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entire length of the hotel, from which the residents, in
their turn, watch the approaching carriage or cavalcade,
as it occasionally appears among the masses of foliage
that for the most part obstruct the view. Arriving,
you experience a most gentlemanly and cordial recep-
tion from the very polite host, who accommodates his
guests to the extent of his house, in the first place, and
afterwards fills up in succession the several rows of
wooden and brick cabins, that are built in different
parts of his grounds,-being files of small. sleeping
rooms, about eight feet high, and as many wide. The
table is of the very best description, far surpassing, I
am forewarned, any thing to be obtained farther on.
A little below the house is the Bath; being a wooden
shed, covering a basin five feet in depth, and nearly
forty feet wide. The water is perfectly pellucid, and
constantly flows off as it attains the depth described.
This water is about 98 degrees above Fahrenheit, and
is not affected by the weather. The whole lot of
ground in the centre of which this pool rises, is filled
with these little bubbling springs, and an area of many
similar diameters could be easily formed, if desired, on
the spot. At present, the bath is covered by a miserable
hovel. It should be replaced by one of granite or
marble; and doubtless some such improvement will
occur to its enterprising proprietor as proper to be
bestowed upon it. I believe one of his neighbors, who
claims a right to share the waters with him, as property
under a pretended grant from the vender of the land
to certain common purchasers, is talking somewhat
sharply just now, about an intended suit to recover his
alleged share. When that question is decided, if in
favor of the new claimant, competition will secure
improvements;—if against the suit-John Fry is the
very man (all obstacles removed,) to "go ahead!"

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July 23.

A party from the Warm Springs, made the ascent of the mountain in front of our hotel, this morning, prior to our intended departure. The morning was very fine, and promising of much pleasure to the adventurers. Providing ourselves with all the conveyances the neighborhood afforded, including carriages, which could go but half way, and horses, the most sure footed of which could ascend to the summit, we set out after breakfast time, and in a couple of hours attained the Warm Spring Rock, from which a view was presented to our admiring eyes that baffles description. We stood on an elevated rock on the highest peak of the centre Alleghany ridge, the horizon on every hand formed by the blue outline of the distant mountains, hills on hills arising from the base of that on which we were, covered densely with masses of deep rich foliage, excepting in those scattered spots where cultivation was claiming from nature a field for the trial of her skill. The waving cornfields, the ripening grain, "yellow to the harvest," the shepherd driving his sheep afield, the busy activity of the little village arourd the spring, were among the features of the scene. The filling up and the coloring must be described by nature herself; words are inadequate to do them justice. After a visit of more than an hour to the Spring Rock, we turned our faces homewards, and, arriving at the dinner hour, were duly complimented by our merry landlord upon the imposing display made by our cavalcade upon the mountain's brow.

The rock we have just left is the scene, (so goes report,) of a most romantic love adventure, the details of which, at length, would be doubtless delectable to some lady readers, inasmuch as they are literally true and well authenticated. I am no weaver of love tales, how. 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 bath for the strong and healthy,—and by such may be used daily through the year, a half hour or more at a time. It is useful in chronic and acute rheumatism, dropsy, and in some complaints of the liver. Yet it is not uniformly efficient in cases seemingly alike. It must be taken carefully and under medical advice, by invalids. An analysis of this water shows it to consist of carbonate of lime, sulphate of iron, and sulphate of magnesia.

of manhood,-the sympathy of fond hearts, declarations, troth-plights, and happy consummation. These hints I leave for the filling-up of any of my readers who may fancy to figure in a "Romance of Real Life,” in the pages of some Ladies' Magazine.

Another anecdote of the bravery of a southern belle, who boasts of doing many things that no woman ever did before, is related here in connection with the Warm Spring Mountain-rock. Some say it is the above story, 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 a perfect cure, to others it will begin a good work to be finished by future carefulness and attention, and to all, the luxury of travelling in a most delightful country, a sojourn in a pleasant valley, unsurpassed in loveliness by that inherited by Rasselas himself, and a constant access to waters that seem to rival those fabled streams, in which to bathe was to banish all pain, to remove all sorrow, and to renew the vigor and freshness of buoyant youth.

ascended, en cheval, to the rock that rises out of the peak of the mountain: and attaining this eminence, there stood upon the saddle of her horse, and challenged her cavalier to transcend that feat: on which he instantly stood upon his head on the saddle of his horse. The lady declared herself defeated, and gave the gymnast her fair hand as his reward. I prefer the former version: but this last is quite current here, nevertheless.

I leave this delightful spot, with a party, to-morrow 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

1338.-[Author.

them until my return.

VOL. IV.-26

TO MY MOTHER.

Written on Christmas morning, 1937, at Ballston Spa, N. Y.

Wake, mother! wake to youthful glee!
The golden light is dawning.
Wake, mother, wake! and hail with me

This happy Christmas morning!

Each eye is bright with pleasure's glow,

Each lip is laughing merrily;

A smile hath passed o'er winter's brow,

And the very snow looks cheerily! Hark to the voice of the "wakened day!” To the sleigh-bells gaily ringing; While a thousand thousand happy hearts Their Christmas lays are singing!

