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entire length of the hotel, from which the residents, in

July 23. their turn, watch the approaching carriage or cavalcade, A party from the Warm Springs, made the ascent of as it occasionally appears among the masses of foliage the mountain in front of our hotel, this morning, prior that for the most part obstruct the view. Arriving, to our intended departure. The morning was very you experience a most gentlemanly and cordial recep- fine, and promising of much pleasure to the adventurtion from the very police host, who accommodates his ers. Providing ourselves with all the conveyances the guests to the extent of his house, in the first place, and neighborhood afforded, including carriages, which could afterwards fills up in succession the several rows of go but half way, and horses, the most sure rooted of wooden and brick cabins, that are built in different which could ascend to the summit, we set out after breakparts of his grounds, -being files of small. sleeping fast time, and in a couple of hours attained the Warm rooms, about eight feet high, and as many wide. The Spring Rock, from which a view was presented to our table is of the very best description, far surpassing, I admiring eyes that ba files description. We stood on am forewarned, any thing to be obtained farther on. an elevated rock on the highest peak of the centre Alle.

A little below the house is the Bath; being a wooden ghany ridge, the horizon on every hand formed by the shed, covering a basin five feet in depth, and nearly blue outline of the distant mountains, hills on hills arising forty feet wide. The water is perfectly pellucid, and from the base of that on which we were, covered densely constantly flows off as it attains the depth described. with masses of deep rich foliage, excepting in those This water is about 98 degrees above Fahrenheit, and scattered spots where cultivation was claiming from is not affected by the weather. The whole lot of nature a field for the trial of her skill. The waving ground in the centre of which this pool rises, is filled cornfields, the ripening grain, “yellow to the harvest," with these little bubbling springs, and an area of many the shepherd driving his sheep afield, the busy activity similar diameters could be easily formed, if desired, on of the little village arourd the spring, were among the the spot. At present, the bath is covered by a miserable features of the scene. The filling up and the coloring hovel.* It should be replaced by one of granite or must be described by nature herself; words are inade. marble ; and doubtless some such improvement will quate to do them justice. After a visit of more than oceur to its enterprising proprietor as proper to be an hour to the Spring Rock, we turned our faces home. bestowed upon it. I believe one of his neighbors, who wards, and, arriving at the dinner hour, were duly comclaims a right to share the waters with him, as property plimented by our merry landlord upon the imposing disunder a pretended grant from the vender of the land play made by our cavalcade upon the mountain's brow. to certain coinmon purchasers, is talking somewhat The rock we have just left is the scene, (so goes resharply just now, about an intended suit to recover his port,) of a most romantic love adventure, the details of alleged share. When that question is decided, if in which, at length, would be doubtless delectable to some favor of the new claimant, competition will secure lady readers, inasmuch as they are literally true and improvements;—if against the suit—John Fry is the well authenticated. I am no weaver of love tales, how. very man (all obstacles removed,) to "go ahead !" ever, and must simply hint at a fair southern belle, a

A bath in the Warm Springs is beyond all descrip- youth from the middle country, a ride on gallant steeds tion luxurious. No eastern monarch, whose appetite up the mountain path, the momentary danger of the and love of luxury ever quickened his ingenuity to lady, and the consequent peril of the gentleman in his discover new delights, can command one so transcen- successful attempt to save her,-a fall, a swoon, a partial dant as this. But in order to bear me out in my en recovery, and the tears of beauty falling upon the cheek comiums, my readers must try it. It is a delightful of manhood,—the sympathy of fond hearts, declarabath for the strong and healthy,—and by such may be tions, troth-plights, and happy consummation. These used daily through the year, a balf hour or more at hints I leave for the filling-up of any of my readers who a time. It is useful in chronic and acute rheumatism, may fancy to figure in a “Romance of Real Life,” in dropsy, and in some complaints of the liver. Yet it is the pages of some Ladies' Magazine. not uniformly efficient in cases seemingly alike. It Another anecdote of the bravery of a southern belle, must be taken carefully and under medical advice, by who boasts of doing many things that no woman ever invalids. An analysis of this water shows it to consist did before, is related here in connection with the Warm of carbonate of lime, sulphate of iron, and sulphate of Spring Mountain-rock. Some say it is the above story, magnesia.

