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THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu'au gré des vents.
                                      _Crebillon's Electre_.

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


RICHMOND:
T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR.
1834-5.




SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. I.]  RICHMOND, APRIL 1835.  [NO. 8.

T. W. WHITE, PRINTER AND PROPRIETOR.  FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.




We regret that from the late period at which the sixth number of
"Sketches of the History of Tripoli" was received, it has been
impossible to present it to our readers this month. It will appear in
our next.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INFLUENCE OF FREE GOVERNMENT ON THE MIND.


Human society, from the nature of its formation, is governed in all
its multifarious movements, however majestic or delicate, by mind.
There are no changes, nor revolutions in society, that do not
acknowledge its influence. It is the all-pervading, all-exciting cause
of human action. Its power on the social system is similar to that of
gravitation in regulating the magnificent and rolling orbs of space;
the great centre of attraction, holding together and preserving in
harmonious order the thousand relations of life. Physical force, which
to the superficial eye appears to have swayed the destinies of mankind
in all ages of the world, will be found on examination to be only a
mean, enabling it to wield with greater skill and force the sceptre of
its power. The conquering legions of Cæsar or Bonaparte would have
been a useless pageant, deprived of this active, governing principle.
This exciting principle of society reaches its maturity and power by
gradual developement. In the first stages of civilization its strength
is that of an infant, afterwards that of a giant; and the spheres of
its action are as various as its powers. We behold it soaring on the
shining wings of imagination to the fields of fiction; calm,
comprehensive, searching in philosophy and science; animated and
exalted on the noble theatre of eloquence; pure and humble in the holy
aspirations of religion. Such being the nature of mind, we are led to
the irresistible inference, that the state of communities or nations
will be low or elevated in proportion to its neglect or cultivation.
The conceptions of mind form the mirror of national character. If
there be a want of mental cultivation, as a consequent, the numerous
attractions which hold in harmony and union the relations of society
will be destroyed; and general darkness and misery prevail. On the
contrary, if there be an expansion of mind, these ties so necessary,
so sacred, will receive new strength; and a universal joy, and beauty,
and brightness, pervade the whole social compact.

Many and various causes tend to the development of mind. It varies in
every nation and under every form of government. We read of the
majestic melancholy, the lofty passion, the stern intellect of the
_North_; of the mental effeminacy, of the exuberant fancy, beneath the
sunny skies and amid the olive groves of the _South_. We read of the
effects, natural advantages and impediments; how inaccessible barriers
may raise their Alpine heads, and prevent the light of one nation from
beaming on another; thus destroying the interchange of kindred
thoughts and obstructing the growth of mind; how nature's works, her
forests, rivers, lakes, groves, and water-falls in their original
grandeur and sublimity; how art's works, shining in their new
splendor, or fallen from their primitive state, cities and towers
lying in the crumbling embrace of time, stir up the sympathies,
enliven the emotions, and arouse the imagination to high exertion; how
the resources of the earth, her rich mines, her quarries of marble,
stimulate the spirit of improvement in the arts and sciences. We read
too, how the mind wastes away under the influence of despotic
institutions, and how ignorance reigns shining in purple and gold;
lastly, how the mind attains its full developement, and is ever active
in its native strength, and power, and greatness, under the pacific
and stirring effect of free principles. Each of these causes which may
advance or retard the growth of mind, afford themes worthy of
investigation. That of the influence of free institutions, having a
bearing on the destinies of American mind, we have selected as the
subject of this essay.

A ceaseless activity is the original characteristic of all material
creation. All matter, whether on the surface, or in the centre of the
earth, is imperceptibly undergoing a continuous change. To-day, we
gaze with delighted eye on the loveliness and grandeur of nature, lit
up by the smile of heaven; to-morrow, they have passed away. We only
look upon a clear blue sky, to behold it the next moment hung with
dark and angry clouds. The sun and the moon ever pursue their same
eternal tireless course. Nature has likewise created an undying active
spirit in the mental world. Activity is the earliest intellectual
developement. The many imperious duties, connected with the stupendous
relations which the individual members of society sustain to each
other, prove that the mind was destined for action. The different
natures, and the beautiful adaptations of the intellectual powers,
prove it. Their native elasticity, their quick excitability, prove it.
Curiosity, that key which unlocks the sanctuaries of knowledge, is
seen from the days of childhood to silvery age. A desire of society, a
commune and interchange of thought and feeling, has ever been a
distinguishing characteristic of mankind in all ages and in all parts
of the world. The sublime summits which the mind has reached, and the
perennial glories which have crowned its efforts, are evidence
unanswerable of the vastness of its power. But there cannot be full
powerful mental action without mental freedom. Freedom is incident to
action mental or physical. Observe the king of birds as he spreads his
majestic wings on high; mark his swift flight, his strength and vigor;
then behold him shut up within a cage, how weak, how lifeless, how
nerveless! The same is true of mind; unrestrained, its powers
transcend all limits, but fettered, they dwindle away--are powerless.
The mind then is both naturally free and active. Such being the case,
free institutions are founded in nature; and, therefore, their
influence on the mind arises from a natural and mutual relation: this
relation cannot be otherwise than efficacious in its tendencies on the
mind.

What is the nature of free institutions? Founded in man's free active
nature, their tendency is to develope his powers and dignity. Their
permanency, depending on the mental part of man, their chief aim and
policy are his moral and intellectual elevation. Universal mental
cultivation is the enduring basis and majestic pillar of their
structure. As the effulgent life-giving orb of day brings forth the
hidden beauties and treasures of nature, they draw out to the light
the powers and faculties of every member of society. They bring mind
in competition with mind; thus striking out the "celestial spark,"
they recognise no mental indolence; they afford means suited to the
growth of all kinds of mind; they hold out the same common inducements
to all; they reward with immortality noble intellectual action. Their
true prominent feature is the collision of minds.

Let us examine their influences. All legislation, all governmental
measures and operations, originate in the chosen intellect of the
people, assembled in free deliberation. No single will creates a law.
Many cultivated thinking minds coming together in close discussion,
strike out the great principles of political science. And the minds
thus exercised are not confined in their illuminating influence to the
legislative hall, but go abroad, brilliant and powerful, awakening to
thought, and enlightening millions of minds. Whatever the legislators
conceive and create, affords a theme on which a thousand other
eloquent minds among the people concentrate their talents, and shine
forth in bright display. Thus we perceive that the splendid and
dazzling theatre of eloquence is opened, inviting the exertions of
bold, persuasive, original intellect. Eloquence is one of the
characteristics of free governments. It requires free action. Its
nature is to thrill the feelings, to awaken the fancy, to exalt the
thoughts of a nation. It is the mind speaking forth its native
inspiriting thoughts. It is the rapid flow of deep excited feeling. It
is the natural influence which one mind exerts over another. It is the
unbridled intellect, clothed in shining and magic forms. Can it exist
under a despotism? The bird that dips its wings in the heavens does
not require more freedom. It is opposed to tyranny of any kind. What
is the history of eloquence? We behold it in unrivalled brilliancy and
power in the Republican of mighty Rome. Rome's eaglet of conquest
canopied the world under his expanded wings; but the genius of her
eloquence, peaceful, but powerful, moulded and swayed the mind of her
people and raised her to matchless grandeur.

In free governments, new occasions are continually arising for
intellectual action. It is the inevitable result of that freedom they
give to the mind. The free mind is ever active and progressive, ever
soaring to lofty heights. The free mind disdains to follow the beaten
track, and marks out an original, a more elevated path. The free mind
experiences the full efficacy of all the stimulating feelings of our
nature. Can such a cast of mind do otherwise than open new fields for
high action? or produce other than wonderful and glorious results?
Animated by an unconquerable love of action, all obstacles and
difficulties vanish before it. It overthrows old systems, and erects
new ones more dazzling in splendor. It revolutionizes all unsound
associations, political, social, religious and literary. It fully
developes and explains the existing relations of life, and unfolds
hitherto unfelt ones. It thinks and feels more exaltedly, more deeply,
more strongly. Lethargy never steals upon such a mind. Now a mind thus
exercised, thus unlimited in its action, must shine forth in its
original beauty and might, must attain all that is noble or sublime in
intellectual achievement. This mind does not exist under despotic
institutions. It could not. The restrained mind is ever retrograding.
The restrained mind, aimless and unambitious, pursues the old path and
never thinks of seeking a new one. The restrained mind never feels the
irrepressible delight of a superior thought, never the exhilarating
influence of deep and lofty meditation. Is it wonderful that despotic
governments never attain a high degree of intellectual eminence? Or is
it wonderful that free governments should know no barriers too great,
no limits too extensive, no summits too elevated; should send forth a
living increasing light of mental glory over the world?

