands of this section are extremely fertile—producing corn, oats, rye, buck-wheat, apples, peaches, etc., in great abundance. The mountain-sides are very rich, also, and well adapted to the grape. I was informed by an old gentleman— by-the-way, a good poet and geologist, as well as experienced fruit and grape grower—that some of these lands would yield a thousand gallons per acre, if the seasons were favourable and frost did not interfere. I say, "Look not upon the wine when it is red, when i.t giveth its colour in the cup;" but let us have the fresh grape, the dried grape, and the sweet, exhilarating, though not intoxicating, wine which the Bible recommends, and I will say, "Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die." There is a space of about three hundred feet on these mountain-sides where frost never occurs at all. Above and below is dew, and consequently frost in cold weather. This thermal belt begins three hundred feet above the valley of the Little Tennessee, near Franklin. It is thought to be caused by a warm stratum of air, which rises to this point and no higher. Whatever may be the cause, there is no doubt as to the fact of this remarkable phenomenon. During many late frosts in spring, this belt has invariably remained green. Here grapes and fruits of every variety may grow as they once did in the garden of Paradise. More at the leisure of your hurried-to-death WILLIE EAST.

SAMUEL LOVER has a volume of original poetry in press.

THE COURANT ; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL 197

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The Courant.

COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, OCT. 20, 1859.

THE COURANT. Subscriptions for the Courant will be received at the Bookstore of Mr. P. B. GLASS, in this City, where single copies can be obtained every week. The office of the Courant has been removed to No. 144 Richardson Street, over Flanigan's Shoe-Store. WM. W. WALKER, JR., & Co.

The Mobile Tribune Complains that the credit for two of its articles has been given to some of its comtemporaries, by the Courant. Very likely, as both editors of this paper were absent at one time, and the Editor-in-Chief had hardly any thing to do with the selections, or even the editorial department, until the issue of September 29, when he resumed his duties. The Tribune, is one of our most valuable exchanges, and we regret extremely that our pro tems have not "rendered unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's." We shall see to it that such a thing does not occur again.

Oysters. We are indebted to our friends, D. P. McDONALD & Co., for a keg of "bivalves" furnished us last week. They were the first of the season, and tasted remarkably well. Messrs. McDONALD & Co. will, we understand, receive regular daily supplies of these delicacies during the winter, and we hope they may be well patronized. Speaking of oysters, we are reminded that a new Restaurant has been opened in our city by Messrs. STORK & HUSSUNG, whose advertisement appears in to-day's Courant. Our tasting reporter says that fine Lager Beer (he drinks nothing stronger) can be had at this establishment, as well as excellent Oysters, Game, etc.

Oscar Dugue. We see by the New Orleans paper that OSCAR DUGUE, a poet of great power, called by the Abbé ROUQUETTE "Le cygne de la Lousianne," has taken charge of Jefferson College, in St. James' Parish, La. Under his care it ought to prosper, for from what we know of him, he must be a man of great enthusiasm, and of equally high gifts of mind.

Appleton's Cyclopaedia. We learn, from the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, that our many-sided friend, CHARLES G. LELAND, has been added to the list of editors of Appleton's Cyclopaedia. Heretofore, this work has contained about as many errors as any of the very cheapest Yankee "compendiums." Its blunders are often shameful, and we wondered how the editors could let such stupid mistakes—some of them evidently the result of sheer ignorance—get into the work. Happily, they are only at the seventh volume now, and we shall trust to the comprehensive and really profound learning of Mr. LELAND for more correct issues in future. He is truly a most valuable accession to the corps of editors, for he is not only learned, but he is exact, careful, scrupulous, no one of which adjectives could be applied to the late administration. Ignorance, or prejudice caused many of the errors in the articles—poor, noisy politicians and political preachers occupy a great deal of space, and in twenty years they will exist only in those volumes; miserable ephemera, they will be utterly forgotten after their brief strutting on this stage is over. This has been one of the worst faults of the Cyclopaedia, up to this time. Man whose names cannot be forgotten, because they belong to the literature of the English language, are mentioned in the briefest possible way, while the "Hon." or "Rev." John Smith Jones occupies a column or two. Mr. LELAND will have the sense to mend this, we are sure. On condition that the first volumes are so full of errors of all sorts; and we would suggest to the Messrs. APPLETON to get out immediately a volume of errata. The Pearl Bible had six thousand errata—APPLETON's six volumes must have ten thousand, at least.

