The Montreal museum, or Journal of literature and arts, 1 décembre 1832, Décembre

THE MONTREAL MUSEUM.Volume I, DECEMBER 1832.Number I.INTKODUCTION.—==31©|0|®IC=— j t In the timid and anxious hope that this work may meet with a favorable reception, and that public indulgence may extend to the defects of a first essay, we take the liberty to premise a few remarks explanatory of the feelings which inspired the design, and cf the basis on which rest our expectations for encouragement.Deeply interested in the honour of our country, and conscious of her claims to a great degree of intelligence, our pride has been often and severely wounded by the sarcastic remarks of uninformed strangers, on our defective education, our slight acquaintance with literature—the total want of taste and spirit evinced in our Cities, and to render those galling reproaches unanswerable, they cite a fact—that in the Canadas there is not a single Literary Journal, whilst the neighbouring states abound with Periodical Publications, devoted to the general diffusion of knowledge—although we must admit the fact, we deny the inference—it is not from a deficiency of taste or of talent, that local Literature is not duly encouraged ; but from a cause perhaps as culpable though not so humiliating, to a supineness, which render the reading community content, whilst sti angers administer to their demands for information, regardless of all their own Country suffers by this ready given preference to the industry and activity of Foreigners, for we cannot cede to them a higher degree of superiority.The extraordinary facility with which American Works may be obtained, and then multiplicity, goes far to confirm this prevailing indifference towards the developement of native genius, and the increase of national respectability.Many of our friends in representing to us the hazards of our enterprize, have dwelt on the cheapness, and superior execution of American Works, over any publication likely to he produced here ; hut, formidable as this appears, we hope to obviate the evil, by opposing to it, a steady perseverance, and an unswerving solicitude to please, trusting that a spirit of emulation may arise to awaken the torpid feelings of those, who possessing the power, want not the generosity to foster talent, and who, even now, may be induced to smile bcnignantly on an humble effort which has for its object, the advancement and happiness of their native or their chosen land.The indulgent reception and ultimate success of ono Work, will naturally lead to the establishment of others, perhaps of a more scientific and useful character.It is not within our sphere, as Ladies, to pretend to an acquaintance with those deep and abstruse studies necessary to the improvement and display of human ingenuity, in the great and important arts of life.Our views of utility are confined to the Domestic and social circle, and to those limits our capacities and inclinations alike restrict us.To the wish to yield instruction and amusement, is added a hope, that a taste fur letters may extend, and be confirmed, by furnishing a medium through which the young as • pirant to Literary honour shall become distinguished from his less gifted contemporaries, and by thus securing to him the admiration due to his merit, arouse his energies, and incite him to such exertions as may ultimately lead to excellence, and secure to him the reward of an undying fame.In this exposition of the feelings which actuate us, we hope the public may find a counterpoise to the errors incidental to a first number, and considerately remember that a little time and great attention will correct faults which result from inexperience.In all things improvement is progressive, and where a willing mind unites with a steady purpose, the advancement must he rapid.We are sanguine in the anticipation ot an early period when the Museum will stand exclusively on its own merits ; and when its patronshnay look hack with pleasure to the complacent welcome accorded on its first appearance. In addition to the indulgence already solicited, we must further beg the public to overlook the absence of interesting extracts from the English and French Periodicals last published, as owing to the unavoidable delay in forwarding them, they could not reach in time for this date ; and the anxious wish expressed by many of our subscribers to see the First Number has induced us to commence our interesting task without delay.We assure our Friends this fault will be but temporary, as we are in daily expectation of receiving several of the very best Journals from London and Paris.We again respectfully invite the Ladies and Gentlemen of Canada to aid us in our laboui s by sending us the fruits of their leisure hours.Reports of the Charitable Schools, and other Institutions, will be received and inserted with great pleasure.ORIGINAL POETRY.Distill’d amid the dews of night, Dark hangs the dew-drop on the thorn, ’Till noticed by approaching light It glitters in the smile of mom.Morn soon retires her feeble power ; The sun outbeams with genial ray, And gently in benignant hour Exhales the liquid peril away.Thus on afflictions sable bed Deep sorrows rise of saddest hue, Condensing round the mourners head, They bath the check with chilly dew.Though pity shows her dawn from Heaven, When kind she points assistance near ; To friendship’s sun alone ’tis given, To sooth and dry the mourners tear. BARRY CORNWALL’S SONOS.