In free governments "capacity and opportunity are twin sisters."
Development of mind being their chief aim, they afford every proper
means to this end. The genius of learning is brought down from her
high abodes, and caused to walk radiant with beauty, through every
grade of society. Education, the soul's strength, is disseminated with
a liberal hand to every portion of the community. Intellectual
illumination is made universal, as extensive as the circling canopy of
the firmament. The inferior and superior mind drink at the same
fountain--aspire to the same immortal renown. For while they thus
develope the mind, they open to all the bright halls of eminence,
offer to all _fame's_ brilliant diadem. Glorious is the effect! The
principles of science are seen shining in increased brightness in the
work-shop; eloquence, deep and overwhelming, full of heavenly fire and
pathos, arises from the shades of obscurity; the lyre of poetry
touched by the spirit of song, sends forth its melodious and inspiring
strains from the deep valley and the mountain top; in truth, the great
mass of society is moved and agitated by an active untiring spirit,
even as the waters of Bethesda were wont to be moved when visited by
the angel of the skies. Do we behold such an aspect under despotic
institutions? Do they encourage the universal growth of mind? Do they
hold out a common inducement to eloquent and lofty effort? or insure
to superior genius an enduring fame? Impossible! when all intellectual
influence is confined to the palace. Impossible! when learning in its
effect on society is no more than the light of the moon, shining by
the side of the noonday sun.

But free circulation of thought and feeling composes the chief
influence of free institutions on the mind. The beauty, union, and
elevation of society depend upon the action and re-action of mind.
Indeed, this reciprocal influence of mind is the final cause in the
formation of society. Where it is unfelt all relations, political and
social, are frail and disregarded. If we look through society we shall
find that all national mental greatness and power, originates in the
influence which a few mighty minds exert in setting the great mass of
mind to thinking and feeling. How great have been the effects of the
minds of the Newtons, Bacons, Ciceros and Luthers on the world! How
many millions of minds have they not excited to strong and elevated
action! Now, free governments, from their very nature, encourage this
interchange, this mutual action of mind on mind. And mark the results.
The original brightness of one mind throws new light on the path of
another. A superior thought, like the blast of the Highland warrior's
trump bounding from crag to crag, and causing, quick as sound, a
hundred minds to beat for action, spreads with electric rapidity
through every nerve of the social frame. Thoughts once clouded in
darkness assume a blinding brightness. Thoughts once confused and
incomprehensible are mastered and imbodied in enchanting forms.
Patient and ambitious investigation, surmounting every obstacle, and
penetrating to the lowest depths of knowledge, brings forth its rich
treasures; truths, brilliant and irresistible. Free discussion is
awakened, eliciting talent, intellectual energies and glories. Nor is
this all. In philosophy, a few mighty minds arise and unfold new
principles in human nature; and, immediately, a spirit of revolution,
rapid but glorious, rages through society, destroying false and
unnatural relations, and strengthening those that are genuine by
holier and imperishable ties. In literature, a few mighty minds arise,
profound in thought, imperial in fancy and conception, which like so
many meridian suns, casting their beams upon the mental world, draw
forth the native graces, and beauties, and grandeur of mind, and
disseminate through every department of letters an influence
enlivening and beautifying: an influence, which arouses the slumbering
spirit of poetry, and throws an immortal radiance over the Elysian
realms of fiction. In science, a few mighty minds arise, expose old
fallacies, explore the rich mines of the earth, develope the
mysterious principles of matter, explain the nature of their
application, and suddenly an unusual mental splendor encircles the
temple of learning. Art wields her sceptre with greater skill and
precision, improving and adorning every branch of mechanism, that
administers to the uses and comforts of society. And this influence of
these few mighty minds on the general mind of society reacts in
resilient bounds, again acts, and again rebounds, continually
increasing in vigor and majesty. Thus the powers, passions and
emotions of the mind, are developed to their full stature. Thus, that
mind gains its natural ascendancy, crowns itself with unfading
laurels, erects its throne, all magnificent, far above human thrones,
and wields an overpowering influence over the destinies of mankind.
Thus, all nations either in the ancient or modern world, where mind
has shone in its brightest forms, have gained their immortality. From
a want of this mutual influence of superior and inferior minds,
despotic nations have ever remained in superstition and ignorance. For
the sake of mind, who will not hail with delight the day when the
genius of liberty shall canopy the world with her guardian wings!

But the friends of monarchical governments tell us that Republics do
not encourage high intellectual developement, because they do not
stimulate the mind to exertion by liberal rewards. In a triumphant
air, they point us to the munificent era of Augustus, when genius
bloomed amid kingly splendor, to the profuse liberality of _Eastern_
kings; to the generous age of Leo X, when Italia's mind shone in
rivalry with her own bright and lovely skies. We grant that the mind
in free governments is deprived of this influence. Does it thereby
sustain any loss? Let us examine this point. Will the mind whose only
stimulant are the smiles and pecuniary emoluments of kings, exhibit
its native strength and grandeur? or will the Muse that sings to
please the whims and caprices of a court, soar on eagle wings and to
mountain heights? He who depends on another for support, must
necessarily so shape his actions as to gain the good will of his
patron. It is familiar to every one, that they who live in the
sunshine of a palace, and from whom the mind in monarchies receives
its patronage, are no more nor less in their characters than a
composition of vanity and pride; of vanity and pride demanding
deification. The mind then that acts under courtly favor must bow in
lowly adoration and flattery. The scholar mourns over this defect in
the writings of Horace: he wrote to please the wily and arrogant
Augustus. If we turn over the productions of modern ages, when
monarchy has reigned, we shall find the same grovelling slave-like
spirit. Can such an influence develope the real beauty and sublimity
of mind? No! For the mind that would attain a full growth, a growth
noble and dignified--must mark out a course of its own, must move
forward with a fearless, unbending step.

But because the mind in free governments does not enjoy the influence
of princely favor, (which in our humble opinion is rather an injury
than a benefit,) it is not therefore deprived of every other
stimulant. In a Republic, mental influence is not confined to any one
particular sphere, but illumines by the same beneficent rays the
summits and the depths of society. It is sound reason, that the
motives to intellectual action will bear a character corresponding to
the influence of that action. If its influence be noble and extensive
the stimulus of mind will be strong and awakening. How great then the
motives to mental effort in free governments! There the mind acts not
to please a crown, not to scatter flowers for courtiers to walk over,
but conscious of the weight of its responsibility, and the boundless
extent of its power, thinks and feels, that its thoughts and feelings
may mould and sway countless other minds. There is an indescribable
glory in such a stimulus. It not only purifies and elevates the mind
which it arouses, but prospers and ennobles the condition of mankind.
Still further--The mind whose theatre of action is thus extensive, and
that looks up to no living being for aid, will in most instances, be
excited to action by the idea of a virtuous immortality. And say,
friend of monarchical munificence, is not the mind that conceives this
idea in its pure genuineness, actuated by a stimulus more powerful
than all the smiles of all the kings, than all the gold of all the
Perus in the world could create? Analyze this idea. It combines
benevolence and sublimity of feeling. It raises the mind above earthly
scenes to the contemplation of the ineffable brightness and goodness
of the Creator. Its great end is the promotion of the happiness of
coming ages. Who will compare the action of the mind thus stimulated
with that of the mind, whose only stimulus is present selfish
enjoyment? As well may we compare the anthill to the "cloud-crowned
Andes."

What says biography of those superior minds that have shone as lights
to the world. Did they grow to their full power and greatness under
the influence of monarchical institutions? Did they arouse the mind of
Homer, the immortal bard of antiquity? Or the eloquence and moral
sublimity of Cicero? Or the unrivalled philosophy of Socrates? Who has
not lamented over the severe fate of modern genius? Danté, Petrarch
and Ariosto, minds resplendent in imagery and conception, wrote their
best works when friendless exiles on a foreign shore. Cervantes wrote
his Don Quixotte of undying fame, in a dungeon. Shakspeare, rightly
styled the great magician of human nature, was often obliged to act
parts in his own plays. Milton, who in thought and conception dwelt in
the home of angels, sold his Paradise Lost for five pounds; lived the
disgrace and glory of his age. These minds were the subjects of
monarchies. Others might be mentioned. Surely then this patronage of
kingly governments is but an empty name. It will not stimulate the
noble mind, for such a mind creates its own stimulus. Let no one say
then that the mind cannot ascend to lofty heights without its aid. But
rather let us exclaim with the poet,

  "'Tis immortality should fire the mind."

In looking over the pages of history, no fact strikes us more
perceptibly than that all greatness of mind has ever been
proportionate to its enjoyment of civil liberty. In vain do we look
for universal education, either in ancient or modern times, among the
numerous kingdoms of the East; in vain for a philosopher, poet or
historian. The story of Grecian mind in its full maturity and
superiority is known to every scholar. He there beholds mind in its
real glory and power, shining under diversified forms; in imaginative
brilliancy; in philosophic research; in the highest spheres of
literature and science. But her freedom departed. The voice of
eloquence was no longer heard in her forums, or in her beautiful fanes
and groves; her Muses were cold to the embraces of her poets; in
short, her intellectual greatness was gone. Behold her now! How
striking the contrast of her former and present condition! And how
appropriate the line of Byron--

  "'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more."