in its more veritable shape, and that it more truly deSuch are the Warm Springs of Virginia : and to all scribes the wooing and winning of the Amazonian lady who are afflicted with dyspepsia, rheumatism, gout, alluded to, than the other. But this I deem questionable, dropsy, hepatic complaints, and ennui, I would recom- if not decidedly fabulous. The belle is said to have mend a fair trial of them. To some the trial will yield ascended, en cheval, to the rock that rises out of the peak a perfect cure, to others it will begin a good work to be of the mountain: and attaining this eminence, there finished by future carefulness and attention, and to all, stood upon the saddle of her horse, and challenged her the luxury of travelling in a most delightful country, a cavalier to transcend that feat: on which he instantly sojourn in a pleasant valley, unsurpassed in loveliness stood upon his head on the saddle of his horse. The by that inherited by Rasselas himself, and a constant lady declared herself defeated, and gave the gymnast access to waters that seem to rival those fabled streams, her fair hand as his reward. I prefer the former verin which to bathe was to banish all pain, to remove all sion: but this last is quite current here, nevertheless. sorrow, and to renew the vigor and freshness of buoy- I leave this delightful spot, with a party, to-morrow abt youth.

morning, for the White Sulphur. The Hot Springs are I learn that a more fitting building has since been erected. next in order, but, by medical advice, I shall reserve 1938.- (Author.

them until my return.

Vol. IV.-26

A FRAGMENT.

TO MY MOTHER.

THE HOME OF THE DESOLATE.
Written on Christmas morning, 1937, at Ballston Spa, N. Y.
Wake, mother! wake to youthful glee !

BY C. W. EVEREST.
The golden light is dawning.
Wake, mother, wake! and hail with me

“How many drink the cup

Or baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
This happy Christmas morning!

or misery! Sore pierced by wintry winds,

How many shrink into the sordid hut Each eye is bright with pleasure's glow,

of cheerless poverty!" Each lip is laughing merrily;

Thompson A smile hath passed o'er winter's brow, And the very snow looks cheerily!

It was night-the storm howled sadly by—and the

mother sat in silence by the scanty fire, that warmed Hark to the voice of the “ wakened day!” and faintly lighted the wretched, dilapidated cottage, To the sleigh-bells gaily ringing;

once, in brighter days, her happy home! She had While a thousand thousand happy hearts divided to her ragged and starving babes the little pitTheir Christmas lays are singing !

tance of bread remaining to her, yet scarcely sufficing

to satisfy the mad cravings of hunger! Little thought 'Tis a joyous hour of mirth and love,

they that they claimed their mother's all : yet freely was And my heart is overflowing;

it given, with a silent tear that it was all! She hushed Come, we will raise our hearts above,

their cries—soothed their sorrows-covered them with While pure, and fresh, and glowing !

her tattered mantlebade them a sad 'good-night-and 'Tis the happiest day of the rolling year,

returned to her sorrowful vigil. But it comes in a robe of mourning;

The night wore away,—and still sat the mother over Nor light, nor life, nor bloom is here,

the fading fire she could not replenish, waiting the Its icy shroud adorning !

coming of him whose returning footsteps once caused a

thrill of joy through her bosom, and was hailed with It comes when all around is dark;

boisterous glee by his little ones. Once, he promised 'Tis meet it should so be,

at the altar to love and cherish her, and nobly, awhile, For its joy is the joy of the happy heart, did he redeem the pledge. His cottage was the home The spirit's jubilee!

of comfort, and his wife and infants divided his love!