“ England,” observes the author in his preface, “ is singularly barren of song-writers ; good song-writers he should have said ; the fact is, they abound in no country.Song-writing is the most difficult species of poetry ;—failure is not to be recovered— one slip ruins the whole attempt.A good song is a little piece of perfection, and perfection docs not grow in every field.There must be felicity of idea, lightness of tone, exquisiteness or extreme naturalness and propriety of expression ; and this within the compass of a few verses.And this is not all ; the writer must betray a sustained tone of enthusiasm ; the song would neither have beginning nor end,— it must seem a snatch from out of a continuous strain of melody—something that swells upon the ear, as if the previous parts had been unheard, and which dies away as if the air had carried its notes afar, and the sounds were wafted along to other lands.Men of genius arc now and then born song writers ;—such were Horace and Burns, such is Be ranger.England has not had hers yet, and perhaps never may have.Englishmen arc not nationally calculated to make song-writers ; but individual genius makes light of running counter to a whole nation of habits, and there is no saying that we may not have our true lyricist yet.Song-writing is most likely to spring up among people greatly susceptible of the charms of music, and inventive of airs which, by some peculiar charm they possess, spread over all the country, sink dec}) in the memory, and come spontaneously on the thoughts in moments of sadness or joy, and in short becomo what are called national.National songs go with national airs, and spring up with circumstances.The English have few native airs, and as few native songs of any excellence.When an Englishman is in love, does he sing l In camp, what wretched braying goes by that name ! at table, what have we of the generous, jovial sort ?Generally speaking, our table songs—always excepting our glees—are pieces of bald sentiment ; when they arc English ; but more generally, they are borrowed from the Scotch, the Irish, and other national song-writers.Gaiety, anti that gaiety showing itself musically is not English, ; when we are poetically given it is in the sad piping strain of the forlorn, deserted, or hapless lover.Gaiety is not English ; we can be sentimental, tender, witty, pretty, pompous, and glorious in our songs ; but we ever want the essential quality of gaiety—gaiety of heart—the dancing life of the spirit, that makes the voice hum, the fingers crack merrily, and the feet fidget restlessly on the ground.Barry Cornwall steps forth to prove the truth of our proposition.If their is one true spirit of true gaiety in all his volume of Songs, we will forfeit our Library and all its celebrity.There is boisterous mirth, if you please, as if the writer or tho singer were determined to roar himself out of a fit of despair ; there is drunken and maudlin jollity ; there is also much sparkling of words—make-believe champagne, not so good as clever gooseberry—in short, an effervescence more like a bowl of whipped cream than a glass from the true Heliconian bubbling spring, When there is genuino mirth—as if to prove our proposition still farther—it is completo undertaker’s merriment, sepulchral in its subject, ghastly in its images, horrible in its whole conception, unholy jollity—a jig among tho tombs—the feast of worms.— Such is the song about that lively old- fellow King Death, with his coal-black wine.Of the forced mirth, a specimen may bo seen in the Hurrah for Merry England ! A more doleful shout wrc never heard ; it reminds us of the starved cheers of the gaunt and famine-struck mob in the Siege of Calais, who attempt to raise a shout, when they can only compass a long lugubrious howl, after the manner of a cat that has been three days in a trap.Hurrah, for William of England ! Our friend as a king should be ; Who casteth aside Man’s useless pride, And leans on his people free.Hurrah for the King of England ! The boast of merry England.Merry England with a witness if this be one of its songs ! A Bacchanalian song, set to music by Mr.II.Phillips, is Miothor attempt at gaiety. Sing! v, ho sings To her who wearcth a hundred rings ?Ah ! who is this lady line ?The Yjne, boys, the Yjne ! The mother of mighty wine.A roamer is she O’er wall and tree, Jlnd sometimes very good company.Alack a-day, poor Mother Vine ! it* this is all that the poet can say of her.Once there was a little voice, Merry as the month of May, That did cry, “ Rejoice ! Rejoice !” Now ’tis—flown away.It was, we have no doubt, a very little puny voice, and small hope is there that it will be ever heard again by one who thus laments its departure.Such small beer dribble never comes from the heart of a true song-writer.The man that can say there never was “ so fair a thing,” “ nothing so brave,” “ nothing so free,” as a certain wild cherry-tree, may have pretty fanciful ideas ; he may have an imagination apt to run riot in soft sentimentality or refined sensualities ; but he is no song-writer.Oh ! there never was yet so fair a thing, Iiy racing river or bubbling spring, Nothing that ever so gaily grew, Up from the ground when tho skies were blue, Nothing so brave—nothing so free, As tliou—my wild, wild chrery tree.