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play of the furniture of his mind, and relying on the thought of others, and not daring to think for himself, he shall add nothing to the stock of human knowledgeresembling altogether a cistern, but by no means a spring.



[Gazette. Lynchburg.]

"Dust shall return to the dust as it was, and the soul to God who gave it."

"Behind a frowning providence,
"He hides a smiling face."

DEPARTED this life early on Friday night last, BARTHOEMEW CURTIS, at between seventy and eighty years of age. The history of this humble but extraordinary man, is so very remarkable, and the circumstances attending his dissolution were so unprecedentedly shocking that the writer, to whom he was for many years well known, cannot refrain from communicating a hasty though sincere tribute to the memory of the deceased.

It was the unhappy lot of Bartholomew Curtis to be born both deaf and dumb, and thus to labour under a privation of two of the most important senses belonging to the mere external frame of a human being. This, however, did not at all affect the innate vigour and intelligence of his mind, that nobler and etherial part of man. Every intellectual faculty seemed to have been lavished, as it were, upon him, in remuneration of the melancholy defects, to which it pleased an overruling Providence to subject him from his birth. Every feature in his countenance was replete with expression; in his action and gesture too, there was an eloquence singularly intelligible and far more powerful than the ordinary language of those who are blessed with all the organs of external sense At the dawn of the revolutionary war, Bartholomew Curtis glowed with such fervent zeal in the cause of liberty, and besides afforded such wonderful indications of sound and mature intellect, that the regular army could not resist his importunate demands for employinent in its lines. Being finally admitted into the service, his competency as a soldier was soon proved to the amazement and admiration of every body; for

he fought through the long and appalling scenes of the revolution, with a patience of mind and an intrepidity of spirit unsurpassed by any of his companions in arms. There are now in this neighbourhood several surviving soldiers of the same memorable conflict, who can testify to his admirable conduct in the battles of Brandywine and Germantown, to the North, and that of Guilford Court House, to the South. Stricken with years, a welcome and privileged guest at every house where he was personally known, it at last pleased Almighty God to snatch this interesting and venerable man from time to the eternal world, in a manner equally sudden and heartrending. The old man, after going to several places in the neighbourhood in his usual unceremonious way, sojourned on last Friday night, at the house of Mrs. Selah Ann Estess, in this county. He was lighted to bed, in the upper story of the house, as soon as feeble nature called for repose. Alas! about ten o'clock, after the deceased and every other member had sunk into profound sleep, the mansion of their rest was suddenly and by accident wrapped in the flames of a desolating fire, from which Bartholomew Curtis never escaped. The other persons providentially saved their lives; but the fire consumed every thing within its range. The subject of this obituary was entirely burnt up, with the exception of his bones, that remained, bleaching amidst the awful ruins, to the dawning sun of the next morning. Thus perished Bartholomew Curtis-a deaf and dumb soldier of the revolution, equally pitied for his lamentable defects, admired for his peculiar powers of mind, and venerated for his faithful services in the war that founded the independence of his native land. Let the philan thropist and the patriot re-echo the benign sentiment of the good old lady in whose dwelling he perished. "If," said she," poor Thall could only have been saved from the flames, I should not regard my own losses, great as they are." Let the whole christian community too, cherish the pious, consolatory hope, that "Heaven has raised high its portals" for the reception of the deceased, and that his spirit has been welcomed into the mansions of eternal felicity,


[Courier. Charleston.]

THERE are rapids in Love, but they fail as they flow,
Thus pleasure inhabits the borders of wo;
And the tears of their union, though sun-beams illume,
They meet in the rainbow, and part in the gloom.

There are rapids in Love, but they must be passed o'er,
By those who would not be confined to the shore ;
For danger has charms, when it points to delight,
And morning is lovely, for following night.

Let us risk the descent, our barques shall combine,
Our hopes and our hearts shall together incline;
Love beckons us on, to the perilous wave,
One moment shall ruin us both, or shall save.
Protect us! ye stars of the fond and the true,
The dangers of lovers are sacred to you ;
The rapids are over-surviving secure,
In the sea of delight our barques we will moor.

[From the same.]

LOVE went into the Capuchin Church,
But soon came out again;

For after all his eager search,

He saw there only men.

Oh church of grief! Oh shrine of tears!
Where woman has no place-

To lift her snow-white soul in prayers,
And sweetly sue for grace.

There cannot be for man a heaven,
And not for woman too;
For woman to the earth was given,
To bless it, and renew.

In virgin forms do saints abide,
In virgin voices pray;
And all upon the earth beside,
Is worthless, lovely clay,

[From the same.]

LOVE went out to see the race :
I marvel if there be a place
Where Love goes not; unless it be
Some place unknown to you and me.

Love did not in a sulky go,—
The surly equipage of wo;
Nor rode he in a coach and four,
By vulgar eyes gazed o'er and o'er :

Nor travel'd like the common throng,
Who mutter as they trudge along ;
Nor like the dandy, turning round,
To look contemptuous on the ground.

Part of the ceiling of the sky
Happening to fall when Love was nigh,
He made of it an azure car,

And placed on either side a star.

His chariot open'd from above,

For Love sees heaven, and heaven sees Love > But when a tete-a-tete he chose,

Love bade it like a violet close.

He harness'd Hope and young Desire,
And, lest the generous steeds should tire,
With kisses he supplied their fare,
And baited them with capillaire.

Love's wheels were of the sandal tree,
Sweet circles of perfumery ;

Each spoke entwin'd with jessamine flowers,
Like Love's sweet dial of the hours.

Dreams curtain'd little Love around,
And Zephyrs played, and Pleasures crowned.
The seats were myrtle-only three-
For Love himself, for you and me.

Love marvelled, when the race was o'er,
How short the conflict did endure ;
He turned contemptuous from the sight,
And plumed his wings with self-delight.

66 Why, we, ourselves, can better do ;"
So said Love, to me and you:
There's not a steed beneath the sun,
That Love in rapture can't outrun.


METHINKS, said Love, as I went to the race,
I'll go to the ball, where each smiling Grace,
Like a band of sylphs, in their mystic round,
Will lightly dance to the music's sound.

I'll wear me a sash of the violet's hue,
As bright as a hare-bell, bathed in dew,
And I'll go as a harper, and get from P.*
His tuneful lyre of minstrelsy.

And I'll sweep its melodious silver string,
That rival beauty and youth may bring
A chaplet of bays for his brow, that he
May remember them, when he thinks of me.
So said Love-and away he flew,
For P's gold harp; for full well he knew,
That the muses had destin'd his hand to bear
To their favoured bard, a gift so fair.



[From the same.]

WAKE him not-he dreams of bliss,
His little lips put forth to kiss ;
His arms entwined in virgin grace,
Seem linked in beautiful embrace.
He smiles, and on his opening lip
Might saints refresh and angels sip :
He blushes-'tis the rosy light,
That morning wears on leaving night.
He sighs-'tis not the sigh of wo,
He only sighs that he may know,
If kindred sighs another move,
For mutual sighs are signs of love.
He speaks-it it his dear one's name→
He whispers still it is the same-
The imprisoned accents strive in vain,
They murmur through his lips again.
He wakes the silly little boy,
To break the mirror thus of joy!
He wakes to sorrow, and in pain→
Oh Love renew thy dreams again.

[Erom the same.]

LOVE wrote a billet-what do you think
Was Love's paper, pen and ink?
Not such things as mortals use;
Ink of sable, quill of goose,
Pewter stand, and paper wove
Out of rags, won't do for Love.

* Dr. James Percival.

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