The history of Roman mind does not differ from that of Grecian mind.
Who would ask for stronger illustrations of the argument in favor of
free principles on the mind.

But the influence of free institutions on the mind is not confined
purely to the intellectual, but extends to the moral nature of man.
They blend strength and splendor of intellect with the soft and beamy
radiance of moral feeling. This is a natural consequence. For as a
general rule, where there is an expansion of intellect, there will be
a similar growth in morals. As intellect expands, as its perceptions
become keener and surer, the relations and duties of life are
perceived in a stronger and clearer light. Deprived of intellect,
morals and principles lose their efficacy. We speak now of unperverted
intellect; not of that kind of intellect which blasted the hopes of
revolutionary France; not of that kind of intellect which
characterized a Mirabeau or a Voltaire, but of such as free
institutions in their purity would create--an intellect pure and
exalted. Such an intellect cannot fail to strengthen our obligations
as public and private men.

Indeed, one of the fundamental principles of free governments is
founded in man's moral nature, the equality of mankind. For from this
principle flows a spirit of peace, of love and kindness. Cherish the
idea that men are by nature possessed of equal rights, and you destroy
that coldness and selfishness which corrupt and debase the moral
affections. Cherish it, and benevolence reigns queen over the heart,
dispensing far and wide her refreshing benefits. Cherish it, and every
member of society feels himself drawn towards his fellow by heavenly
attractions. Cherish it, and the springs of sympathetic feeling rise
to overflowing. In fine, cherish it, and the virtues of the heart
increase in beauty and holiness, and run out in gladdening streams.
Destroy it, and general morality is gone forever.

Thus we perceive that free governments tend both to growth of morals
and intellect; that the developement of the one is not attended to and
the other neglected, but that they unfold, bloom and mature in union.
Thus too, we perceive that free governments do not unfold half of
man's powers or strength, but that under their influence the whole
mind expands, full, bright and lovely, as the "bloom of blowing Eden
fair."

We have now finished an imperfect view of the influence of free
principles on the mind. Beautiful is their application in our own
country. Here they exist in their pure original character. Here, their
influence is beyond calculation--over an extensive territory,
abounding in every variety of interest and advantage. Here the press
is free, and the thoughts and feelings of one section of the land may
enlighten another section; this section may throw new light and
splendor into another, this into another and another: thus creating a
chain of mental influence, which will extend from one extremity of the
country to the other. Here there is every civil advantage; numerous
theatres for the display of eloquent mind. Here there is every natural
advantage; numerous theatres for the display of literary and
scientific mind. Let the discerning traveller perform the tour of our
land, and there is no beauty of nature, no charm of landscape, no
majesty of forest, no grandeur or sublimity of mountain or water
scenery, that will not meet his delighted vision. Every state
possesses materials sufficient to create a literature of its own. The
Baronial castles and lofty hills of Scotland, together with their
incidents, penciled by the graphic hand of Walter Scott, gained him a
deathless name. Every state, and we assert it without fear of
contradiction, has more of the interesting, the romantic and
picturesque in incident and scenery than Scotland. It is our own fault
then if our literature is not immortalized by more than one Scott. Add
to these the great variety of mind which characterizes our land. Let
the traveller go through the south, and he will behold mind glowing,
impetuous and brilliant; let him go through the north, and he will
behold mind, more systematized, profound in reason, silent, deep in
feeling; let him go through the west, and he will behold a
comminglement of every variety of mind. Besides, there are peculiar
thoughts and feelings which belong to each state. Now consider all
these advantages joined together, mingled as the colors in the
rainbow, by one grand powerful feeling, which characterizes the whole,
a feeling of union, a common American feeling: and let our free
institutions act upon them in their full vigor and power, and we will
have a mind presenting every variety of interest, beauty, strength and
brightness--all eloquent, all sublime--a sun illumining the world.

H. J. G.

_Cincinnati, Ohio, April 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A few weeks since D. D. Mitchell, Esq., a resident for many years
past, near the falls of Missouri, in the vicinity of the Rocky
Mountains, was in this city, on a visit to his native State, and it
was my good fortune to become personally acquainted with him. He has
been an enterprising and successful adventurer in the American fur
trade, and is now in command of a fort and trading establishment in
the neighborhood of the _Black-feet_, a nation of Indians with whom
the whites have had but little intercourse, and whose peculiar
character and manners we have had few opportunities of knowing.
Besides being a bold and active participator in many of the bloody
conflicts of various tribes, Mr. Mitchell has been a keen observer of
Indian customs, traits, and superstitions; and so great a favorite was
he among the powerful tribe of the Black-feet, that they created him a
chief, with the title of the _Spotted Elk_. Mr. Mitchell did me the
favor whilst here, to submit some of his manuscripts to my inspection.
They contain sketches of the Indian character, and of the country, on
the head waters of Missouri, hitherto almost unexplored by the white
man, and also various interesting anecdotes and observations, highly
creditable to the intelligence, discernment and enterprise of the
writer. I cannot withhold from the patrons of the Literary Messenger,
some share of the pleasure I have myself experienced, in reading these
valuable papers, and, for the present, I send to the publisher, a
remarkable Indian love tale, which Mr. Mitchell, besides his written
testimony, privately assured me was _founded on fact_.--Washington
Irving, in his recent "Tour on the Prairies," makes the following
remark: "As far as I can judge, the Indian of poetical fiction, is
like the shepherd of pastoral romance, a mere personification of
imaginary attributes." It may be so, and perhaps most heroes and
heroines of novels and romances, are principally creations of fancy;
but if the author of the Sketch Book, meant to assert, that the
children of the forest were altogether unsusceptible of some of the
noble and tender emotions of our nature--he stands opposed by
undoubted evidence to the contrary. Who does not believe, for example,
what our own history has taught, of the matchless purity and guileless
simplicity of Pocahontas--the lofty spirit of Totopotomoi, and the
rare magnanimity of Logan? The passion of love indeed, as modified and
refined in civilized life, has not often been found in the breast of
the Indian warrior, but even to this general truth, there have been
numerous exceptions, and among them, I have never met with one so
marked and striking, as that which is recorded in the following story.

H.


THE WHITE ANTELOPE;

OR, INDIAN LOVER.

From the Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell, Esq.


Some time during the autumn of 1832, a young blood Indian (of the race
of the Black-feet,) arrived at the fort all alone. He had no furs, or
other articles of traffic with him, and was not equipped in the usual
style for war. His pale haggard appearance, and deep settled
melancholy, attracted the observation of all who saw him; but as a
residence of several years among the Indians, had taught us something
of their rules of politeness, I forbore to question him as to the
cause of his grief, more especially as he did not seem to be in a very
communicative mood. I ordered him something to eat, but he pushed the
proffered repast aside, and refused to partake. Our interpreter then
handed him a pipe, which he received in a cold mechanical manner,
appearing scarcely conscious of what he did; and instead of sending up
dense columns of smoke in rapid succession, as is usually the case, he
sat with the pipe extended across his knees, absorbed in a deep
reverie, and now and then heaving profound sighs, which appeared to
arise from the inmost recesses of his soul. The pipe having gone out,
the interpreter relighted it, and again placed it in the young
Indian's hand. He started up, and after a few hasty whiffs, seized his
bow and arrows, and walked hastily out of the fort. Our curiosity
having been excited by his mysterious conduct, several of us followed
in order to watch his motions. He went to the river bank, and having
thrown off his robe, which he fastened to the back of his head, in
order to keep it dry, he deliberately plunged into the river and swam
for the opposite shore. I called to him through the interpreter,
promising if he would return, to send him over in my skiff, reminding
him at the same time that the current was wide, and the water
extremely cold--but he only turned his head around, and with a bitter
smile, exclaimed, "the fire which is burning in my heart, will keep me
warm!" He spoke no other word, but dashing through the waves, which a
keen October wind had lashed into motion, we saw him presently ascend
the rocky cliffs of the other side, and striking into the path which
led to the mountains, he disappeared, with the speed and agility of an
antelope. Several conjectures were made among us, respecting the
singular conduct of this seemingly unhappy youth; but as none could
furnish an explanation entirely satisfactory, the affair in a few
days, ceased to be the subject of inquiry or conversation.