# Jove ! how it danced in the gusty breeze ! Jove ! how it frolicked amongst the trees ! Dashing the pride of the poplar down, Stripping the thorn of its hoary crown : Oak or ash—what matter to thee ?’Twas the same to my wild, wild cherry-tree.^ hat can be said of a man found throwing himself into hysterics over a 4‘ wild cherry-tree 1” Much license is allowed to the poet, but if wo saw any respectable middle-aged gentleman throwing up his hat and crying “ Hurrah ! for the wild, wild cherry-tree,” we know what we should think of him.And this is a song which wc have seen pointed out by a weekly critic of some note, as at once wild, poetic, and original.” As for its wildness, it is more than wild—it.is wild, wild ; and in respect of originality, wc would say, it is unique ; it is unlike any thing that went before or is likely to come after.It is, in fact, a specimen of the mock merriment : a song-writer must be merry» and this poet seems to have said—“ «love ! I'll show you some gaiety ; was ever any body as gay as 1 will be ?—only let me once mount my ‘ wild, wild cherry-tree,’ and no tight rope danger ever cut such capers— ‘ Beautiful berries ! beautiful tree ; Hurrah ! for the wild, wild cherry-tree, The “ Petition to Time” is, on the whole, perhaps, the best and most beautiful thing in the book ; it is the only song which comes from the man as the songs of Burns used to come.PETITION TO TIME.Touch us gently, Time ! Let.us glide adown thy stream Gently,—as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream ! Humble voyagers are We, Husband, wife, and children three— (One is lost,—an angel, fled To the azure overhead !) Touch us gently, Time ! We’ve not proud nor soaring wings : Our ambition, our content Lies in simple things.Humble voyagers are We, O’er life’s dim unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime : Touch us gently, gentle Time! If any song in the present collection lives, it will be this Petition : it deserves to be in all elegant extracts and popular selections for a hundred years to come.—London Spectator. The following communication on Lady Blessington’s conversations of Lord Byron, we publish rather reluctantly : though we admire the sentiment it conveys, we do not by any means agree with the writer, in his severe censure on Lady Byron’s conduct : it would be unfair, however, of us, to withhold opinions which have a moral tendency ; because, we dissent from their individual application ; and as her Ladyship probably has many friends disposed to defend her conduct, amongst the married of her own sex ; we will be happy to give insertion to any observations which may place her disposition in a more amiable point of view.To the Editors of the Jtluseum.If the conductors of the Museum can discover any merit in the remarks of a censorious old critic, he may be tempted now and then to obtrude his views of men, manners, and books, on their notice.The enclosed critique, or whatever else they may term it, was written merely for amusement, and from the impulse of the hour, on reading the memoirs it refers to—if the Ladies find it admissable, they will gratify a friend, by giving it a place in their magazine :— It appears from Lady Blessington’s recent publications, that the world is not yet satiated with the exposure of all those petty details which go to form the dark outlines to Lord Byron’s character.After Mr.Moore’s voluminous exhibition, one might suppose, there was nothing more to be seen or said on the subject ; and in good truth, there is nothing new, but Lady Bles-sington has, with infinite taste, placed old scenes in a pleasant light, and objects, with which the world was already familiar, to weariness ; she has arrayed with such attractive grace, that we look at, and admire, what we have beheld without emotion, a hundred times before.Her own reflections and sentiments, are so interwoven with the work, that it might, with as much propriety, be termed, the conversations of Lady Blessington, as of Lord Byron ; it is this melange that gives an air of novelty to the work.It the reader is weary of the faults of an old friend» to whom ho owes a great deal, he may direct his attention to the merit ot a new and very delightful acquaintance.She is, indis- putubly, a lino writer ; full of sentiment and true feeling, perfectly lice from the fashionable affectation of levity.She never betrays a wish to cheat her own sex out of feminine reserve, and sof tness of manners ; a trait too observable in many of the favorite writers of the day.Nothing can be more beautiful, more just, and faithful, than her picture of the secret suffering of a delicate high-minded woman ; but, Lady Byron’s heart, is not the repository from whence the colours were taken, her soul was not imbued with those impassioned tints which impart light and loveliness to woman's life.There was nothing sacred in her sorrow—it was not the sad and silent grief, that in pride, shrouded disappointed affection, from the oye of vulgar curiosity, or withdrew itself from the