But ah! how changed! He had become a Drunkard! It needeth not the bloom of Spring,

His business was neglected-his home was desertedOr Summer light and gladness,

and his late return was but the harbinger of woe! For Love hath spread his blooming wing

He came to curse the innocent partner of his misery as O'er Winter's brow of sadness!

the author of his wretchedness, and his frightened chilTwas thus He came! a Spirit cloud

dren shrunk away from him, screaming, as from a His Spirit's light concealing!

fiend! Where waits he now? The shadows of night No crown of earth, no kingly robe

have long darkened the landscape! What delays his His Heavenly power revealing.

return?-Alas! the low haunt which has nightly wit

nessed the shameful revel, now echoes to his frantic His soul was love, his mission love,

shout! Surrounded by boon companions, he seeks to Its aim a world's redeeming !

drown the memory of his sorrows in the bowl: while To raise its darkened soul above

his wretched, starving, squalid wife still keeps her Its wild and sipfal dreaming!

lonely vigil by her cheerless hearth!

Stillness-solemn stillness, like the grave's, reigns in With all his Father's love and power,

that dreary habitation: and no sound is heard, save when The cords of guilt to sever,

the fitful sighing of the wintry blast, or the low murmur To ope a sacred fount of light,

of her dreaming infants, rouses the watcher from her Which flows-shall flow forever!

trance. Then she raises her aching eyes to the dim dial, Then we will hail the glorious day,

and with a glance to Heaven, turns to her lonely watch The Spirit's new creation!

again. But now "the tempest of her feelings has grown And pour our grateful feelings forth,

too fierce to be repressed”—ber bosom heaves with the A pure, and warm libation !

wild emotions of her soul-and her thin hands seem

endeavoring to force back the bursting torrent of her Wake, mother! wake to chastened joy,

tears! The golden light is dawning!

The clock struck the hour of mid. Wake, mother! wake, and hail with me, night-and he came as wont! With a fearful oath, he This happy Christmas morning!

cursed his wife's fond care: and that mother's silent tears, and the low wail of his frightened babes, went up to God for witness !

Would you know the conclusion of the story? Go, ask De Saussay wrote a folio volume consisting of pane- the jail, the almshouse, and the grave—and they will gyrics of eminent persons named Andrew-merely tell you! because his own name was Andrew.

Feb. 9, 1838.

PANDEMUS POLYGLOTT.

In the October number of the Blackwood Edinburg Magazine, there is an amusing article purporting to be an account of the learned Doctor Pandemus Polyglott, and of his extensive erudition. It prosesses to present to the reader from the manuscript folios of the Doctor, certain remains of the ancient classics, which his diligence has rescued from oblivion, and from which, as he alleges, the plagiarists of later days have taken some of their most exquisite effusions. The reader soon discovers, that the whole is but an ingenious method of offering to the public some very beautiful specimens of Latinity, and of Greek composition; the machinery of Dr. Polyglott's life and labors being designed to render the introduction of them more graceful and interesting. In the Greek version of " Canning's Knifegrinder" there is an amusing betrayal of its character in the translation of the following line :

“Have you not read the Rights of Man by Tom Paine ?"

Οισθα Τομπανου Μέροπων τα χρηστάwhere the old champion of the Rights of Man stands forth as a witness, whose veracity will not even be questioned by his foes, of the imposture of the fictitious Grecian bard.

We remember to have seen some years ago a very beautiful Latin version of the modern song “P'd be a Butterfly born in a bower," which was attributed to the pen of a learned English prelate; and all must recollect the excitement, some years past, in regard to one of Mr. Wilde's beautiful effusions, which was translated by some ingenious classic into Greek, and palmed upon the public as the production of an ancient author. We regret that we have not these articles to bind up with the beautiful bouquet which we are about to offer to our readers. We shall ask leave, however, to add to those which are selected from the magazine, two versions which to our imperfect skill in the language, appear to be good Latin.

The first piece of Dr. Polyglott is “The Friend of Humanity and the Knifegrinder," of which we omit however the Greek version, from the deficiency of our press in the necessary type. SAPPHICS.

