Tom Manning into a state of entire subjection to sentiment; and, by the end of that time, Miss Caroline having begun to despond in her matrimonial views, and having quite a passion for the "best society" was ready to bestow herself, and her sung fortune, upon any respectable person, who like Tom Manning, was well received at Cotsworth. A not very old number of the C-Gazette contains the following amongst its marriage-notices. "At the Cowpens, by the Rev. John Tyem, Thomas Manning, Esq., to Miss Caroline, eldest daughter of the late Simon Grimshaw, Esq., all of this county." The cheerful editor, acknowledging, in an appended paragraph, a present of wedding cake, ventures upon certain lively confidences concerning the married life of the interesting couple. I join the editor in his good wishes for the future of worthy Tom Manning; and sincerely trust that so able-bodied a lady, as Mrs. Manning, may find it possible to moderate Tom's attachment to his bottle. I think that I have heard something, already, of such a result. SCRAPS FROM A PORT-FOLIO. No. II. OCEAN HYMN,-BY MRS. WILLARD. Rocked in the cradle of the deep, For thou my God hast power to save; And such the trust that still were mine, And sweet and peaceful is my sleep, The few we liked, the one we loved A sacred band! come stealing on, And many a form, far hence removed, And many a pleasure gone. Friendships, that in death are hushed, And young affection's broken chain, And hopes, that fate too quickly crushedIn memory live again. Few watch the fading gleams of day, But muse on hopes as quickly flown, Tint after tint-they died away, Till all, at last, were gone. This is the hour, when fancy wreathes Her spells, round joys, that could not last; This is the hour when memory breathes A sigh, to pleasures past. THE HILLS OF DAN. The world is not one garden scene, One pleasure-ground for man, Few are the spots that intervene, Such as the Hills of Dan. Though fairer prospects greet mine eyes, Yet I am bound by stronger ties, The breezes that around them play, There too the friends of early days, Ye saw the twilight of my dawn, And ye shall see that light withdrawn, Whatever fortune may ensue, In life's short changeful span, The love that warms this youthful breast, THE EVENING HOUR,-BY MRS. C. B. WILSON. This is the hour when memory wakes Visions of joy that could not last; This is the hour when fancy takes A survey of the past. She brings before the pensive mind, The hallowed scenes of earlier years, And friends, who long have been consigned To silence, and to tears. ODE ON DEATH,-BY LEWIS LITTLEPAGE, OF VA Why should Death's tremendous name No mortal here is truly blest, The transient joys of earth are vain, Bliss and Pain Alternate reign, And sway by turns the human breast. O what is Empire's glittering show! Ambitions empty fame And pageant pomp proclaim, All, all is vanity below. Where is great Alexander? Where And prostrate kings before him bow? Friendless on a foreign land, In the cold arms of Death must lie Health decays and Beauty dies, But O, the voice of reason cries, A MOONLIGHT SCENE, FROM CHURCH HILL. Was there ever a lovelier scene spread out to mortal gaze, than that which is presented to the eye of the beholder, on a soft, moonlit night, from Church Hill, in the City of Richmond? Standing upon the brow of the hill, west of the Old Church, there is a picture sketched before you that cannot fail to fascinate the lover of the rich, the varied and the beautiful in landscape painting. Looking westward, the most prominent object that attracts attention is the Capitol, which is seen lifting its majestic form above the green foliage that gently undulates around it. The white walls gleam amid the dark shade trees, that crown, like a diadem of royalty, the eminence on which the Capitol stands. Just beyond, the tall, sky-pointing spire of St. Paul's is seen piercing the heavens, and standing out above surrounding objects, like a lone, but faithful sentinel, keeping watch, while the whole camp besides is sweetly sleeping. Still further on, and a little to the left, the four pinnacles which surmount the graceful tower of the Second Presbyterian Church are seen shooting upwards. Still on, far away upon the City's verge, a concentrated speck of moonlight glitters upon the rounded dome-like summit of the building that overarches the entrance to the gloomy walls of the penitentiary. And yet still on, and to the left, the green islands, the dark rocks, and the sparkling waters of the quiet James, attract the eye; while the canal lies along the broken hillside, like a great serpent,-its shining coils marking out its sinuous course along the stream. What a picture is here! From the base of the hill at your feet, stretching far away into the gathering gloom, thousands of houses present their roofs and walls, which, together with the patches of shrubbery, the public Squares, the rows of shade trees, all rising and falling with the uneven surface on which the City stands, produce a most happy effect. There a window-glass is gilded with the reflected light of a full moon-there another is sunk in darkness from the deep shadow of an adjacent building; yonder a gentle undulation swells up in a graceful curve, and there an abrupt steep meets the eye; in one place the white cottage-like dwelling peeps out from surrounding trees, in another the magnificent mansion overhangs the precipitous cliff; there is a church steeple, and yonder | a prison wall; and, amid all, in every direction, thousands of lights gleam from the windows of the gilded saloon, and from the sanctuary of religious worship; from the house of revelry and mirth, and from the lonely apartment where moments of anguish are measured by the pulsations of an aching heart; from the home