compassion of the multitude—no bitter tear was dashed away, and hastily replaced, by a brightened glance, and smiling welcome, to conceal the anguish of a wound-ed spirit—hers was not the woman’s heart resolved to bear all, to stiller all, with, for, and from, the being with whose destiny she had solemnly linked her own ; far different the part she has chosen—undefined and shadowy wrongs were blazoned forth, the world’s sympathy sought—and it was granted in an overwhelming burst, which drove the delinquent husband from friends and home, and made him in reality the lonely, and isolated being, he delighted to pourtray himself, whilst, from his position in society, and at the summit of glory, he thought not the smiles of the world could turn to the hissing of serpents.She who euus-ed this sudden revulsion, can never be identified with the gentle and forbearing wife, with the proud, yet meek, and feeling woman, who would fain shield her partners faults from the public gaze, and seek to win him from a reckless state, to the charms of domestic life, and the love of virtue.And if she failed in the pious elfort, would still shade the frailties she could not subdue, and endure all, till life ebbed its last, rather than expose one error which might tarnish the lustre of his genius.A proudly delicate woman, would have done so ; and had Lady Byron pursued this course, the world would have been spared u humiliating exposure of the descrepancy of nature, in one of earth’s most gifted sons.‘ a1 - • > 2 •’ [ 10 ] The pride of a married woman must consist in the fulfilment of the duties her station in life imposes upon her—nc:;er can it be enlisted on the side of an abandonment of those duties ; the preservation of the moral links of life, as regards marriage, are placed it may be said, exclusively in her hands ; and an indifférence in any shape to the sacred trust, is an injury done to society.On closely viewing the case, we may not discover a very great difference between the woman who forgoes the solemn vow plighted at the altar, from considerations purely selfish—and her who sacrifices her fa'th and fame at the unhal-» lowed shrine of passion.At least, the world does not award a | roportionate degree of censure to the wound inflicted, the one retires in tiiumph, entrenched within the pale of decorum, no matter how harrowing the individual misery she has caused, or the demoralizing effect it is likely to produce ; whilst the other entails by her crime, a punishment immediate and eternal.If unfortunate circumstances, lead to the estrangement of a wedded pair, the pride of a wife can never suffer from a desire to conciliate, therein is the strong line of demarcation, between wedded and unwedded love, a wife may acknowledge, nay, boast of h- r tenderness ; may go a'l lengths towards forgiveness, and the farther a husband has strayed in the path of error, the more imperative is her duty, in demanding concession, entreaty, any devise which may lead him from an evil course.There is no situation in life, however exalted, can exempt man or woman from the discharge of those moral obligations, voluntarily assumed, and that Lady Lyron failed in the fulfilment—by repelling his Lordship’s advances towards a reunion, must he admitted ; there could not exist even a false de'icaey to influence her conduct, she would not have lost one jot of matronly dignity, not a shade could be cast on the refined purity of her mind by the most fastidious, and she would this day have stood far higher in the estimation of mankind, if a yielding and compassionate tenderness to the failings of humanity had marked her conduct # 11 ] THE DEATH OF AH ANCHEX.Translated from the French.For the angel of the last hour, he whom we so harshly call Death ; heaven sends us the tondercst, the best of the angels, that he may gently cull from life the fainting hear* of man, and sofily carry it from our fast cooling breast, to the high and vivifying regions of Eden.Ilis brother is the angel of the first hour ; twice lie kisses the brow of man, the first time in order that he may enter this world less painfully ; the second time that he may awake above without injury—and that he may arrive in the other world smiling, he who entered this one weeping.When the fields of battle were wet with blood and tears, and the angel of the last hour gathered thousands of trembling souls, his eyes so mild, became dim, and he said “ Ah ! once 1 will die like man, to learn what is his last agony, and soften it, when I deliver him from life !” The infinite circle of angels who lovo each other, surrounded the compassionate angel, and promised to shed around him their celestial rays at his last sigh, that he miuht know that it had been death ; and his brother, whose kiss uncloses our stiffened lips, as the first dawn of day causes the chilled flowers to burst forth in renewed loveliness, tenderly approached his face and said : “ W hen 1 again embrace thee, my brother, thou wilt be dead on earth, and again with us.” Agitated and filled with love, the Angel descended to a field of battle, where one man only breathed ; a fine youth, full of fire, whose shattered chest still moved ; by the young hero none re-mained, save his betrothed ; lie no longer felt her burning embraces, and her groans seemed the confused so'.nd of distant combattants.Oh ! how rapidly the angel covered him with his wirm.s ! under the form of his beloved, he pressed him in his O 1 arms ; by a soft kiss he drew his wounded soul from his bleeding breast, and remitted it to his brother.