On a cold stormy evening, about the middle of the following February,
I was standing on the bank of the river, giving some directions to the
men engaged in constructing a kind of harbor or basin, to secure our
boats, on the opening of spring, from the drifting ice, when I was
startled by the quick report of a gun, and a loud shout of triumph,
which proceeded from the opposite shore, and were echoed in long
reverberations from the rocky cliffs of the Missouri. Broad flakes of
snow were falling around me, and whirling in every direction, so that
I was prevented from perceiving objects on the opposite side; but I
supposed that some war party was probably returning from a victorious
campaign. When about to return to the fort, I discovered two Indians,
a young man and woman, crossing the river on the ice; they both
approached the spot where I stood; the youth holding his hand towards
me, in a manner which denoted confidence and friendship. Though
actually shivering with cold, his countenance seemed to beam with joy
and animation, and pointing my attention to the comely girl, at his
side, he exclaimed, whilst his dark eyes sparkled with triumph, "Now
she is mine, for I have fairly won her in battle!" and at the same
moment he cast a glance at two bloody scalps, which hung suspended
from his ram-rod. I now recognised the mysterious young man, who had
visited the fort in October; but his manner and appearance were
altogether changed. His step was now buoyant and elastic, and in place
of the gloomy silence and mental agony which marked his previous
deportment, he was now gay and talkative, indulging in the light laugh
and ready jest. Being anxious to know something of his story, I
invited the lover and his young Indian maiden into the fort, an
invitation which they readily accepted. After a hearty meal, and a few
whiffs of the pipe, the warrior swain, drawing his Indian beauty
closer to his side, and assuming as much gravity of feature, as his
thrilling sensations of happiness would allow, related in a very
circumstantial manner, the following story:--

"I have loved this girl," said he, "as far back as I can remember;"
and at the same moment, as he laid his hand on her shining dark hair,
the black eyed damsel of the Prairies rewarded her lover's confession
with a smile of approbation. "I loved her," he continued, "long before
I knew the meaning of love; for when a small boy, I once shot my arrow
at her mother for striking the daughter. I afterwards wondered at
myself for doing so, especially as my father talked to me _angry_, and
said that the girl was no relation of mine. I remember too, when we
played at ball on the ice, if we happened to be opposed in the game, I
would not win from her, though every thing I had was staked. Those
were happy days. In the winter, we made snares for rabbits and foxes,
or climbed to the top of some high hill, and amused ourselves by
rolling the snow down its sides, which, as it rolled, grew bigger and
bigger, until it reached the bottom, where it lay till the warm sun in
the spring melted it away to fog, and raised it again to the clouds.
Even so has it happened to us. We continued to roll down the stream of
life, increasing in size and in love, until now we have reached years
of maturity; and we will continue to love each other, until time
wastes us away like the snow ball, and the Great Spirit takes us up
into his own land.

"Last summer we were encamped by the side of the chief mountain, and I
saw Sinepaw (the name of the Indian girl,) almost every day. Often
have I wandered from the camp, and hiding myself behind some tree,
have watched the whole day in the hope of seeing her pass that way. If
I could but get a glance at her, I was satisfied, and returned quietly
to the lodge; but if it chanced that she did not make her appearance,
I then sat me down and wept; but during my sleep I was always happy,
for in my dreams I was never separated from her. You know that,
according to the law of our tribe, none but a warrior can dare to
think of a wife; and as I was nothing but a youth, and had never taken
a scalp, I was therefore ashamed to speak even to _Sinepaw_, much less
to her father and mother. One day, whilst preparing to go out to war,
where I panted to perform some exploit which should rank me amongst
our braves and warriors, and entitle me to the privilege of marrying
the girl of my choice, the whole camp was suddenly thrown into an
uproar, and I learned that eight of our women who were gathering wild
turnip in the prairies, had been captured and carried away by the
_Flat-heads_. Sinepaw was one of the eight. A war party, myself among
the number, was immediately despatched in pursuit. We followed for
several days, but we lost the trail of our enemies in the mountains,
and our leader commanded us to return. I thought that my heart would
burst with grief; but as yet I had no trophy in battle, and I dared
not utter a complaint. When I returned to the camp, my heart was very
heavy. I believed that it was dead. I could neither eat, nor sleep,
nor join in the merry song or dance, as it was my custom to do. My
only pleasure was, to climb to the top of the mountain, seat myself on
a bank of snow, and looking to the country of the Flat-heads, pray the
Great Spirit to give me the cunning and courage to recover my lost
Sinepaw. Once when I had remained in that dismal spot three days and
nights, taking neither rest nor food, on the fourth morning the sun
drove away the mist from the mountain, and warmed my veins with its
beams. I fell into a sound sleep, and the Great Spirit came down and
told me to go in pursuit of the _Flat-heads_; that he would take pity
on my grief, and restore Sinepaw to her lover. I awoke from my
pleasant dream: the Great Spirit was gone, but I remembered his words.

"The next day I started all alone. You saw me when I passed your fort,
and you pitied my distress. For thirty-four days I travelled through
the mountains, before I found the camp of the _Flat-heads_. The Great
Spirit had caused them to place it in the only spot where it was
possible I could ever succeed in recovering Sinepaw. It was just at
the foot of a high rocky cliff, on the banks of the Snake river.[1] On
the top of the cliff, I found a hole in the rock, which served as a
hiding place, and from which I could easily see all that passed in the
camp. For seven long days I kept a constant watch, before I could once
get a glimpse at my girl. At last I saw her, and I thought that my
heart would leap from my mouth. My limbs trembled so violently, that I
could not stand, and the tears gushed from my eyes, causing the
prairie beneath me to look like a vast lake, whose waves were
troubled. Soon, however, I brushed away my tears, the lake
disappeared--and I again beheld the camp, and Sinepaw standing in the
same spot. She was employed in harnessing two dogs for the purpose of
assisting the squaws to haul wood from a little island in the middle
of the river. She did not return until nearly sun-set; but when she
did, I was lucky enough to see the lodge into which she went. I
examined that lodge particularly, and all the others around it, so
that I should know it again. When it was dark, I spoke to the Great
Spirit; told him he promised I should have my Sinepaw again, and
begged him not to deceive me. I resolved to carry her off that night,
or leave my scalp to be danced in the camp of the Flat-heads!!

[Footnote 1: A small stream that falls into the Columbia.]

"The night was very dark and stormy; the wind mourned around the top
of the cliff, and the snow flakes whirling through the air, seemed to
me like so many ghosts. Three ravens fluttered up the side of the
rock, and lighting on a stunted pine, which grew near my place of
retreat, uttered a dismal scream, as if scenting for something to eat,
and waiting to feast on my carcass. Beneath me lay a thousand enemies,
who would in a moment have cut me into pieces, and given my body to
their dogs. My teeth chattered with cold and fear, and I felt like a
woman. The cliff was steep and overhung with shelving rocks. It was so
dark that I could not see my hand before me; and if I made one false
step, I should be dashed to pieces among the rocks, and Sinepaw would
remain a slave among my enemies. When my courage was about to expire,
this horrid thought revived it, and I immediately commenced sliding
down the cliff, holding on the points of the rocks, and grasping the
pine bushes which grew in my course. Several times my foot-hold
crumbled beneath me, and I fell from rock to rock, but there was
always something to stop my descent and prevent my destruction. At
length I reached the bottom, and stood on the level prairie. The camp
was but a short distance from me, and I walked towards it slowly and
cautiously. Every thing was solemn and silent, and the stillness was
only broke by the hollow wind whistling through the prairie glass, or
by the howl of some dog who could find no shelter from the storm. When
I entered the camp, I drew my robe over my head, and boldly stepped
forward. Several young men were standing near the different lodges,
perhaps to get a sly look at their sweethearts, but they took no
notice of me. Once I thought that a dog, belonging to the camp, would
have ruined me: he made for the spot where I was, snapping and
barking, and running around me several times; but, luckily, an old
squaw came from a lodge hard by, and drove him off. No doubt the Great
Spirit sent her, for had it been a man, he would have come towards me,
and spoken, and all would have been lost.

"When I came to the lodge I was seeking, I knew it by a large white
wolf skin, which hung on a pole at the door. I stood a few moments,
and prayed the Great Spirit to pity me, then ventured to raise the
skin and look into the lodge. A small fire which was burning in the
centre, cast a pale and sickly light all around me, and I saw that all
who were there, were asleep. Several times I tried to go in, but as
often felt as if something was pulling me back; but looking around and
beholding nothing, I knew it was the evil spirit, so I raised the skin
once more, boldly stepped forward, and stood in the same lodge with
Sinepaw. My heart beat so loud, I thought it would wake all the
sleepers. At the first glance, I knew it was the lodge of a chief, for
over the spot where he lay, hung his medicine bag, his bow and arrows,
and immediately under them, two scalps of my own nation. At the sight
of the scalps I drew my knife, intending to kill him, but I thought of
Sinepaw and stopped. Where was she? Fifteen men and women lay sleeping
on the ground, and all so wrapped in their robes, that I could not
distinguish them; so I drew my own robe over my face, and sat down to
listen to their breathing, for I knew there was music in the breath of
Sinepaw, different from that of all other women. I was not deceived: I
found that she lay just behind me: so I turned and took the robe from
her face. She still slept; a tear was glistening on her eyelash, and
her cheek was thin and pale. She murmured something which I could not
hear, but, stooping down, I kissed away the tear, which was even
sweeter than the blood of my brother's murderer, which I had tasted.
She opened her eyes, looked up, and saw me, but thought it was a
dream. She looked again, and when she saw that it was really me, she
would have screamed, but I laid my hand on her mouth, and whispered in
her ear, 'Rise, let us fly from the camp!' She gazed wildly around the
lodge, and seemed as if her senses would fly from her. At length I
raised her up, and led her to the door, but she stopped and turned my
face to the light, as if to be assured that it was me. She hesitated
no longer: we both sprung from the lodge, and Sinepaw threw her arms
around me!

