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I have just finished reading Emerson's great book,
“Nature.” What a well of thought it is! What a
wonderful man he is to write such wonderful things!
He is a metaphysical anatomist. He lays open the universe
to the soul's eye. He is one of those few writers
that put in words for us, our own unspoken thoughts,
those great thoughts that come upon us in the waking
hours of night, and in the still, holy hour of twilight.
How many thoughts that I never dreamt of uttering,
not dreaming they could be written in words, have I
been startled and pleased to find in this book! He
seems to comprehend the mystery of life, and teach us
what and for what we are. The questions which a child
asks, and which puzzle a philosopher to answer, this
philosopher answers with the simplicity of a child. He
delights us, because we feel that he has felt, and thought,
and wondered, as we have felt, and thought, and wondered!
His book must make its way to the hearts of
all who think; of all who look at the stars, and ponder
with awe and solemn curiosity thereupon; of all who
look downward into their own spirits, and meditate upon
the mystery they are!

Mr. Emerson calls the visible universe the scoria of
spirit! He says, that all spirit has a tendency to

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visibility—hence result the visible world, the heavens, and
the earth. A visible creature is the ultimatum of spirit.
The physical powers of Deity are visible in the grandeur
of creation—the moral were made visible in the person
of Jesus Christ, who was the “Godhead visible.” These
are wonderful sayings to think upon. They help vastly
towards unfolding the mighty thoughts that rush upon the
soul at times. Mr. Emerson's must delight all right
minds. The whole scope of his Christian philosophy,
however, I can not accept. He stops short of revelation,
and all true philosophy should point to the Christian
doctrine of the cross.

Ticknor's charming and elaborate work on Spanish
literature, I have just completed. How shall I express
my thanks to this laborious and elegant scholar, for the
delight and instruction I have been recipient of from its
pages! How little have the best Spanish students
known of Castilian literature! The educated world, both
sides of the sea, are under infinite obligations to Mr.
Ticknor for this book. The only fault I can find with
it, is the obscurity in which he has left the question
touching the authorship of that fascinating work, Gonsalvo
de Cordova. I have two books with this title, but
am at a loss to know which it is he describes, whether
the one commencing “Castas musas,” or another. But
one fault is a spot on the sun. I have no doubt Mr.
Ticknor's work will create a taste for Spanish literature.
There is none that surpasses it. The best of it is still
in MS., and some of it remains locked up in the Arabic
character. It is odd that the bulk of Spanish literature
should consist of comedies, when we reflect that the
Spaniards are the gravest people in Europe. The

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French, who are the lightest people, excel most in
tragedy! These facts need accounting for.

Last evening Isabel read to us one of Mrs. Lee Hentz's
finely conceived and gracefully penned stories. We
were all charmed with it, and the colonel, naughty man!
who thinks ladies are good for nothing but to stitch and
sew, play the guitar and piano, marveled “that a woman
could write so well.” He even goes so far in his prejudice
as to refuse to read a book written by a female!
Isabel read Madame de Stael's “Corinne” in French, to
him, lately, and he was as charmed with it as the authoress
could have desired. He would even forego his afternoon
nap and cigar after dinner, to come to the drawing-room
to listen. We have a conspiracy against him, and mean
he shall yet confess that books written by women are the
only books worth reading.

We are somewhat puzzled to know who wrote “Shirley,”
a man or woman! I am satisfied it is a woman.
It is a well told story, but does not deserve half the
praise that has been lavished upon it. Mrs. Ann S.
Stephens has more talent, and can write better than the
author of “Shirley.” If this book had been trimmed
of full one hundred and fifty pages of prosy verbiage,
the balance would have entitled it to a place by the side
of the “Vicar of Wakefield;” but as it is, it will not live
two years,—it will never become a library book. Poor
Goldsmith! What a pity he is not alive to enjoy the
sunshine of his posthumous popularity! Last week I
saw a copy of Shakespeare, superbly illustrated. It cost
$150. I sighed that “Witty Will” was not living to
read his own works in such splendid drapery. How
such things mock all human glory! Great men live and

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struggle, and toil, not for themselves, but for the future.
They die ignorant that they leave an imperishable name
on the earth. How few men have cotemporaneous
fame! Washington Irving, Bryant, and Tom Moore,
have it! and they say poor Moore has become imbecile.
I mentioned this to a young lady whom I heard singing
one of his songs.

“Is he?” she replied, in a half inquiring, half indifferent
tone, and went on with her song.

“Such,” thought I, “is immortality! Such is human
glory! A great man dies—a great poet becomes insane—
and the world says, `Is he?' and rolls on as
before!”