—Ilis brother kissed it, and instantly it smiled.The angel of the last hour glided like lightning into the empty envelope, penetrated the corpse with his divine warmth, and powerfully reanimated the sources of life, But how painfully thi* V v._ __ * [ 12 ] body constrained him ! His eye of light, enclosed in an orbit .ff nerves, became weak and veiled, his thoughts so immense and rapid, balanced themselves with effort within the ossified enclosure of a brain.The vaporous and resplendent atmosphere which reigned about him, like an e'ternal spring, became dry and dark : all his sensations became more confused, but at the same time, more tumultuous ; they were connected with his whole being, and they seemed to him a simple instinct, in like manner as the thoughts of animals appear to us ; hunger goaded him with its stings, thirst devoured him, pain caused him to feel its rend-ings, his chest bathed in blood, rose with trouble, and his first aspiration was a sigh towards that heaven he had just quitted ! “ Is this the death of man !” lie asked himself, but as lie did not feel tho sign of death that had been promised, or see the angels or radiant sky, he found it wus only life.At night the angel lost his terrestrial strength, the earth seemed to whirl under him for sleep was sending his messengers.— The interior images lost their light, and were enlarged like • shades, and a confused and unruly world unfolded itself to him, the spirit of dreams was now decending.At length sleep covered him with his dark drapery, and he remained plunged in darkness, alone and immoveable, like us poor men.But then celestial visions, you extended over him your wings, his soul reflected itself in your magic mirrors, where he saw the circle of angels and the radiant sky ; his terrestrial body seemed to detach itself from all its bonds : “ Ah ! said he, in his ravishment, that sleep was then my departure !” But when he awoke, with a heart swolen with heavy human blood, when he saw tho earth am! the night, he exclaimed weeping, “ this was not death, it was hut its image, insomuch as I saw the stars of heaven and the angels !” The betrothed of the departed warrior, perceived not that there remained hut an angel in the breast of her beloved ; she still loved the monument of a sou! that had disappeared, and in the intoxication of joy she pressed the hand of him who was so far from her.But the angel in his turn, loved this deceived heart with a human one, jealous of the body which lie animated, and he desired not to die before her, in order to love her until she [ >3 J should one day in heaven, pardon him lor causing her to receive m once an angel and a lover to her bosom.But she died be- i J fore him, past grief had too profoundly bowed the head of this tender flower ; she fell bruised into the tomb.Alas ! she did not disappear before the weeping angel like the sun which plunges magnificently into the waters before admiring nature ; but like the evening star, which at midnight hides itself under a cloud, and vanishes in its white vapours.Death sent the mildest of his sisters, named Faintness, who with her icy finger touched the heart of the betrothed, instantly the brilliancy of her checks was extinguished, and the snow of death, that winter under which germs the spring of eternity, covered her brow and lovely hands.—The eyes of the angel were obscured with weeping ; he thought his heart was about to take the form of a tear, like the pearl which produces a soft shell ; but the betrothed awoke for the last sigh, drew him to her breast, and expired in that embrace, saying, in her delirum : “ At length, 1 am near thee, my brother.” The angel then expected to receive from his celestial father, the sign of the kiss and of death.But instead of divine rays, he saw around him only a dark cloud, and he sighed that he could not die, but was forced to submit to this human grief.Oh—poor oppressed man, he cried, how can you survive your woes, how can you aspire to old age, when the circle of the cherished beings of your youth is broken, and finishes by disappearing entirely ; when the tombs of your friends arise in as many dcgrocs around you, as lead to your own, and when life is already but a silent and empty arena?Oh poor human beings, how can your hearts support such evils ?The body of the hero which the angel had taken, conducted this pure and gentle soul into the midst of men, and their injustice ; among the disorders of vice, and of the passions ; he was forced to bend under the tyranny of the great, and groan under the oppression of sceptres, ho had a near sight of the claws of crowned eagles, who devour the substance of their people, and he heard their wings ; he saw all the earth entwined in the thousand rings of the serpent who made it his prey, and who unceasingly plunges his envenomed dart into the breast of man.Alas ! that tender heart, which had reposed during an eternity, on the [ 14 ] burning hearts of angels, was pierced by the sharp sting of hatred ; this pain seemed to him the last : Ah ! he said, death if dreadful !