of luxury and pleasure, where * fair fingers sweep the golden harp-strings, and at which the river is revealed by the moonlightfrom the abodes of poverty, where the needle is scarce a sound is upon the night winds as they assiduously plied to save fatherless children from creep up the hill sides and stir your hair, save the starvation. This picture, on which we gaze, has far-wandering note from a serenader's flute, or an its lights and shadows; and yet the variety gives occasional footfall upon the pavement below. The interest to the view. Turning around last echo of the midnight bell has died upon the you are struck with the antique looking tower of ear: a fleecy mass of cloud, momentarily conceals the old church that is seen rising above the tufted the face of the "melancholy orb," and the curtain tops of a rich, green clump of trees that cluster is drawn over the scene that enchants the eyearound the ancient fane, and half embosom it in their soft embrace. Silence has folded her downy wing over that old grave yard. The funereal trees-the shrubbery and flowers that adorn this sacred and solemn spot, present a strong contrast with the white monuments, and tombstones nestling amid the roses and wild vines that weave a festoon to decorate this last resting-place of the dead. How sweetly the moonlight rests upon the thick, bushy boughs of that wide-branching tree! How quiet the tower on that time-honored church! “ All things are calm, and fair and passive. Earth We look down again towards the City. Southward we turn our eyes. Below us the whole of Franklin Street is marked out, from the foot of the hill at its eastern termination to where it ends abruptly at the Capitol Square. All along its course the deep shadows of the shade-trees chequer the side walks with alternate light and darkness. And now--for the night wears away, and the bell is tolling the hour of twelve--we must take our last look upon this enchanting scene. Look beyond the river--Manchester seems a sweet, smiling village, embowered in trees, and lapped in a beautiful valley. And then to the left, you look upon that well-tilled farm which stretches away from the river's bank to the dim outline of forest that skirts the horizon, and seems to blend with the drooping, darkening sky. And then that river-the Powhatan of Indian memory! Time was when the bark canoe of the tall red man shot like an arrow across its waters, Time was when the yell of the savage echoed along its lonely shore. But now, there it flows, bearing upon its bosom the commerce of a flourishing State. The broad, rounded full moon hangs just over the stream, while a quivering thread of brilliant light dances, and shimmers along the surface of the tide. Yonder it is obstructed by a passing sail that flutters in the unsteady breeze, there by a fisherman's boat, and here by the flaunting of our country's flag, as it rustles from the mast-head at Rocketts. On either side the river is indented by the overhanging forest that runs up in a bluff to the stream, or by the dense clusters of willows that fringe its tortuous banks. The eye is fixed for a moment upon the most distant point' "I would I were like thee, thou little cloud, I cannot think but that some senseless things Richmond, June, 1848. SOUVENIR. J. E. E. (Translated from the French of Lamartine.) Vainly the days still onward roll, As years crowd on, their space seems brief My brow Time's hoary hand has press'd, Thy radiant image reigns supreme Deep in my heart it lies, No! thou hast never left my sight Then seem'st thou as on that last day, Thy beauty's pure and touching light In Heaven shines still the same; Still Zephyrs breath, thy long dark hair, Thy form thus wrapp'd in shadowy veil, Like mists which shrond the morning pale The glorious sun, celestial flame! 'Tis thee I see, 'tis thee I hear, In clouds in deserts lone; Oft while the earth sleeps peacefully, Then in each star thou seem'st to be When Zephyr wings from flowers, and I I think that I inhale thy sigh 'Mid those which sweetest bloom. When lone and desolate I stand Beside the healing shrine Thou watchest when sleep casts its shade, Soft light from thee my dreams pervade, And should while slumber seals mine eye Like blended rays at morn that shine POTATOES AND PROPHECY. MR. EDITOR,-I have just seen in an "old magazine" a very curious speculation which looks like prophecy. As you take an interest in such matters, I venture to send it to you. To peer into the future has always been regarded as among the "things forbidden" to mortals, and Milton represents the fallen angels, who remained in Pandemonium, after the Arch Fiend set forth on his journey to the Earth, as reasoning among themselves more Allan M'Aulays in real life than in fiction. ""Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, But I am forgetting the passage with which I started out. In Blackwood's Magazine for November 1819, the following remarkable paragraph may be found, in an article entitled "De Foe on Apparitions." The writer after speaking of the days of chivalry, when "gentlemen set down to rest themselves, under about two cwt. of iron," says, "Neither were there potatoes in those daysand, without that vegetable, say, what were a dinner? "A world without a sun." From the very bottom of our souls do we pity our ancestors. There is no philosophy in saying, that the universal love of the potato, did the potato itself create. That love must have pre-existed in the elements of our nature. just as the desire of Eve pre-existed for Adam, and was only called forth into action by that accomplished female. There must, therefore, have been, ever since the arrival of the Saxons in this island, unknown, at least understood, by our forefathers, "A craving void left aching at their