: "An affectionate father and a fond mother went into their graves, weeping and praying for their lost, their ambitious son. Their prayers have been answered, and I shall soon meet them at the right hand of God, while my mortal part will nestle on the bosom of corruption, its second mother." was changed it had increased greatly in size. I was a happy boy, sympathizing with the glad season One portion of it spoke of the past and forgotten of Spring-now I am an old man, and brother to dead-the other, of the present and dying. In the the Autumnal leaves. former, the graves of my parents were discerned by the broken fragments of their gray head-stones. One thing I saw there which pleased me, and was unchanged it was the old oak, which still waved over them—an emblem of infinite love. There was one other grave upon which I looked with peculiar feelings, and above it one evening primrose bloomed in beauty,-emblem of the buried one. O! there Thus did this good man unburthen the feelings is consolation in the thought, that after the Winter of his heart, until the approaching darkness and of death, comes the Summer of eternal blessedness. falling dew warned us to seek the shelter of our "And now I have come to this pleasant eminence, and under the open sky, to spend one short hour in thinking upon the pleasures of other days. I feel that my pilgrimage is almost ended-that my goal is won. 66 inns. He leaned upon my arm until we reached the foot of the hill, promising to relate to me on the morrow more particulars of his eventful life. We parted. That night my dreams were confused; for they were about a sinful fleeting world, and one that is sinless and eternal. How many times have I roamed over these hills, arm-in-arm with Mary Lee, the brightest star The next day I saw a funeral procession more in the horizon of my youthful hope. I verily believe, slowly to the village church-yard. It was comshe was the only being who ever loved me with posed of a few humane christians and the family the passion of an angel. How many years of hap- of the inn-keeper-but there was not one mourner piness did we then anticipate! See you that little there. The sunset of that evening was beautiful purple cloud just passing away from amidst its com- as ever, but the unknown old man was unconscious panions?--even so did her spirit fade into the cloud-of its glories. Truly hath the poet said- We are less sky of heaven. born-we laugh-we weep-and then—we die.' "Young man! if you are not weary, listen a little longer to my words. If you have never given your heart away, a sordid boon,' or devoted your affections to some earthly object, I warn you to beware; place them on something that is lasting-on your God. He is unchangeable and infinitely good, and if you are His child you will be forever happy. But I tell you to begin early-to begin now-now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation.' "Next to God, and your fellow men, let the love of Nature engage your attention; and be not engrossed with the vanities of this changing world. Ambition is a delusion. It is this that has been the chief torment of my life. I have stood on the spot hallowed by the ashes of Socrates, and as I thought of him, and others, who once instructed mankind under a cloud of heathenism, I have felt that if the grave was the consummation of human glory the plaudits of the world were not to be desired. Yes, cherish within your heart a love for nature. She will alleviate many of the troubles of life, and will prove a constant friend. The scenes which now meet my eye, are the same to which I bade adieu in the morning of life. The same clouds are floating in the west. The same breeze is fanning my cheek and sending the newborn ripples to expire upon the shore. The same bees are struggling for the honey contained in that drooping flower. The same ant is building her little palace of sand at my feet, teaching me as it did then a lesson of industry. The same whip-poor-will is offering up her evening hymn. Every thing is unchanged, save myself and my affections, Then I THE DEPARTED. Not they alone are the departed Many, many, there are many I have shed full many a tear, Where art thou hiding now? When the shadow of night's wings I listen to the distant bell, I murmur o'er the little songs Lonely am I in the winter, lonely in the spring, And Love is gone. I have seen him come, I have seen him, too, depart, Cold, cold is his hearth-stone, I shall drink it not again, All my longing prayers are spoken And felt, ah woe is me! in vain. Oh! childish hopes, and childish fancies, I long for ye in mournful trances, I long for ye by night and day. Oh do not let me pray in vain; That they bring not their wonted lightness 'Tis not the sun that shone on thee, Would God that they who early went For whom our mourning heads were bent, Oh would that these alone had left us, Woe worth the hour when thou wert born, A dewdrop falling from the leaves, FROM THE DIARY OF A RURALIZER. July 27th, 6 P. M.