Illustrations of Cooper's Novels. The Home Journal says : ---" TOWNSEND & Co., the publishers of COOPER'S works, are about to bring out the sixty-four illustrations by DARLEY, drawn for the works of the great novelist, in a new form. Such has been the demand for proofs of these drawings, that they are about to produce them in eight folios, each folio containing eight of the engravings. Each plate will be faced with a page of letter-press descriptive of the scene illustrated by DARLEY. Each illustration will be an artist's proof, printed before lettering the plate, on India paper. The folios will be published by subscription, at three dollars each, and as the number is necessarily limited to five hundred copies, the lover of American art will do well to secure an early copy. These illustrations are engraved by the best talen in the country-- ALFRED JONES, THE SMILIES, RICE, HINSHELWOOD, PHILLIBROWN, GIRSCH, MARSHALL, PARADISE, and others--in line, the purest style of the art of engraving."

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The History of "Dum Spiro Spero." "Quelqu'un" writes to us saying that he knows that one of the legends on our State arms, "animis, opibusque parati," is taken from the second book of Virgil's Aeniad; "but," says he, "I can find no clue to the history of the other legend." If our correspondent will look in vol. 1, p. 37, of BELOE'S"Ancedotes of Literature," he will find the following statement: "King Charles the First, on the night before his execution, wrote in a copy of Shakespeare, which was in his room, 'Dum spiro spero'— this book he gave to Sir THOMAS HERBERT, says BELOW. Reverence for his memory probably caused this State to be named for him (CAROLUS), and for the same reason his motto may have been adopted. (As to the derivation of the name, see Carroll's Catechism, ¶ 115, p. 38.)

Allibone's "Dictionary of English and American Authors." What does our friend of the Home Journal mean by saying that the first volume of ALLIBONE'S Dictionary has just been published by CHILDS & PETERSON? It was out, to our certain knowledge, last May. The praises of the Home Journal are very justly expressed in the following : "This work is a complete encyclopaedia of British and American authors, living and deceased, from the earliest accounts to the middle of the nineteenth centuery, and contains thirty thousand biographies and literary notices, with forty indexes of subjects. The importance and value of such a work to the great mass of the people are beyond estimation. The present volume comprises more than one thousand pages ; the authors' names are alphabetically arranged, and include all of any note, the initial letters of which come before K. No work has ever been published in this country so arduous in its undertaking, and which has been crowned with such perfect success. The author has evidently spared no efforts to make it the greatest book of the age."

A Poor Creature. The New York Tribune has a charming and brilliant correspondent, who writes in the following exveedingly smart style about the great WEBSTER. Be it remembered that WEBSTER favoured the Fugitive Slave Law, and therefore incurred the hatred of all the negro-worshippers. When are they going to pull down his statue at Boston? After all that has been said, they surely ought to crown their work by an achievement like this:

"He was a first-rate judge of chowder, the English classics and old otard. He was an expert fisherman, though timid in a boat, a poor shot, and had the best hogs in Plymouth county. He attended church with considerable regularity, and his respect for the Methodist clergy was great. He hated a lean ox, an unfilled can and Abbott Lawerence. He loved brook trout, Peter Harvey, and his country. He left to his family a splendid legacy of unpaid debts, and a sincere love of good liquor. He was a good-looking man, Powers to the contrary notwithstanding."

Moreover, immortality is assured to him who will strike off the head of POWERS' magnificent statue: "Wendell Phillips, in a recent lecture in Boston, is reported to have said that 'the man who would strike the head from the statue recently erected to Webster, would do a great service, and his name would be immortalized.' If Mr. Phillips was as patriotic as he wishes to be considered, or as ambitious as he seems, he would undertake the 'service' himself."

THE Providence Journal recounts the following incidents respecting the late Professor GEORGE BUSH, of New York city :-- "The Professor was twice married, the second time ten or twelve years ago, when his circumstances were somewhat improved. For several years he occupied a very small room in the fourth or fifth story of a building on the corner of Beekman and Nassau streets, in New York, the walls of which were lined with old books— Hebrew, Greek, Latin and German preponderating. On the floor, were piles of huge volumes in vellum ; Bibles, commentaries and lexicons in the Oriental languages. A pine table, two or three wooden charis, a small stove, which retained its place the year round, and a cot-bed, constituted his furniture. For years neither brush nor broom distrubed the accumulated dust of this secluded retreat, and here the Professor wrote those translations of, and learned commentaries on, several books of the Old Testament, which have made his name widely known among theologians of Europe and America. On his second marriage, this sanctum was abandoned, and he removed his books to his dwelling-house in Howard street, where he lived many years. Professor BUSH was particulary fond of attending book auctions. It gave him a little harmless excitement, brought him in contact with literary men, who, like himself, were ever mousing about for rare and choice books, and enabled him to procure the books he wanted at low prices. Indeed, it may be said that nine-tenths of his books were purchased at auction; besides, as there were few competitors for the literature he sought, he often got old Latin, Hebrew, German, and various Oriental books, for a mere song. After using his books a few years, and getting from them all he required, he would send them to auction, to make way for others."