"Oh, my friend!" exclaimed the impassioned lover, addressing himself
to me, whilst his eyes sparkled with extraordinary brilliancy, "at
that moment I looked around on the camp, and laughed at all its
dangers. I felt as if I should not fear to meet a hundred enemies. It
was the first time that Sinepaw ever embraced me, and it kindled a
feeling, such as I shall never experience again. I believe when I am
dead and mouldered into dust, the parts of my body which her arms
encircled, will never be corrupted.

"A number of horses stood tied around the lodge, and Sinepaw cut loose
the cords of two of the best, which we quickly mounted. I drew my bow
and arrows, and rode slowly forward, making as little noise as
possible; but a young man soon discovered us, and gave the alarm!
Laying whip to our horses, we soon cleared the camp, dashed down the
bank, and crossed the river on the ice; but the uproar which we heard
behind us, and the thundering of horses' feet over the frozen prairie,
too plainly told that we were closely pursued. The storm continued to
roar, and the darkness was greater than ever. Sometimes I heard a shot
behind us, and a hundred voices calling out loudly to each other; but
we still kept on our way, at the full speed of our steeds, and in
about two hours from the time we started, the tempest had spent its
rage, and daylight began to dawn. At sun-rise I rode to the top of a
hill, in order to survey the country and the better to shape my
course, when I spied two _Flat-heads_ on horseback, not far to my
right, who, seeing me also, raised a shout of triumph, and immediately
rushed forward in pursuit. I knew it was in vain to fly; our horses
were already weary and faint, and could hold out no longer. I made
signs to Sinepaw to come to the top of the hill, when seizing her
horse by the rein, I sheathed my knife blade in his throat, and dealt
the same fatal blow at my own. Their lifeblood gushed as a spring, and
as they staggered and fell, I placed their bodies around us, to form
an entrenchment for defence.

"The warriors soon rode up, and discharged their guns, but their balls
fell harmless, or lodged in the carcases which protected us. They
fired again and again, but I still lay motionless, for as I had but
nine arrows left, I had not one to throw away. At last they began to
conclude that I had no arms, and they ventured to ride still nearer. I
heard the trampling of their horses a few steps off; my bow and arrows
were prepared, and I raised my head, but withdrew it as quick as
lightning. They fired at once, but their fire came too late: I sprang
upon my feet, and before the _Flat-heads_ could either reload or
retreat, I sent two arrows through the body of one, and one through
the head of the other. They attempted to fly, but both were brought to
the ground. I raised the war whoop of the Spotted Eagle, and rushing
down the side of the hill, I secured their scalps and guns. Here they
are!" he exclaimed, exhibiting his spoils in triumph; "who can now say
that the White Antelope is not a warrior, or who can refuse him his
daughter as a wife?"




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Mr. White_,--The following spirited lines, evidently composed on some
occasion of serious import, together with a gold ring broken into
several fragments, were accidentally found in my neighborhood about
two years ago, enveloped in a neatly folded sheet of letter paper,
without date, seal, or superscription. I send you a copy of them,
hoping that by the aid of your very good "Messenger" they may meet the
eye of poor "Corydon" again, or if you please, that of his "faithless
one." Should you deem them worthy of publication, they are now at your
service. Yours, respectfully,

AGRICOLA.

_Albemarle, March 25, 1835_.


THE LAST GIFT.

  When I sit musing on the chequered past,
    (A term much darken'd with untimely woes,)
    My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows
  The tear, tho' half disown'd, and binding fast
  Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart;
    I say to her she robbed me of my rest,
    When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast
  Received from her this wearying, lingering smart,
  Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart:
    Tho' wrong'd, I love her--yet in anger love;
    For _she was most unworthy_. Now I prove
  Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams
  The native pride of my much injured heart.--_H. K. White_.


  I said to Love's accursed art,
    Behold this broken ring!
  Thus thou hast broke the bruised heart,
    As 'twere some worthless thing.
  But tho' it bleed at every pore,
    Crush'd by the reckless blow,
  My spirit still shall triumph o'er
                          The tide of wo.
  I said to Friendship's lifted hand,
    Smite on--my bosom's bare--
  Deep didst thou plunge the fatal brand,
    And left it rankling there.
  But still there throbs within these veins,
    The spirit's manliness,
  That scorns, amid its keenest pains,
                          To seek redress.
  I said to Treachery's cunning dame,
    Come on--I dread thee not;
  Thou may'st pursue me till my name
    And being are forgot.
  But still my spirit ne'er shall weep,
    Tho' driv'n to Ocean's farthest Isle,
  I'd rather brave the angry deep,
                          Than thy _cold smile_.
  I said to Mammon's golden store,
    Shine on--thou art but dust;
  I covet not thy worthless ore,
    Tho' by Misfortune crush'd.
  For deep within this bosom's shrine,
    There lives a spirit still,
  (More costly far than wealth of thine,)
                          Thou canst not kill.
  I said to Earth's unstable ball,
    Roll on--it matters not;
  A few more suns will rise and fall,
    And I shall be forgot.
  But still the spirit in its bloom,
    Tho' oft by sorrow curs'd,
  Shall yet from thy sepulch'ral gloom
                          With rapture burst.
  I said to Her, the faithless one,
    Who vow'd to love me best,
  Smile on--thy friendship I disown,
    And spurn thee from my breast.
  But still the spirit thou hast crush'd,
    The secret ne'er shall tell,
  And tho' thou tread it in the dust,
                          'Twill say--FAREWELL.
  I said to Him, the mighty Lord,
    Who reigns above the sky,
  And governs by his sovereign word,
    Man's darkest destiny,--
  Father, I kiss thy chastening rod,
    In love I know 'twas given,
  For while it smites me 'neath the sod,
                          It points to Heaven.

CORYDON.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

APOSTROPHE

Of the Æolian Harp to the Wind.


  "Wind of the dark blue mountains,
    Thou dost but sweep my strings,
  Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
    With the rushing of thy wings.

  When the gale is freshly blowing
    My notes responsive swell,
  And over music's power,
    Their triumphs seem to tell.

  But when the breeze is sighing,
    Then comes 'a dying fall,'
  Less--less indeed exalting,
    But sweeter far than all.

  It sighs, like hapless mortals,
    For youthful pleasures fled,
  For hopes and friends once cherished,
    Now mingled with the dead.

  And oh! how sweetly touching,
    Is the sad and plaintive strain,
  Recalling former pleasures,
    That ne'er can live again.

  Once more thy breezes freshen,
    And sweep the Æolian strings,
  And again their notes are swelling,
    With the rushing of thy wings.

  They seem to cheer the drooping,
    To bid the wretched live,
  And with their sounds ecstatic,
    His withering hopes revive."

  Alas! and in life's drama,
    Howe'er we play our part,
  Hope is forever breathing,
    On the Lyre of the Heart.

  Hope is forever touching
    Some chord that vibrates there,
  While bitter disappointment
    Mars the delusive air.

  Alternate joys and sorrows,
    Obedient to her call,
  Now breathe a strain that's flatt'ring,
    And now "a dying fall."

  Yet how unlike the measures
    Of the sweet Æolian string!
  These soothe the heart that's wounded,
    Those plant a deeper sting.

  Then wind of the dark blue mountains,
    Still sweep these trembling strings
  Into sweet strains of mournfulness,
    With the flutter of thy wings.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAP. I.


"Every modification of a society, at all lettered, works out for
itself a correspondent literature, bearing the stamp of its character
and exhibiting all its peculiarities."[1]

[Footnote 1: Sir J. Mackintosh's History of England, vol. I.]

It is thus that we see among the simple progenitors of a now polished
race, a simplicity of literature in extreme accordance with their rude
and unsophisticated manners. Yet when I speak of a rude literature, I
am not to be understood as implying want of merit. On the contrary,
the unpruned freedom of thought and unextinguished fire of feeling, so
essential to true poetry, are chiefly to be found among a people
martial and but little cultivated. Nor is this all; we often discover
a beautiful tenderness, breathing of the primeval simplicity in which
it has been nurtured. The dangers and hardships of severe employment,
were sometimes forgotten in intervals of rest, and at such times, love
ditties were made and sung. All natural beauties--the mountain--the
waters of the valley--the dingle--the mossy wood, peopled by its
vagabond essences and strange spirits--were inexhaustible food for
poetry. This love of gentleness was the stronger for its contrast with
the tone of feeling which preceded it. There are many instances of
"the soft" to be found amongst the mutilated scraps and scattered
records remaining to us from the numerous races usually called
Barbarians. Montaigne somewhere quotes an original Caribbean song,
which he pronounces worthy of Anacreon:

"Oh, snake stay; stay, O snake, that my sister may draw from the
pattern of thy painted skin, the fashion and work of a rich riband
which I mean to present to my mistress: so may thy beauty and thy
disposition be preferred to those of all other serpents. Oh, snake
stay!"