—I have been "musing until the fire is burning within." As evening draws on, the sultriness abates and induces all quiet and delicious sensations in my heart. It seems to me, a good Christian in leaving the world must feel something as I do. I love every body now—yes, my enemies too. All the busy sounds of day have died away, and the roar of that far-off woodland torrent is distinctly heard. How I pity the poor denizens of the town! This breeze is not there-it is too gentle to force its way between those brick walls. Those clanging drays, and that omnipresent dust! Why, I had almost forgotten there was such a thing in the world as dust. My green blind shows as fresh and unsullied as if painted yesterday. How pretty my seat is in this shaded back piazza away from the little interruptions of this quiet spot! and then the view out is really picturesque. The pretty white-sanded yard, interspersed with tufts of verdant grass, some as large as a bed, and others the size of a chair-cushion, and not unlike a green velvet cushion, only much prettier. Farther on is the old-fashioned garden, a mélange of the utile and agreeable-pretty vines clamber over its neat fence, their verdure set off by the white dresses and snowy linen which the blanchisseuse, or "wash," has spread out, doubtless unconscious of scenic effect, though perhaps not without a chuckle of satisfaction, as she thought of the superior whiteness of the family habiliments, compared with less thrifty and tidy rivals, in the village church next Sunday. I heard her but just now talking to herself-a habit to which all her race, I believe, is addicted-and her soliloquy I translated thus: 66 Koguine see no sich frocks no whar bout here. Mas' Tom's breeches be white for true. He sure for catch one pretty gal for sweetheart. Massy, dis spread so white he hurt de eye." July 29th.-Yesterday I lay on the bed here by this pretty window, and indulged in all the poetry and luxury of indolence. To-day has been worldly, and, like all the "uses of this world, stale, flat, and unprofitable." Sat and sowed and talked through two or three formidable hours. And such talking! This same talking, how often it makes the poor spirit stoop to the 6 P. M., dust! But now, very I am at leisure and alone, except that ever-present friend who "sticketh closer than a brother." I can study my flowers, read, or muse, or weep, or laugh, as the spirit moves me. August 1st.-The first day of the month has been signalized by an achievement of considerable merit on my part, I think. I have been trying ever since I came here to think of a name for this place. It is so lovely a spot that it deserves a pretty name, and besides, when I write letters, I like to have a name for my whereabout, that my friends may not think I have literally gone nowhere. But, though I thought much on the subject, I could effect nothing, and was about to give it up. But this morning, after eating a good breakfast, and enjoying other comfortable corporeals, I took a walk in the garden. My health was excellent-every thing around was congenial-and I had nothing to do but enjoy. I was felicitating myself on my happy lot, and with much complacency was gazing around, drinking in copious draughts of rural inspiration from the fresh verdure and gentle repose, when the thought struck me that this place shall be named Sans Soucie. Sans Soucie forever! I am spending the summer at Sans Soucie. It is the very thing precisely. My host though, would doubtless think it no merit to bestow such an outlandish name on a place which produces such fine corn and fodder, and for which he paid a round five thousand dollars. But he need not know it, or, if he does, he won't know but Sans Soucie means Oak Grove, or Hickory Farm, or Comfort Hall. Sans Soucie! it embodies in two words only, the many delightful hours I've passed here. But stay, I must analyze these flowers before they die. Sans Soucie, Sans Soucie, how I wish it could be set to music. August 2d. After several days severe heat we have a delightful morning. Cool, breezy, and partially cloudy. The alternations of light and shade, as the sun passes behind and emerges from the fleecy clouds, is