—Cut it was not death, for no Angel appeared.Then in a few days he was weary of this life, which we bear for more than half a century, and lie tinned to the past.His chest became contracted by pain, pale and depressed, he dragged his steps to the field of the dead, green closing scene of life, where the soul comes to quit the envelope it has worn here be* low.He seated himself, agitated by painful remembrance on the tomb of her he had inexpressibly loved, and he contemplated the sun, which was finishing its course.Reclined on this cherished mound, he cast his eyes on his pain-stricken body : thou wouldst already have been separated from this place, miserable corpse, he said, had I not preserved thee !-IIc then thought of the heavy existence of man, and the gnawing pains of his wounds taught him the price at which mortals buv their end, and their vir- “1 J tue.lie felt himself deeply affected by their constancy—and ho wept with infinite love, over those unfortunates, who labouring under their own peculiar wants, banished to the depth of a fallen planet progressing through a life obscured by long and thick shadows, turn not, however, their eyes from the divine light, extending their arms at each agony they feel towards heaven, and around whom no light shines, but the hope of one day rising like the sun on another horizon.—-Such deep emotion caused his wounds to rc-opcn ; the blood, those tears of the soul spouted from his breast to the earth, and his weakened frame fell back on the grave of his affianced love.A distant echo, like that of a harmonious sigh, spread itself through the space ; a slight cloud passed before the angel, and brought him sleep.A divine ray emanated from it, and the circle of angels appeared showing him an empty place : “ Is it thee again, deceitful dream ?” he said.But the angel of the first hour, advanced under an arch of light, and gave him the sign of the kiss, sayii>g, that was death.0 eternal brother, and celestial friend ! And the young warrior leading his betrothed, came to meet him with a sweet smile.— Jean Paul*.» Frederick Righter,on# of the most celebrated German writers, and for whom Madame de Staël professed so high an opinion, published all bis works under tho name of Jeaa Paul L >5 ] We notice with regret, a decrease in the number of American Annuals, but two have appeared for 1S33—the Token, and Pcctrl, and their pages seem not to be enriched, by the secret wealth of their suppiesscd mais.The Token and Souvenir, are merged in one ; and though sufficiently elegant to sustain its first claim to patronage, we cannot say it has received any extraordinary embellishment from tho union.The slightest deterioration is more sensibly felt, than the most evident improvemement, and any falling off in those works of taste, and refinement, give an unpleasant sensation, lest the public should become weary of the light and giaceful productions of fancy.In proportion to the encouragement given, will efforts be made towards the attainment of perfection— and the deficiencies apparent in the Works now before us, may be more attributable to a change in public taste than to want of zeal in the conductors.The said public taste, is a most coquct-ish personage, the flowery wreath that binds her, must be for ever varied, the lightest and loveliest chains would fall heavily around her, if novelty he not interwoven with the link-, and when that wears off, she slides from other merits, with amazing rapidity.We would fain hope that sufficient attraction may yet bo found in this species of Literary Bijouterie to fix a partiality.— Those little works serve as pretty and appropriate tributes to friendship, and in each one that falls off; the Boudoir loses an ornament, and the fair occupant an offering, richer in sentiment and less evanesment, than the bouquets of Eastern story, The Pearl wc can only recommend for its engravings, there arc many of them very pretty.The first plate, Innocence, has great beauty, thete are two or three plates in the Token too, that must arrest attention.The following story is extracted from the Token, we consider it as a fair specimen of the whole, certainly, not one of absorbing interest, or likely to excite tho imagination, but simple and amusing. t 16 J A GWmM FOR 9X-9SBS9SA* From the Token for 1833.There arc few beings in tiie world tliat arc not united by some bond of relationship ; if they have neither brothers, sisters, or still nearer ties, they have generally a great-uncle, or a far off cousin, that occasionally send them an enquiring letter.