If this had been the song of a Peruvian or a Chilian, it would have
been less singular. As it is, it was probably sung by a savage Carib
in a moment of that rest, of which I have spoken as the season for
"love ditties."

The curious student who searches into the authorities of our
historians, will find that they are chiefly made up of legends
imbodied in the songs of coeval bards and minstrels. This was the
source of historical knowledge to the Danish writers, more than to
those of any other country; indeed the scald was as well a chronicler
as a singer. Nor is this historical foundation to be despised. Those
who sung were most frequently eye witnesses of the occurrences
celebrated in their songs. Men in those early ages had not so
thoroughly learned the art of misrepresentation. Manly openness was a
virtue: cunning was scarcely known in action or narration: or, if
known, despised. Consequently we find that in many or all cases where
other proofs are to be had, the legends of the bards are
substantiated.--The chief source of our information with regard to the
Saxon rule in the island of Great Britain, is the Saxon Chronicle--a
kind of journal or annual, kept by the monks of early ages. This
extends considerably beyond the era of the conquest, and is often spun
into verse. Indeed the first instance of the use of rhyme in the Saxon
tongue, is to be found in this chronicle--I will not however
anticipate my subject by quoting the lines in this place.

The materials with which English antiquaries build up their historical
creeds, are so slender, that the very existence of the minstrel, as
distinct from the poet, prior to William's coming, has been matter of
controversy.--After close examination, I am inclined to side with
those who maintain that minstrelsey--like the feudal system--was no
more than improved by the Normans; that it had accompanied the Saxons
from Germany.

We are told that, Colgrin, a Saxon prince, gained access to his
brother Baldulph, while the latter defended York against Arthur and
his Britons, by disguising himself as a harper.[2] Likewise that the
great Alfred stole forth in the same disguise from the Isle of
Athelney--whither Guthrun the Dane had driven him--and that in such
plight he entered the enemy's quarters unhindered. Another story of
the same nature is told us of Anlaff, a Danish chief, who explored the
camp of king Athelstane.[3] The learned bishop of Dromore, after
quoting these several stories at full length, remarks: "Now if the
Saxons had not been accustomed to have minstrels of their own,
Alfred's assuming so new and unusual a character would have excited
suspicions among the Danes. On the other hand, if it had not been
customary with the Saxons to shew favor and respect to the Danish
scalds, Anlaff would not have ventured himself among them, especially
on the eve of a battle. From the uniform procedure then of both these
kings, we may fairly conclude that the same mode of entertainment
prevailed among both people, and that the minstrel was a privileged
character with each."

[Footnote 2: Geoffrey of Monmouth.]

[Footnote 3: Vide Rapin.]

This proves, to me, that a plant from the same root whence sprung the
Danish scald, grew and flourished in England. This idea is farther
strengthened by the fact that Saxons and Danes were of one and the
same origin--both swarms from the same northern hive--and that the
scald retained by the Danes[4] was an important personage among the
Teutonic tribes; and nothing can be more natural than for men to recur
to the customs and usages of their parent-land.

[Footnote 4: Sir W. Temple.]

It seems therefore that minstrels constituted a privileged race among
the Saxons. Yet poetry was not meanwhile confined to their vocal
performances. Alfred himself was the author of several written pieces
of considerable merit. Among other ballads, one descriptive of the
battle of Brunnenburgh, is still extant. This battle--fought between
Athelstane and a confederacy of Danes and rebel Britons--was well
drawn in the original, and has been translated by a school boy at Eton
with unrivalled beauty and truth.[5]

[Footnote 5: Frere.]

Song was used likewise on the field of battle. Many instances of this
are on record, but I shall select no more than one for the sake of
proof.

When Harold the last Saxon king, drew up his army against the combined
forces of Tostigg--his rebel brother--and Harold Hardrada, the
Norwegian king, Tostigg rode out upon a hillock, and _after the
fashion of the day_, began a war-chaunt. While thus engaged, a herald
came from Harold, his brother, greeting him, and offering
reconciliation. "The dukedom of Northumberland shall be given thee,"
said the herald. "And what reward has he for my friend and ally?"
replied the haughty rebel. "Seven feet of English ground, or as men
call him a giant, perhaps eight." And the herald finding his attempt
at reconciliation futile, put spurs to his horse. Tostigg rode
backward and forward, tossing his bare sword into the air and catching
it as it fell. Meanwhile his brother's archers came within bow-shot,
and their arrows whistled from the string. Tostigg fought beside his
ally, in a blue tunic and shining helmet. He was yet chanting to his
army, when a shaft pierced his throat and ended song and life
together.

Thus do we see that poetry existed in three shapes; in the songs of a
privileged order, called by the various names of _joculator_,
_minstrel_, &c. &c.; in writing; and in the martial chaunts of heroes
"bowne for battelle."--And what were the subjects of these several
species of poetry? The last explains itself. The first two were
probably on martial topics; so we may infer at least from the
specimens which have reached us, and from the situation of England,
even for centuries after its union under Egbert. Swept by the repeated
inroads of the Danes--harassed and ground by the never-ending feuds of
the great nobles, "ye might (in the strong words of an old historian,)
as well plough the sea."--Thus with warlike customs--the last half of
Sir J. Mackintosh's remark, quoted in the beginning of this paper,
being at all times a consequent on the first--literature grew up in
more harsh strength than graceful beauty. Society was little better
than a confederacy for joint defence against watchful foes. The air
was redolent of strife and contention. The "clash of armor and the
rush of multitudes," mingling _minaci murmure cornuum_, were imitated
on the harp's string, and enthusiastic damsels sung the deeds of their
lovers, or so far forgot the more tender affection which would prefer
the life of its object, to that object's death and after-honor, as to
mingle the _io triumphe_ with the burial song; thus giving way to the
fierce joy, which weakness, when excited by thoughts of great deeds
denied itself, conjures up--the _gaudia certaminis_, ever strongest in
the weakest. I have already remarked, that "during intervals of rest,
love ditties were sung." We have remnants enough to know that the
Saxon poets were not forgetful of all gentler feeling, though these
too were most often mingled with alloy. There were not wanting those
willing and eager to embalm the names of the beautiful and great.
There were not wanting bards to sing of the _loves_ of these.

Elgiva, who drew her royal lover from the board where his nobles, and
the sage Dunstan, had met to do him honor. Editha, the lady of the
swan-neck, who recognised the body of Harold though mangled and
disfigured wofully "for that her eyes were strong with love." These
have had their good qualities and misfortunes immortalized by men,
who, in the pauses of the bitterest strife, turned to admire beauty
and unyielding affection, and to lament the evils brought upon
innocent heads.

They sung too of Elfrida, who stabbed young Alfred while feasting in
Corfe-castle--a deed "than which no worse had been committed among the
people of the Angles, since they first came to the land of Britain."
And in this we perceive the alloy, as in their praise of the masculine
Ethelflida, "the lady of Mercia," daughter of the great Alfred.

I have barely glanced over the Saxon literature from the middle of the
fifth century, to that of the eleventh, without entering into a
careful and accurate detail of the changes which must have occurred,
and which probably by a closer examination than I have thought
needful, might be spread open. One great change occurred about the end
of the eighth century. Egbert--Bretwalda, or king of Wessex, one of
the seven principalities forming the Heptarchy--long lived at the
court of Charlemagne, then the most polished court west of Italy. He
united the seven petty kingdoms into one, and as their single head,
had an opportunity of using effectually the information gathered
abroad.

Several additions were made to this, but the one most worthy notice,
was more than two centuries after. Edward the confessor, passed
twenty-seven years, from boyhood to middle age, at the court of Rouen;
indeed (according to Ingulphus,)

  "Paene in Gallicam transierat."

He therefore added to the polish, introduced by his predecessor,
though at so late an hour that the change for the better was scarcely
perceptible, before it merged in the more important one, introduced by
the Norman invasion.

I now proceed to an examination of poetry through ages of comparative
light. Although from the gradual intercourse between the two nations
prior to their amalgamation, no alteration of feeling or manners had
taken place, extensive enough to mark the "conquest" as a grand and
important era in the history of national customs, still many and
subtle changes were produced, bearing in no small degree upon the
subject before us.