beautiful. It seems to me I should never tire of this place. Its chief charms are quietness, neatness, and a sort of cosiness that would just suit Mary Mitford. There is too a general air of tastefulness, that must have originated in town where artificial adornments are most studied. And my room is the pleasantest part of the whole. The very sight of it makes me poetical, so I'll e'en give vent to some of my superabundant exaltation, if I can get my Pegasus started. Here goes My room in sooth's a pretty quiet spot, Whose volumes in these wondrous reading days, It's neither large, nor small, but just the thing, And if my glass is small I need not care- Would like the white-fringed curtains. Some might think the house too low, but the bees Buzz by so sweetly with their yellow store From dainty cups of flowers; and the breeze With showy petals decks the cool plank floor, And giddy butterflies Dash out and in, and tropes recall to mind To dizzen out poor thoughts; so I'm e'en glad Its low, pleasing its cottage air I findOh! a high townish house would be too bad To my town-wearied eyes. Augusta, Geo. BERTHA THE CONSCRIPT'S GRAVE. "By one of these avalanches, a cannon and an artillery. man belonging to Bonaparte's army, were carried away and never more seen."—History of French Revolution. The following lines are supposed to have been written after Napoleon's downfall, and during the occupation Paris by the allied armies. They lie entomb'd in the mountain glen, No more he joins in the shout of men, Where the red sword flashes ever. That Gaul with his gun beside him. His grave is far from his own lov'd France, He would burst the chains which bind him, Peace to the conscript, peace to his name, P. G. SONGS OF THE PASSIONS. BY LEWIS J. CIST. I. "I KNEW THEE FIRST." I knew thee first in early youth, Oh! who the falsehood then might trace, I knew thee still in riper years- I saw thy light of love decay, Yet knew not why nor how- And now I know thee as thou art, Will round that image cling, Where I, as to a saint, have knelt With pure devotion's vow, Ere yet the idol there that dwelt Were fall'n-as thou art now! It was no earthly love did bring I bowed as to an Angel-thing I mourn no idle passion cross'd, But oh! I grieve that thou All bright and pure as once thou wastShould'st be what thou art now! II. "BE STILL, FOND HEART." Be still, fond heart!-for thee, no more Hope's rays may others' steps illume, To deeds of deathless fame! III. "Go! I WOULD NOT NOW UPBRAID THEE!" Half the heartless thing thou art! VOL. VI-47 Had my passion been less tender— My devotion aught less true 1 had need not thus surrender All my dreams of bliss, and you! 'Tis our nature to prize lightly What we easily obtain; And too well I loved thee, rightly Love so light as thine to gain! Others now will seek to woo theeSoon "another win and wear;" At the altar I shall view thee, While my heart lies buried there! But I seek not to upbraid thee, Though forever we must part; For I feel myself hath made thee Half the heartless thing thou art! Cincinnati, Ohio. SHORT CHAPTERS: BY PATRICK PEDANT, SCHOOLMASTER. CHAPTER XI. POLARITY. When last it was my lot to visit the classic and romantic precincts of the University of Virginia, in order to the matriculation of a neighbor's son, I found one of the learned professors pretty deeply engaged in a volume of Schubert's. Now as I had heard this excellent man lecture at Munich, and was familiar with his fame as a zealous Catholic, a laborious naturalist, a profound metaphysician, and a most amiable mystic, I begged leave to carry the book to "mine inn." It was his History of the Soul, and I expected a quantum suff. of psychology and physiology, especially when I surveyed the portentous anatomical pictures at the end; but I really found myself rapt into a little fairy-land of dreams, and poetry, and animal magnetism, and multiform literature. Schubert is eminently what the Germans call a genial man. that he touches sparkles with the freshness of rockcrystal. On the most abstruse subjects he gives you garlands of flowers, and empties on you a whole cornucopia of quaint but exuberant erudition. As the book is rarely met with in Virginia, let me glean a little from its lighter parts. All It is remarkable, says Schubert, that the most profound mathematicians and calculators have shown a penchant for music. These two things, mathematics and music, stand to one another in the relation of the two poles of a magnet, opposite yet supplementary. Galileo was devotedly attached to music from his very cradle. The same thing is observed in the