— Such, however, is not iny case ; I stand alone in the world— 11 ow I became so is no part of the present narrative, the wounds that time has closed, 1 have no desire to tear open.1 have heard wise people say, the blessings of life are equalised ; perhaps they would have pointed to my lot as an exemplification ; they might have said, look at his plantation, his negroes, his immense crops, his groves of orange trees.Go into the city, see his bouse with its verandas, his luxuriant garden, his stud of horses ! but, after all, poor man, he is to be pitied, he is alone in the world, he has got no health, to enjoy any thing.Such was the superficial survey.Alas ! they knew not like me, the weary wasting regrets, that prossed on my heart, the recollections that neither religion or philosophy could banish.All that was fair and beautiful, added to the keenness of my sensations, and I found solitude and silence most condusivc to my comfort, no one broke in upon my retirement.It is an easy art to live alone, for years 1 scarcely spoke to a human being ; my slaves learned to communicate to me by signs, and the little negroes, for I am not hard-hearted, minded my presence no more than they did one of my palmcttas.My ill health daily increased ; my nights were sleepless ; f consulted physicians, some said my complaints were pulmonary, others, that they were dyspeptic, all prescribed, but none bene-litted* 1 was one evening sitting in my veranda, and anticipating the miserable nights I was to pass, as one succeeded another, when one of my servants entered and said, here is a little girl want very much to see Masser.1 felt some sensation of surprise, but said, let her come.A girl approached, about fourteen years old, she held in her hand a little basket of flowers, and [ 17 ] seemed doubtful whether to come nearer or not.At length I «aid, do you want any thing ?* I have brought the gentleman some flowers, if lie will take them.There was an expression in the child’s countenance, that bordered on compassion, her voice too, was soft and sympathetic.‘ I thank you, my dear, said I, put down the flowers, I will take yours, and you may fdl your basket with mine.’ Wont you keep the basket, Sir, said she, I made it myself ! T took it in my hand, and examined it, it was composed of small crystals, that sparkled in the setting sun, and beautifully contrasted with the rich purple and crimson flowers that hung over it, I took out a piece of money, and offered her, she thanked me, but refused to take it, and said she did not bring the basket for sale.‘ Where do you live my dear V7 said 1—there, said she, pointing to a little narrow building, the upper window of which, overlooked my garden.‘ You have seen me in my garden '! said I.Yes, replied she, and l heard the gentleman was siek, and I thought she hesitated, and coloured ; I might help him ! Then you are a doctress, said I, smiling.No Sir, replied she, I am not, but Sook is.W ho is Souk ?said J.‘ She is an Indian woman, that can cure every thing, all sorts of disorders.’ She cannot euro mine, said I, involuntarily.0 yes, Sir, she can : said the girl.J have got a cure in my basket ; will you please sir, to try it ?and she turned over her flowers, and took out a little square packet with some figures wrought in Indian characters.‘ This is it sir,’ said she, ‘ I went to her yesterday, and got it on purpose lor vour complaint V 1 told her, said she, with an air ofconfidence, that it was an indigestion of the heart ! The girl is right, thought 1 she is more skilful than all the physicians.‘ Well, what am I to do with your packet ! Swallow it,’ and I made a sound nearer to a laugh than 1 had done lor years.0 dear, no sir ; you are to hang it round your neck, and let it cover your heart ; Sook says you have the cold disorder in the heart, and this will cure it, may I leave it Sir ?said she.I could not refuse, indeed I ielt some curiosity to know more about the girl, you may leave it to-night, said I, she made a low curtesy, and left me.After she had gone, my mind dwelt on her countenance ; it perfectly 3 [ 16 ] bewitched me, .she did not look like any tl.ing 1 had loved, for her hair was light and curly, and her eyes of a bright blue ; there was something however, in the tones of her voice, that brought recollections ! Women’s tones of kindness all resemble each other, they are like the dying notes of an aeolian harp.I made some enquiries of my servant, who the girl was, but could only learn that she lived with her mother, in the room that overhangs my garden.It cannot be, thought I, that this girls sympathy has operated thus forcibly ; no, no, I see the whole plot, her mother has sent her, she is trained to it, and I am the dupe.— I was indignant for a few minutes, and then again my curiosity was roused, to see how they would manage an affair so cuningly begun.I took the little parcel, and examined it, it was carefully closed, but emited a spicy perfume that was agreeable.I certainly thought more of this occurrence than it deserved, but the truth was, I had but few objects to interest me, and this was a new incident ; and then the girls voice was simple and soft, the articulation so different from the Leah’s and Dinah’s, that surrounded me ! I threw myself into bed, and actually began to dose, when my black boy awoke me to give me my lai'danurn, 1 could not get to sleep again ; the girl had completely discomposed my nerves, and I determined to give orders the next day that she should not be admitted.The next day, however, she did not seek for admittance, nor the next after that ; but the third day she came.There was the same gentle, innocent expression of countenance, as she enquired after the success of her prescriptions.When I told her I had not tried it, her disappointment was too apparent to he feigned, and I said4, you shall not lose the profit of your prescription, and I handed her a bill ; it was five dollars ; ‘ that will do I suppose,’ said I.She took it and looked at it ‘ 0 sir said she, 4 Sook dont charge any thing if it dont cure you, and only a dollar if it docs.” And what do you charge ?said I, a little scornfully.