'Tis a joyous hour of mirth and love,

And my heart is overflowing;

Come, we will raise our hearts above,

While pure, and fresh, and glowing!

'Tis the happiest day of the rolling year,
But it comes in a robe of mourning;
Nor light, nor life, nor bloom is here,
Its icy shroud adorning!

It comes when all around is dark;

'Tis meet it should so be,

For its joy is the joy of the happy heart, The spirit's jubilee!

It needeth not the bloom of Spring,

Or Summer light and gladness,

For Love hath spread his blooming wing

O'er Winter's brow of sadness!

Twas thus HE came! a Spirit cloud

His Spirit's light concealing! No crown of earth, no kingly robe

His Heavenly power revealing. His soul was love, his mission love, Its aim a world's redeeming ! To raise its darkened soul above

Its wild and sinful dreaming!

With all his Father's love and power,
The cords of guilt to sever,
To ope a sacred fount of light,

Which flows-shall flow forever!
Then we will hail the glorious day,
The Spirit's new creation!
And pour our grateful feelings forth,
A pure, and warm libation!
Wake, mother! wake to chastened joy,
The golden light is dawning!
Wake, mother! wake, and hail with me,
This happy Christmas morning!

De Saussay wrote a folio volume consisting of panegyrics of eminent persons named Andrew-merely because his own name was Andrew.

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It was night-the storm howled sadly by-and the mother sat in silence by the scanty fire, that warmed and faintly lighted the wretched, dilapidated cottage, once, in brighter days, her happy home! She had divided to her ragged and starving babes the little pittance of bread remaining to her, yet scarcely sufficing to satisfy the mad cravings of hunger! Little thought they that they claimed their mother's all: yet freely was it given, with a silent tear that it was all! She hushed their cries-soothed their sorrows-covered them with her tattered mantle-bade them a sad ‘good-night”—and returned to her sorrowful vigil.

The night wore away,-and still sat the mother over the fading fire she could not replenish, waiting the coming of him whose returning footsteps once caused a thrill of joy through her bosom, and was hailed with boisterous glee by his little ones. Once, he promised at the altar to love and cherish her, and nobly, awhile, did he redeem the pledge. His cottage was the home of comfort, and his wife and infants divided his love! But ah! how changed! He had become a Drunkard! His business was neglected-his home was desertedand his late return was but the harbinger of woe! He came to curse the innocent partner of his misery as the author of his wretchedness, and his frightened children shrunk away from him, screaming, as from a fiend! Where waits he now? The shadows of night have long darkened the landscape! What delays his return?-Alas! the low haunt which has nightly witnessed the shameful revel, now echoes to his frantic shout! Surrounded by boon companions, he seeks to drown the memory of his sorrows in the bowl: while his wretched, starving, squalid wife still keeps her lonely vigil by her cheerless hearth!

Stillness-solemn stillness, like the grave's, reigns in that dreary habitation: and no sound is heard, save when the fitful sighing of the wintry blast, or the low murmur of her dreaming infants, rouses the watcher from her trance. Then she raises her aching eyes to the dim dial, and with a glance to Heaven, turns to her lonely watch again. But now "the tempest of her feelings has grown too fierce to be repressed"-her bosom heaves with the wild emotions of her soul-and her thin hands seem endeavoring to force back the bursting torrent of her tears!

*

The clock struck the hour of midnight-and he came as wont! With a fearful oath, he 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 the jail, the almshouse, and the grave-and they will tell you!

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 professes 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 χρηστά

where 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 "I'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.

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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.

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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.

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

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.

Dic cui flore datur primo gaudere juvento Gratia quæ vero ne videatur avet; Nescia fortè 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.

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.

Parte frui fas est quam parvâ temporis illis,
Queis tantum veneris tantaque forma datur.

Sed quamvis moriare, tamen post fata peracta
Qui fuit ante tuis frondibus adsit odor.
Temnere sic discat Pietatem 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.

SONG: BY BEN JONSON.

Take, oh take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seals in vain.

Hide, ob hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears;
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears;
But first set my poor heart free,

Bound in these icy chains by thee.

CARMEN: AUCTORE JOANNE SECUNDO HAGENSI.

Hinc ista, hinc procul amove labella,
Que tam dulcè fuere perjurata;
Auroræ et radiis pares ocellos,
Luces mane novum e viâ trahentes.
At refer mihi basia huc, sigilla,
Frustra impressa tamen, sigilla, amoris.

Oh! cela nivis ista colla, cela,
Ornant quæ gremium tibi gelatum;
Quorum in culminibus rosa vigentes

Sunt quales referunt Aprilis horæ ;
At primùm mea corda liberato,
His a te gelidis ligata vinclis.

Lastly, we have an exquisite version of the good old Bacchanalian, "The Glasses sparkle on the Board." Dr. Polyglott says the Latin is an original production of Cosius Bassus. It is hard to say whether the English or Latin is most beautiful.

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