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LITERARY NOTICE. — SYLVIA'S WORLD-CROMES WHICH THE LAW DOES NOT REACH. By the author of "Busy Moments of an Idle Woman," "Lily," etc. New York : Derby & Jackson. M D CCC LIX.

In writing books, as in almost every thing else, women have a method which is very different, and characteristically different, from that of the male writers. The reasons are obvious : they are profoundly ignorant of many matters which come under the daily observation of men; they are, of necessity, excluded from much which every man must encounter in the every-day friction of the world of business; they spend the chief part of their time at home, with cares and duties of such description that it would be absurd to except even the most observant and astute of the sex to conform in feeling or opinion to the received ideas of men of the world. In "society," the feminine quickness of perception shews itself most remarkably ; and yet, how very often does it occur that some utterly worthless fellow is the universal favourite, while young men of real merit, but of great modesty--the mark of the true gentleman— are looked upon as dull and uninteresting! It is our settled conviction that no unmarried woman is any sort of judge of the characters of men. Married woman learn so much from their husbands that they become the most wonderfully accurate judges of character in a very short time. The darker shades of the male character, "the mixed motives by which important affairs are controlled" to a particular result, ability to form a just estimate of the probabilities in cases in which men with any prominent passion are aroused--these are matters which very few married women comprehend fully, and, we think, no single woman in the world. But, as Lord Jeffrey has it, "in perception of grace, propriety, ridicule; in detection of artifice, hypocrisy and affectation," they are very far our superiors. It is for these reasons that many women of great mental endowments have no proper conception of the very works which are the glory of our literature, and which are admired by all men of culture. We know of sensible women who have no sort of appreciation of Dickens ; others who can not be made to read Bulwer, while the glory of their sex, Charlotte Bronte, is not, we believe, at all popular amongst them. Miss Bronte is far more admired by men, we have observed, which probably is owing to the fact that she had a masculine mind : for, "There is a sex in souls," as may very well be seen by comparing Madame DeStaël, or the Countess Hahn-Hahn, with Mrs. Hemans and Mrs. Osgood. MRS. KING is altogether feminine in her views of society, and her ideas of life. "Society" is the great theme of all her stories, and in "Silvia's World," as in all of her other writings, the incidents are those which might occur at any large ball, or in any mixed company. These stories, in the volume before us, are of precisely the same stamp as the "Busy Moments" and "Lily;" always the follies of young people, the usual adventures in courtship, lovers' quarrels and estrangements; and all containing a demi-semi moral lesson or two. What is the use? Young people will read these books, and will straightway go and perpetrate the very piece of folly which has been so well described in these most graphic stories: and that, too, when the consequences of such a course of action have been traced out with the skill of one who knows how to reason a priori in all such cases.

MRS. KING has a very rare knack of describing the conflict of characters, which are brought, as it were by Nature, to cross and vex each other. Unsuitable matches, engagements between persons who do not sympathize, the auction of Beauty for Gold, the ill-starred love of a true heart for some one who does not deserve it, false friends, deceit of society in general,—all these she touches with great power. It seems to us, while we are reading Mrs. KING's stories, that we are listening to some clever woman who is telling us, from her own observation, occurances which illustrate some point under discussion. The descriptions are all so natural, the sympathy always so manifest, that we are invariably impressed with the subjectiveness of the narratives, to such a degree, that we scarcely remember them as stories which are "printed in a book."

Now we are going to find fault : and our first charge is, that these stories are over-run with French, and the worst of it is, that it is the nomenclature of the boudoir, which no dictionary contains. Then, there is not yet a proper appreciation of male character; of course, women judge by what they know—but surely our author knows that there are men who are not fops, not drunkards, not flirts, not one-half fool and other villain. Do let us see how she would pourtray one of the noble men whom she must have seen. Of course, there are many wicked men, as there are abominable women—but why must an author always choose the darker side?

The style is clear, simple, and usually very conversational. There is a description in the volume which we will quore as a sample of her power of language:

"The beach of Curlew Island? Did you ever visit this patriotics spot! Did you ever take a plunge in the surf which rolls up twenty yards from the very steps of the Ocean House? Did you ever try to shoot a curlew as it came circling over the ground? Did you ever go out at daylight after a spring-tide, furnished with a stick, and knock over marsh-hens by the