‘ Nothing, Sir, replied she eagerly, nothing at all.” Come bo honest said I, tell me your motive, the girl did not seem to understand me.— When 1 explained myself, she said I want nothiug, nothing Sir, I live with my mother, she is a widow, we are very happy, so 19 ] happy added she, that 1 could not bear to see any body looking so sick and sad as you do, and I told Sook' about the gentleman, and she said she could cure him.This was the beginning of my acquaintance with Amie, for so she was called.I was at length persuaded to try the remedy, it certainly did me no harm, and it produced a pungent sensation upon the skin that almost amounted to a blister, and possibly might have done good.1 think from some cause or other, 1 grew a little better.Amie used to come every day, and often brought rue some little delicacy, 1 had gone the round of suspicion ; at first, 1 conceived it was for money she had made my acquaintance ; then 1 thought possibly, young as she was, and old as 1 was, for there were certainly thirty years dilference in our ages, it might be for love ; but after three years experience, 1 became convinced she had no motive under heaven, but the desire of serving a fellow-creature.All this time, 1 knew no more about Ainie’s moliicr, than the man in the moon ; I had no curiosity about her, and I dont recollect that she ever mentioned her more than once or twice.One day Amie came to me with a sorrowful look, I shall not sec you much longer, said she.I am going away.Where ?asked I.‘ To Alabama,’ she replied, 1 W hat in the name of heaven carries you to Alabama V exclaim- % ed F.Are you going to bo married ?1 No, said she, but my mother is, and she is going to Albama with her new husband.’ 1 And takes you ?Yes, Sir.Poor child ! I involuntarily exclaimed ; do you want to go ?She hung her head, and 1 saw a few tears hastily brushed away.4 It is a wild uncultivated country,’ said I.Yes Sir, that is the reason my father is going; he has worn out his land here, and be can purchase a hundred acres for fifty dollars.4 But it is good for nothing V 4 Indeed sir you arc mistaken, it is the best of land ; he will have nothing to do but cut down the trees, build a log house, and plant corn or cotton, just as he pleases, and it will grow of itself.’— 1 Well, well, said I peevishly,’ perhaps your mother might think better ot it.‘ 0 no Sir, she is to be married to night, and next week wo set of].’ I certainly felt vexed at the folly of the mother, but I determined not to interfere; if Amie chose to go, if was nothing to mo ; I had a kindness for hcr, I could no| but acknowledge ; 1 had not so many disagreeable sensations since T had worn her amulet, and indeed I confess I had the weakness to renew it at her solicitation, when she said time had impaired its virtue.At last the day arrived for their departure ; Amie came to bid me farewell.1 really had laid her under as few obligations as could well be imagined, considering our relative situations ; as we parted, I put fifty dollars into her hand, and said, here Amie you can buy your father out if you please ; she hesitated a little, but I would not be refused.‘ And now, said I, tell me honestly, which had you rather do, go or stay l 1 dont know why I put this question, 1 believe because it rose uppermost in my mind, she said it is my duty to go with my mother, therefore 1 had rather go ! ‘ Then there is no body Amic, you love as well, or most as well as your mother V The tears rushed into her eyes, and the blushes to her cheeks, and she turned silently away.For many years l had not had much curiosity ; but after they^ set oil; I thought l should like to see a new settlers equipage, and I mounted the only horse I could ride, and took the same road they went, it was not long before 1 overtook them ; there were two covered wagons, and a small gig, with a sort of calash lop, drawn by a miserable horse ; the first wagon was driven by the bridegroom ; the team of both wagons consisted of two mules and two horses for leaders ; by the side of the bridegroom was seated the bride, on a leather bed ; and over her head peeped half a dozen curly pated children.Various articles of housekeeping were apparent ; a gridiron, frying pan, and other cooking utensils, with two or three wooden chairs, a tin pail, and a collection of old shoes and boots, fastened behind.The other wagon was driven by one of the negroes, and a small white boy was mounted on the foremost horse.This waggon contained the fodder for the horses, and the more bulky articles of' housekeeping.Lastly came poor Amie, seated in the gig, with its crnzv top, driving the miserable-looking horse, and bolstered up by blankets, a collce-pot, an iron skillet, and various other articles that could not be distinctly enumerated.She wore a little [ 21 ] blue bonnet with a capo, and there was an air of neatness, and even taste in her dress.Behind the wagons came a troop of no * '.j», - ^ Vf -r • .v^i * 4\ '*?+ *' *t*.^.* * - - / •> o» ‘*gÆ0 wa .(t/'