SAPPHICA. The FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFEGRINDER. PHILANTHROPUS ET FABER FERRARIUS.-DIALOGUS. Friend of Humanity.

Philanthropus. Needy Knifegrinder! whither art thou going?

Hinc ita quonam, Faber o egene ? Rough is the road; thy wheel is out of order;

Et via horrescit, rota claudicatque; Bleak blows the blast; your bat has got a hole in't, Flat notus; rimis petasus laborat, So have your breeches.

Tritaque bracca. Weary Knifegrinder, little know the proud ones, O Faber languens, patet haud superbis, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike

Appia ut rhedis habet otiantes,
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day 'Knives and Quid sit ad cotem vocitare cultros
Scissors to grind 0,'

Fissaque ferra.
Tell me, Knifegrinder, how came you to grind knives? Dic, Faber, cultros acuisse quis te
Did some rich man tyrannically use you ?

Egit? anne in te locuples tyrannus
Was it the 'squire ? or parson of the parish ?

Sæviit ? terræ dominus? sacerdos?
Or the attorney?

Causidicusve?
Was it the 'squire for killing of his game? or

Ob feras terræ dominus necatas ? Covelous parson for his tithes distraining?

Aut tenax poscens decumas sacerdos ?
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little

Lite vel rem causidicus maligne
All in a lawsuit?

Abstulit omnem ?
Have you not read the 'Rights of Man' by Tom Paine ? Nonne nosti Jura Hominum' Papi?
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,

Ecce! palpebris lacrymæ tremiscunt,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your

Inde casuræ simul explicâris
Pitiful story.

Tristia fata.
Knifegrinder.

Faber.
Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir ;

Fata-Dii magni! nihil est quod edam, Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,

Ni quod hesternâ ut biberem in popina
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were

Nocte lis orta ; heu! periere braccæ
Torn in a scuffle.

Atque galerus.

Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice ;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish

Stocks for a vagrant.
I should be glad to drink your honor's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part I never love to meddle

With politics, sir.

Friend of Humanity.
I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn'd first,
Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to ven-
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, [geance ;

Spirilless outcast.

Pacis occurrunt mihi tum ministri,
Meque Prætoris rapiunt ad aulam;
Prætor erronis properat numella

Figere plantas.
Jamque gaudebo tibi si propinem
Poculum, tete mihi dante nummum;
Me tamen stringo, neque, pro virili,

Publica curo.

Philanthropus.
An tibi nummum ? potius ruinam ;
Perdite, ulcisci mala tanta nolens;
Sordide, infelix, inhoneste, prave

Turpis et excors.

The next of Dr. Polyglott's productions, is a monkish version of a little song, in which the closeness of the translation, and the ingenuity of the versification, are conspicuous. YOUNG LADY.

DR. POLYGLOTT.

Child of Earth,
With the golden hair!
Thy soul is too pure,
And thy face too fair,
To dwell with creatures
Of mortal mould,
Whose lips are warm
As their hearts are cold.
Roam, Roam
To our fairy home.
Child of Earth,
With the golden hair!
Thou shall dance
With the Fairy Queen
O'summer nights
On the inoon-lit green,
To music murmuring
Sweeter far
Than ever was heard
'Neath the morning star,

Roam, roam, &c.

O Terræ puella,
Auricoma, bella,
Mens puraque, et ora
Te vetant decora
Incolere tribus
Mortalium, quibus
Sunt Verba fervoris
At corda rigoris.
Nubiscum vagare,
Fit domus in aere ;
O Terræ puella,
Auricoma, bella!
Sis pars chorearum
Cum summa nympharum
In nocte æstiva,
Sub Cynthia viva,
Dum Musica tales
Dat sonicus quales
Non quisquam audivit
Sub sole qui vivit.

Next comes Waller's Rose,-one of the most beautiful specimens of English poetry, which the Doctor pronounces to be the translation of a Latin poem by Watinstern, a professor of Humanity in the University of Leyden. The Latin translation is not worthy of the English original. It has some blemishes which ought to have been avoided. WALLER.