The poetry of the Saxons was without rhyme, and the author of "an
essay on Chaucer," says, "without metre." The learned antiquary must
have attached a meaning to the word _metre_, wholly at variance with
that now and usually received. Metre (from the Greek [Greek: metron]
and Latin _metrum_) has several meanings, but scarcely distinct ones:
all may be included in that of 'an harmonious disposition of words.'
It is not enough to say that it differed from prose in being the
language of passion. The general rules by which we judge poetry, are
immutable, and equally applicable to that of Greeks, Saxons, and
modern English. Dr. Blair and his authorities, define poetry to be
"the language of passion metrically arranged," (I quote from memory)
and supported so ably, I will not consent to a halving of the
definition. The before mentioned Essayist on Chaucer, adduces the
"vision of Pierce Ploughman" as a specimen of the Saxon style of
poetry. And herein it becomes evident that he mistakes the meaning of
the word _metre_. For those old lines, composed about the middle of
the fourteenth century, are, notwithstanding the ancient mode of
writing without breaks or division into lines, beyond doubt capable of
being arranged in separate and distinct verses. I am not without
support in the opinion here given; Dr. Hickes[6] maintains that the
Saxons observed syllabic quantities "though perhaps not so strictly as
the Greek and Latin heroic poets." It may be asked how this comes to
be at all a question, since monuments of Saxon poetry still remain by
which we can judge. But it is no such easy matter to judge correctly.
Syllables were accented much at the whim of the versifyer; so much so
that general rules for the disposition of accent are little less than
useless. Add to this the common custom, before mentioned, of writing
poetry and prose alike; and when we remember that the object in view
is to ascertain the number and accentuation of syllables, the wonder
will disappear.

[Footnote 6: Pref. Sax. Gram.]

One among the earliest specimens of the use of rhyme in the Island of
Great Britain, is to be found in the Saxon Chronicle. The author says
that he himself had seen the Conqueror, and we may thence infer that
the lines were written in the reign of William Rufus, or at farthest
in that of his brother and successor Henry. It may be as well before
quoting this literary curiosity, to notice a distich in itself
trifling, and only worth noticing as the very earliest specimen of
Saxon Rhyme, on record.

Aldred, Archbishop of York, threw out two rhyming verses against one
_Urse_, sheriff of Worcestershire, not long after the conquest:

  "_Hatest thou Urse--Have thou God's curse._"
  _Vocaris Ursus--Habeas dei maledictionem._

William of Malmsbury, who has preserved this precious morsel, says
that he inserts this English, "_quod Latina verba non sicut Anglica
concinnati respondent_." The _concinnity_ I presume consisted in the
rhyme, and would scarcely have been deemed worth repeating if rhyme in
English had not been a rare thing. It is quite apparent that rhyme and
an improved metre were introduced by the Normans, among whom
composition in their own dialect had been long before attempted in
imitation of the jingling Latin rhythm.

The lines in the Saxon Chronicle to which I have referred, are a
comment upon the changes effected by William. I will set them down in
legible characters.

  Thet he nam he rihte
  And mid mycelan un-rihte
  He foette mycel deor-frith
  And he loegde laga therwith--
  He forbead the heortas
  Swylce Eac tha baras;
  Swa swithe he lufode the hea-deor
  Swylce he waere heora faeder,
  Eac he sætte be tham haran,
  That hi mosten freo faran.--

This may be translated after somewhat the following fashion: "He took
money by right and unright--He made many deer parks and established
laws by which," whosoever slew a hart or a hind was deprived of his
eye-sight--"He forbade men to kill harts or boars, and he loved the
tall deer as if he were their father. He decreed that the brindled
hares should go free."

In addition to these, Matthew Paris mentions a canticle which 'the
blessed Virgin' was pleased to dictate to Godric, a hermit near
Durham.

From this time to the reign of Henry II, which began in 1154, we find
no records of rhyming poetry. In that reign, one Layamon, a priest of
Ernleye, near Severn, as he terms himself, translated from the French
of Wace, a fabulous history of the Britons, entitled, "Le Bruit;"
which, Wace himself, about the year 1150, had translated from the
Latin of Geoffrey of Monmouth. This poem is for the most part after
the Old Saxon fashion, without rhyme, except so far as a jingle at
intervals may be so called. We next, if guided by the actual records
of written poetry, are forced to pass over an interval of 100
years--to the middle of Henry the third's reign. The reasons of this
gap are perhaps these--

The[7] scholars of the age affected to write in Latin--which they
called the universal language. The more skilful poets who lived, as is
usual with the race, upon the bounty of the great nobles, out of
compliment to these their Norman benefactors, framed their verse into
the Norman French; while the low and popular singers--then the only
true _English_ poets--left nothing worth preservation. I will pass on
hurriedly through this uninteresting portion of my slight history of
written poetry, to the nearest resting-place, and thence take a back
view of minstrelsy as nourished in the courts of the English Kings,
and principally in that of Richard Coeur de Lion.

[Footnote 7: The poems of this interval have been translated into the
English of Elizabeth's time, when the rage for gathering scraps of
ballad into "garlands" was at its full. It is, however, impossible to
distinguish them from the numerous pieces, really French--i.e. written
not only in the French language, but in France, bearing similar date,
and translated at the same time. It is impossible to draw hair lines
or any kind of lines between these; or if possible, needs a more
skilful antiquary, than the author of these cacoethes scribendi.]

In the reign of Henry III, we find that one Orm or Ormin, wrote a
paraphrase of the gospel histories, entitled, Ormulum. Hickes and
Wanley have both given large extracts from this, without discovering
that it was poetry. But a close examination will render evident to any
one, with any ear for metre, that the Ormulum is written very exactly,
in verses of fifteen syllables[8] without rhyme, in imitation of the
most common species of the Latin, tetrameter iambic. Another piece, a
moral poem on old age, bears date about the same reign; it is more
remarkable for a corrupt MS., from which the only print of the poem at
all common, seems to have been taken, than for any thing else.

[Footnote 8: This metre is the same metre with that of the Modern
Greeks, which Lord Byron tells us, shuffles on to the old tune: A
captain bold of Halifax, &c.]

The next interval from the end of Henry the third's reign, to the
middle of the fourteenth century, when Chaucer came upon the _dais_,
was filled up with a swarm of 'small poets.' These were principally
translators of popular poems from the Roman or French authors, and
their compositions were thence called _Romances_. They neither
improved on the material before gathered, nor added anything of value
to the store. And so we come to Geoffrey Chaucer--whence, let me recur
to another branch of the subject in hand.

I have said that minstrels were known among the Saxons before the
conquest, and that these were in high repute at the Saxon courts. That
Alfred himself was a poet, and on one occasion, a minstrel. The
Normans brought with them their harpers and troubadours[9] and the
profession received a great acquisition of strength and honor. Every
Baron had his own joculator, and we find amongst the records of the
Old English families, items of _largesse_ to wandering harpers. Such
were at all seasons welcomed by the feudal nobles--perhaps for the
same reason that our modern aristocrats of Virginia were
hospitable--from a love of news. Minstrels as news-gleaners--often
coming too from the royal court--were a source of entertainment to the
lords, who, immured in their solitary castles among swampy moors, or
perched on hill-tops almost inaccessible to man, seldom heard other
than an enemy at their gates.

[Footnote 9: Vid. the story of Taillefer--Du Cange.]

At the court of Henry I,--to whom Sir Walter Scott refers in those
lines of his rambling epistle to George Ellis--

  "But who shall teach my harp to gain
   A sound of the romantic strain,
   Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere
   Could win the royal Henry's ear,--
   Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved,
   The minstrel, and his lay approved?"

Minstrels and minstrelsy were especially favored.

Beauclerc--the most accomplished monarch of his day, so far as letters
were concerned, became by fellowship of feeling and taste, the patron
of all the caste. The court-fed minions, like the lizard whose color
depends on the species of grass or plant of which it eats, became of
course completely Norman in their feelings. Indeed the greater number
were Normans by birth and education, lured to the English court by the
ever ready bait of patronage; and those that were not, seeing that
these met with favor, imitated them in style and every thing else. The
'_Anglo_' might with propriety have been dropped in Sir Walter's verse
just quoted.[10]

[Footnote 10: It is a melancholy sight to see so exalted a class of
human beings, whether from necessity or not, forever debasing
themselves into servile dependency. Even Dante, whose lament that he
had to climb another's stair would seem the outbreak of an independent
spirit, could humble himself before a Guido.]

That the six kings following the conqueror were, with an exception,
completely Norman in their habits and predilections, we may easily
discover in the history of English law, traced back to its foundation
among the very roots of the feudal system. It was against Norman
innovation that the independent Barons of the thirteenth century
arose, and held John Lackland in duress until his name was affixed to
Magna Charta--a paper purporting to restore affairs to the state in
which Edward the Saxon left them. It was this same fondness for French
men and French rules that forced from Henry III a signature to the
same paper,--John having evaded his on plea of compulsion.

But, although extremely opposed to those principles of freedom which
Hengist and his followers had brought from the woods of Germany, and
which ages after marked England as a great and prosperous nation,
Norman ideas and sentiments were a southern sun to the growth of
poetry and other literature.

I have mentioned Henry Beauclerc's love for these. After him, in the
struggles of the heroic Maud or Matilda, and in the turbulent reign of
the ill-fated Stephen, neither party had leisure for literary
pursuits. But in the reign of Henry II, love and poetry both received
countenance from that gallant monarch. His amours with Rosamond
Clifford of Woodstock, have been the theme of many a popular ballad.
Richard Coeur de Lion, the knight errant king,[11] and king of knight
errants, invited the most famous of the Provencal bards to his court.
_Ubi mel ibi apes_, and London was soon a theatre crowded with
troubadours warm from the feet of the Pyrenees and banks of the Rhone.
The whispers of the sunny Provencal love-ditty were breathed upon the
rough ballad spirit of an earlier time,--mellowing that spirit, and
adding to its former dauntlessness the gloss of polish and
refinement.--Richard was himself a troubadour; and though at the
present day his deeds of verse would damn a schoolboy, they were then
thought worthy of being coupled with his deeds in arms.