I have been for a couple of days past on a visit to a
neighboring estate. Upon it is a large, green, mound,
which the proprietor excavated for our entertainment.
The result was the dishumation of several beautiful vases
of lemon-colored clay, baked like porcelain; arrow heads,
beads, bones, amulets, and idols. One of the last
weighed seventy pounds, was the size of a boy six years
old, carved out of limestone. It was seated à la Turk,
and had a hideously ugly face. It, nevertheless, proves
that the Indians had notions of sculpture. It is precisely
like the pictures of such deities in Stephens' book
on Central America. It is to be sent to the celebrated
cabinet of Professor Troost, in Nashville, a collection
not surpassed in the Union. The doctor is a venerable
Dr. Franklin looking man, is an enthusiastic geologist,
and is polite to the ladies, especially the young and
beautiful, for though he has seen eighty-one years, he
can distinguish specimens in that way.

A young friend of ours, who lives not far distant, and

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is a frequent visitor at the Park, after paying a visit to
this cabinet, was seized with the cacoethes of geologizing.
He passed two weeks in the woods and hills, and wandering
along rivulets, till he loaded himself and two slaves
down with specimens. With them he made his way to
the presence of the worthy doctor, whom he intended
both to gratify and surprise with his rich donations to
science.

The venerable professor received him and his treasures
with his characteristic courtesy, and when he understood
that the specimens were destined to enrich the
cabinet, his fine old Franklin face brightened with delight.
I will describe the scene in our friend's own
words:

“The first rock he took out he glanced at, and tossed
it aside, with some indistinct sounds I could not understand.
I thought it was German. The next rock, which
I took to be a fine agate, he tossed away with the same
muttering. So he went on till he had thrown away a
dozen, each one with looks of increased disappointment
and unconcealed contempt.

“`What is that you say about them, doctor?' I asked.

“`Vater vorn—all vater vorn.'

“`Water worn? What is that?' I asked.

“`Worn smoot'; not'in' but bebbles. Dey goot for
not'in', if dey all de same!'

“`They are all the same,' I replied, chop-fallen.

“`Den dey all good for not'in'.'

“I told the boys to shovel them back into the bags,
and as I saw a shy twinkle in the professor's eye, I dissolved!”

Perhaps no state is so rich as Tennessee in geology.

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A bare inspection of this cabinet will show this. The
doctor has some rare diamonds and jewels, which he
takes great pleasure in showing to the ladies; and his
collection of polished stones will shame even the most
brilliant show-case of your much extolled Bailey & Co.
Among the curiosities is a bowie-knife wrought out
of a thunderbolt, (magnetic iron,) which fell in this
state.

The iron of this description is beautifully crystalized,
unlike any thing belonging to terrestrial geology. The
“water worn” specimen collector, above mentioned, was,
not a great while since, the subject of an amusing incident.
He has been for some time an admirer of a cousin
of Isabel's, a belle and a fortune: and it was settled they
were to marry. But one evening when he called, he
found her unaccountably distant and cold. She would
only answer him in monosyllables, and with scarcely an
opening in her lips. If he drew near her, she would
draw back; if he demanded an explanation, she replied
only by silence. At length he arose and left, and she
silently bowed him “good night” Unable to account
for such conduct, and wondering how he could have
offended her, he early next morning came riding at
spur-speed to the Park, to unfold his distress to his fair
friend, Isabel, and beg her intercession to heal the
breach.

He had hardly got through his story and received
Isabel's promise, before her cousin was announced. She
entered, arrayed in an elegant green riding costume,
with a snow white plume pending to her shoulder. She
looked earnest and anxious. But, seeing her lover, she
was about to smile and address him in a frank and

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usual manner, when his cold bow and haughty air chilled
her. She turned away, and, embracing her cousin,
walked through the folding doors into the farther room
with her. Here she told her how she had offended her
betrothed, and had ridden over to get her to explain
matters.

“You must know, Isabel, that the doctor prescribed
for my sick-headache, yesterday, six onions, cut fine,
eaten raw, with vinegar, pepper, and salt. Well, I followed
the prescription; and I assure you they were very
nice; and they cured my head. So I went into the
parlor to practice a new waltz, when, without my knowing
he was in the house, Harry entered the parlor. I
instantly remembered the horrid onions and felt like a
culprit! I would have fled, but it was too late. What
should I do? I had to remain and entertain him. But
mercy! I dared not open my mouth, lest my breath
should betray the fatal secret! So I monosyllabled him—
kept as far off from him as possible; and at last he
went off, his handsome eyes flashing like two stars.
Now you must go and tell him how it was, and make
it up.”

You may be sure, Mr. —, that with two willing
hearts the reconciliation was not long in being effected;
and the lovers rode away together perfectly happy.
Poor Harry! water-worn pebbles, and onions with vinegar
and pepper, are now his abhorrence!

I have half a mind to try my pen at a tale for you,
Mr. —. Mrs. Lee Hentz's beautiful stories have inspired
me with a desire to attempt something in the
same way. I feel diffident of my ability to adventure

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into the higher field of literature—but I can try. If it
will not pass “the ordeal of your critic's eye,” you have
only to call it “water worn;” and throw it away with
other pebbles.