WATINSTERN.

I, Rosa, purpurei flos jocundissime prati,

Dic cui labe pari tempora meque terit,
Illius laudes tecum persæpe paranti,

Quam pulchra et duleis visa sit illa mihi.

Go, lovely Rose,
Tell her, that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her beauties spied,

That hadst thou sprung
In valleys where no men abide,
Thou might'st have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of Beauty from the light retired ;

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die; that she
The common fate of all things rare

Dic cui flore datur primo gaudere juventoe

Gratia quæ vero ne videatur avet;
Nescia foriè virum si te genuisset eremus,

Mortem tu laudis nescia passa fores.

Nil valet omninò lucem male passa venustas.

In lucem veniat protenus illa, jube.
Quam petit omnis amor virgo patiatur amorem,

Nee, cum miretur, quis stet in ore rubor.

Tum morere, ut rerum videat communia fata

Rararum, fato conscia facta tuo.

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Parte frui fas est quam parvâ temporis illis,

Queis tantum veneris tantaque forma datur.

May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wonderous bright and fair.

Yet though they fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise,

And teach the maid
That goodness Time's rude hand defies,
And virtue lives when beauty dies.

Sed quamvis moriare, tamen post fata peracta

Qui fuit ante tuis frondibus adsit odor.
Temnere sic discat Pietalem Temporis arma;

Vivere Virtutem cum mera Forma perit.

The five last lines are not Waller's. They were added by Kirke White, and though very pretty in themselves, they are altogether incongruous with the tone and character of Waller's lines. His are decidedly light and amatory, while Kirke White's are marked by his grave and moralizing temper.

Next we have a song of old Ben Jonson. “Rare Ben” cuts a figure in his Latin dress, but we think he is much more admirable in his Anglo-Saxon garb.

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Lastly, we bave an exquisite version of the good old Bacchanalian, “The Glasses sparkle on the
Board.” Dr. Polyglott says the Latin is an original production of Cæsius Bassus. It is hard to
say whether the English or Latin is most beautiful.
SONG: THE GLASSES SPARKLE.

CARMEN: AUCTORE Cesio Basso.

The glasses sparkle on the board,

The wine is ruby bright;
The reign of pleasure is restored,

Of ease and gay delight:
The day is gone, the night's our own;

Then let us feast the soul ;
Should any pain or care remain,

Why drown it in the bowl.

Eu! pocla mensis compositis micant ;
Vini refulget purpureus color ;
Regnant voluptates, feruntque

Gaudia deliciasque secum.
Invitat Euhæ! nox; absit dies;
Indulgeamus nunc genium mero,
Mergamus et curæ vel atri

Quod superest cyatho doloris.

Sunt qui gravari tristitia ferunt
Vitam; sed o! ne credite fabulam-
An Liber effundit dolorem ?

An Veneris lacrymas ocelli ?
Omnis Calonum copia desipit
Vinclis volentum stringere gaudia ;-
Si vita fert luctum, sodales,

Heus iterum ! cyatho lavemus.

This world they say's a world of woe ;

But that I do deny;
Can sorrow from the goblet flow?

Or pain from beauty's eye?
The wise are fools with all their rules,

Who would our joys control-
If life's a pain, I say't again,

Why drown it in the bowl.
That time flies fast the poet sings,

Then surely 'twould be wise
In rosy wine to dip his wings,

And eatch him as he flies.
This night is ours; then strew with flow'rs

The moments as they roll ;
If any pain or care remain,

Why drown it in the bowl.

Poeta labi quàm rapidè monet
Tempus; quid ergo, quid sapientius
Quàm spargere in pennis Falernum,

Cùmque movet celeres morari ?
Hæc nostra nox est ; nos quoque floribus
Spargemus horas usque volubiles ;
Mergemus et curæ vel atri

Quod superest cyatho doloris.

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