hearts." A void which, within these last hundred years, has been filled up, so that little seems now to be wanting, under our free government, to the perfection of our social and domestic happiness. It would be a curious inquiry to show the effects of this vegetable on the moral, intellectual, and physical character of the people of a sister kingdom; and on some future occasion we hope to sift this subject to the bottom. There can be no doubt, that the sudden extinction of the potato in Ireland would be as fine a subject for a poem from the pen of Lord Byron, as the sudden extinction of light, some of the evils of which imaginary event his Lordship has, with his usual vigor, delineated in that composition entitled, " Darkness." Not to go too much into particulars, we just remark, that bulls are in Ireland fed chiefly on potatoes, and that those fine animals would be in danger of becoming extinct with the root on which they now grow to such prodigious size." "The extinction of the potato in Ireland!" Alas, could this joking prophet have foreseen the long train of attendant horrors which were des"Of Providence, fore knowledge, will and fate, tined to follow in sad procession this very event, he Fix'd fate, free-will, fore knowledge absolute." might indeed consider it a proper subject for the Still Superstition has aforetime often credited the pen of Lord Byron. The tory magazine is still vaticinations of the astrologer and the incoherent published, its fame has filled the world--perhaps ravings of "second sight." There have been the writer of the article is himself yet upon the stage. If so, he will surely agree with me that] "Morn came and went-and came, and brought no food, Were chilled into a selfish prayer for-bread." Alas, how singularly and fearfully has this casual prediction been verified! B. TO SUSAN. BY W. GARDNER BLACKWOOD. Maiden, in the spring of life, Thine are life's May-flowers; Affection's flowers strew thy path, In heav'n-sent dreams awake thy mind Enjoy youth's cloudless morn, that breaks And in its fleshly urn, sweet dreams I would Fate's mystic pow'r were mine, The stars above, that brightly shine O'er darkness' empire vast, The beauteous stars thy type should be: To know the sphere's sweet harmony, Charleston, S. C. Notices of New Works. NEW BOOKS.-Harper & Brothers have issued three new works combining the utile and the dulce most appropriately for summer reading;-the former in the shape of a revised edition of Dr. Beck's Botany-and the latter in that of a most attractive novel and spirited book of travelsWyndham," and "Loiterings in Europe," by a very intelAngela." by the justly admired author of "Emilia ligent physician just returned from abroad. We commend them cordially to tourists and rusticating gentry as exactly the thing to beguile instructively the time under a tree or on board a steam-boat; and worthy afterwards of a niche in the library. One of the most graceful juveniles we have seen for a long time is the "Danish Story Book," by Hans Andersen, published by C. S. Francis & Co., of New York, D. Appleton & Co., have very seasonably issued a band. some reprint of " Lamartine's Pilgrimage in the Holy Land," which, independent of its intrinsic merit, gives us a delightful insight into the character of the poet who has been recently so nobly developed as a man of action. Headley's Life of Cromwell has also just appeared from the press of Baker & Scribner. It contains passages of vivid narra tion; but we cannot agree with the author in his estimate of the Protector. It is altogether too eulogistic. Carey & Hart have supplied a desideratum in putting forth a neat but economical edition of Bryant's Poems. SIR THEODORE BROUGHTON, or Laurel Water. By G.P. R. James, Esq. New York. Harper & Brothers. 1848. We believe that a judicious economy of labor would teach the critic to await the publication of three or four works of Mr. James, and despatch them all with a single notice. With this view we have deferred our remarks on the volume be fore us, until the present time. The last month, however, has passed away, mirabile dictu, without the appearance of his usual novel, and we must therefore no longer delay pay. ing our regards to Sir Theodore Broughton. The incident on which the story is founded is the death of Sir Theodosius Edward Allesly Boughton, in the year 1781, under suspicion of poison, from the hands of his brother-in-law Capt. Donellan, who was found guilty of the murder and executed at Warwick. We recollect reading the minute account of the trial of Capt. Donellan, which is preserved, with strong convictions that the accused was condemned upon insufficient evidence. The tragical end of a young nobleman in the morning of life, the searching examinations of counsel, the appearance in the witness. box of so distinguished a man as Dr. John Hunter-all conspired to invest this trial with a remarkable interest. We do not wonder therefore that Mr. James has chosen the incident for the basis of a fiction. In his preface, he begs it to be understood that his personations are not designed as accurate portraitures of the real characters-a precaution which is proper enough, when we consider that there are relatives of all the parties, still residing in England. We cannot give anything like a synopsis of the plot of this story and must therefore merely say, that the hero 18 not the nobleman, but a highwayman of the Clifford school, one Colonel Lutwich, who, falling in love with a lovely young girl, is made to forsake his evil courses through ber gentle influence, and become in the last chapter an honest and happy bridegroom. Before this satisfactory result is attained, a variety of malaventures are experienced. The heroine has been the object of Sir Theodore Broughton' |