life of Kepler. A like polarity Schubert finds in philology and the study of nature. He might have given himself as an instance. Several great linguists have been passionate florists. For example, Frisch, one of Metuens virgae jam grandis Achilles No more a boy, yet as in boyhood's bond, But now, the taught, as hapless Rufus knows, the ablest investigators of the German language, who published a great work on this subject in his seventy-sixth year, found his solace for years in the study of living birds, among which he lived. He wrote upon the birds of Germany. The same is true of Schneider, the great Grecian. Gruterus alternated between his antiquities and his garden. And the fathers of modern natural history, Otto Brunfels, Jerome Tragus and Conrad Gessner, devoted the prime of their strength to the ancient languages. The great mineralogist, G. A. Werner, entertained his old age by researches in the Very frigid translation, Dr. Badham, but the Hebrew and other ancient languages. I might best I have at hand, and I dare not attempt Juvehave told Dr. Schubert that I did myself, in the nal myself. I am glad to say, however, that the intervals of my treatise on the Latin Subjunctive, vexations of the ludimagisterial life have not alenter largely into the subject of the Trilobites. ways quenched the coals of passion. I feel myself A more signal antagonism or polarity is discov-alive both to grief and mirth. So did that blessed ered between earnestness, or even sadness, and old schoolmaster, Quintilian. I always made my the caprices of wit and merriment. The stately boys learn by heart the lamentation over his lost preacher, Flechier, used to read with great gusto the works of Belay, and the old capucinades of the funny Spanish-preaching friars, which were absolutely antipodal to his own discourses. Swift is a case in point: his gloom was saturnine, his humor almost simious. Bayle was never sated with ropedancers and jugglers. Johnson dearly loved Punch and Judy. The subject connects itself with some of the remarkable defects of great men. Corneille was a detestable reader. Lafontaine, whose works are instinct with wit and knowledge of the world, was a mere booby in the drawing-room. When once invited to entertain a dinner party, he uttered not a word; and at a very early hour rose, in order, as he declared, to go to the Academy. When reminded that there was time enough, he dryly said: "Oh, I will take the longest way!" He would sit under his trees in the rain; and once inquired, in a learned circle, whether St. Austin had as much talent as Rabelais. So much for polarity. CHAPTER XII. SCHOOLMASTERS. The life of a pedagogue is not perhaps the most miserable in the world; for there are the galleyslaves, broken-down-rakes, and navy-officers grown grey without promotion. But schoolmasters, in every age, have known and published their ills. I do not doubt that Aratus wielded a ferula when he penned that epigram Διαζω Διότιμον, ὃς ἐν πέτραισι καδηται, But Juvenal has touched the principal source of pedagogical woes in his Seventh Satire; namely, the disrespect of the pupils. In the corrupt days of Domitian, as with us, the boys would not mind the master. It was different in old times. Greek Anthol. I. 480. son, which forms the introduction to his Sixth Book. It is one of the most touching passages in ancient literature. And then, on the other hand, more than half that very book is taken up with a treatise on wit, and the facetiae which are admissible in oratory. Schoolmasters have always been a race somewhat attractive, and have been remembered by the poets. There is Orbilius-there is Ascham-there are Sir Hugh Evans and Holofernes, in Shakspeare. By-the-bye, Warburton tells us that the original of Holofernes was one John Florio, a teacher of the Italian language, who died in 1625. Goldsmith's Schoolmaster is famous. As to Crabbe's Reuben Dixon and Leonard, no one can read them without feeling that he has known them all his life. I forgive much of his severity in consideration of the following picture of an old teacher: The master heeds it not, for thirty years Yet, after all, there are some great satisfactions in the life of a schoolmaster, which none but they of the craft suspect. It is something to be the autocrat even in a small realm; and a certain glory gathers around the wig of the master, as he sits on some high day blending the legislative, judicial, and executive functions, all in one. Tyng, my old preceptor, used to look the dictator when he had indulged in some signal act of vengeance. How be * The Borough: Letter xxiv. |