[Footnote 11: Richard was truly a king _errant_,--for he spent
scarcely one out of the ten years of his reign, in England.]

Many romantic traditions have been handed down to us of that
adventurous monarch and Blondel de Nesle, his favorite minstrel. We
read in the records of our ancient chroniclers, a simple tale of the
latter's long pilgrimage in search of the captive king his master. How
Blondel came one evening as the sun went down among the hills of the
Rhine, to the solitary castle of Trifels, where the monarch lay in a
damp cold dungeon. How he seated himself at the dungeon grate, and
taking his harp from his shoulder, began a song which Richard and he
had made together in Palestine; and how the overjoyed king took up the
words as they reached his ear, and chanted to the top of his full
voice in answer. And farthermore, how Blondel returned to England, and
went 'shoonless and unhooded' through all parts of the land, until the
captive's loyal subjects were aroused; and until the great ransom was
gathered together by which those subjects bought his freedom. Many
such stories are told of the time of the chivalric Richard; and the
devoted fidelity of his dependents will ever be a bright spot on the
page of that history into which their names have stolen, and through
which they are now receiving--reward dearest to noble
spirits,--virtuous and stainless renown.

In the reign of John Lackland, the minstrels were the means of saving
the life and fortunes of an Earl of Chester, by stirring up the
rabble, who had gathered to a fair in the border of Wales, to go to
his rescue. This they did under one Dutton, at sight of whom and his
followers, the Welsh besiegers retired from before the Earl's castle.

In the time of Edward I, "a _multitude_ of minstrels attended at the
knighting of his son."

Under the reign of Edward II, such privileges were claimed by this
class, that it became necessary to restrain them by a particular
statute. Yet notwithstanding this, towards the latter part of this
reign, we find that the minstrels still retained the liberty of
entrance at will into the royal presence, and were still remarkable
for splendor of dress.

During the short rule of Richard II, John of Gaunt instituted a court
of minstrels at Tutbury in Staffordshire. They had a charter,
empowering them variously, and bestowing _inter alia_ the right of
appointing "a king of the minstrels with four subordinate officers."

Under the usurper Bolingbroke--Henry the Fourth--the profession
maintained its dignity and importance, and met with favor from king
and noble, notwithstanding the contempt of the stuttering Hotspur.

  I had rather be a kitten and cry--mew,
  Than one of these same metre ballad mongers;
  I had rather hear a brazen canstick turned
  Or a dry wheel grate on an axletree, Etc.

Alcibiades cried down lute playing--because, though he excelled his
comrades in beauty, eloquence, and gallantry, in this one little thing
his skill failed him. Percy "spoke thick" and so song did not suit
him. Even as late as Henry VIII, we find minstrels attached in
licensed capacities, to the households of the great nobles. But the
profession was fast sinking into disrepute; and in the great
entertainment at Kenilworth Castle in 1575, a caricature copy of the
old minstrel appeared among the sources of amusement prepared by the
gallant Leicester for his royal mistress.

Thus had the profession completed a circle, and, in name at least,
returned to its primitive state. Centuries before among the Saxons the
singer was called _mimus_, _joculator_, _histrio_, indiscriminately.
And though these words, like _parasite_, _demagogue_, _tyrant_,
_sophist_ and others, bore a respectable meaning at the period of
their first use, the minstrel in the course of time adapted himself to
the meaning which time and change had given them, and in the reign of
Elizabeth had become a mere '_jester_.' He turned the circle and went
back to the titles of his progenitors, adding to the ignominy of those
titles by wearing them. An act was at length passed, in the
thirty-ninth year of the queen just mentioned, classing "all wandering
minstrels, with rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars," and ordering
them to be punished as such. From this severe judgment, however,
those, attached by peculiar circumstances to the house of that Dutton
spoken of above as the preserver of Ranulph the last Earl of Chester,
were particularly excepted. This statute was the death blow to the few
remnants of the genuine old minstrelsy.

I can now proceed undividedly in tracing out my slight sketch of
English classic poets and written poetry.

Before I end this chapter, however, let me make a few remarks upon the
spirit prevalent among the English after the conquest.

In the scrap of Saxon poetry quoted above, the reader will perceive
that the chronicler mentions William's severe restrictions upon the
exercise of woodcraft in the wide waste lands of the escheated manors.
Following the same lines farther, we find in the old chronicle the
winding up words, which I will translate from the original. After
remarking that "he forbade men to kill harts or boars," the chronicler
adds, "Rich men bemoaned it and poor men shuddered at it. But he was
so stern and hot that he recked not the hatred of them all."

In consequence of these laws, Robinhoods and Littlejohns gathered in
the matted thickets, and among the oak glades on the banks of every
obscure lake and river, from the Thames to the Tweed. There was
something alluring in the romantic life of an outlawed forester, and
many a tall deer and bristling boar, died on the 'green shawe,'
against whom that law, intended as a shield, pointed the arrow.

Thus sprung up a race of men of whom the ballad makers delighted to
sing--coupling their names with 'Hereward the hardy outlaw' and the
patriot heroes of the ground and trampled Saxons.

That the introduction of Norman manners brought with it more
softness--a fact mentioned more than once--we may discover by
comparing the productions of those bards who in the same age, sung in
the rugged north country, and those who grew up in Kent and on the
Thames. These latter were for years before the Norman's coming,
receiving polish from their neighborhood, while those of
Northumberland retained much of their early rudeness ages after. The
bard who sings of the reyde on which

  "The Perse out off Northumberland"

went to be killed among the Cheviot hills, has more roughness as well
as more strength than any of his compeers on the Thames. This old poem
is an important stone in the temple of English literature, and I will
treat of it in due season, as coming within the pale of English
classic poetry. This polish and increased softness introduced by the
Normans, opened the eyes and ears of all to "the soother and
honeyeder" style of poetry. And, indeed, unless Lord Bacon's
remark,--that verse is a better balm than any the Egyptians knew, "for
that it not only preserveth the stateliness of the form and the color
of the face--which the Egyptian preservative doth not--but giveth to
the one tenfold stateliness and borroweth from the rose for the
other,"--be true, their women were passing stately and very beautiful.
There were the three Mauds, all queens and all heroines. There was the
proud yet "fair Rosamond," who forgot her pride in the arms of a royal
lover; and many another fitting sharer in immortality with the Elgivas
and Ediths of an earlier time.

Superstition too gave a tinge to poetry.--The Druids had left their
foot marks upon the soil, and the ancient rites and feelings cherished
in Wales--the last place of refuge for the injured Britons--still held
an undefined influence over the hearts of their neighbors. This
feeling blazed out for awhile, when the partisans of Henry slew Thomas
a-Becket, the "child of love and wonder,"[12] before the altar of St.
Bennet. And the murdered Archbishop was doubly canonized, in the holy
ritual of Rome, and in the songs of those whom his death had made
worshippers.

[Footnote 12: Sir J. Mackintosh tells an odd romance of the mother of
the celebrated Archbishop, whom he calls the "child of love and
wonder."]

But the greatest characteristic of the ballad, as used among the
Norman successors to the Saxons in England, was a love for the
legendary. Britagne--that country lying between the Loire and the
Seine, had been peopled by a body of British emigrants about the time
of the Saxon invasion under Hengist, and these calling themselves
_Armoricans_, settled quietly down in a strange land. They retained
many of their old British feelings, and when in the course of time
they became nearly amalgamated with their Norman neighbors, and
followed them into England, the old love of country revived and they
sung of King[13] Arthur and his knights as champions of their
forefathers. The strange legends of the early contests between Angles
and Britons, were mere clews to the discovery of a thousand others,
wholly unfounded in truth, yet none the less palatable to the
ignorant. This love of the legendary remains to this day among the
descendants of these people, and will, perhaps, never be obliterated.

[Footnote 13: "The words _Konung_, _Kyning_, _King_, _Kong_, _Koenig_,
and others like them in the Teutonic languages, denoted every sort of
command from the highest to that of a very narrow extent. It would be
a gross fallacy to understand these words in their modern sense, when
we meet them in Anglo-Saxon history."]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--I offer a very threadbare excuse for the publication of
the following verses. They are published "at the request of a friend,"
for whom, indeed, they were written. You have accused me of obscurity,
and to prevent a repetition of your censure, I will here add a scrap
of explanation. "The Last Indian" is something of a Salathiel; he has
survived his whole race. Stanza VI, refers to the Aztecs and other
tribes long ago extinct, and supposed to have lived once upon a time,
among the higher valleys east and west of the Mississippi. A second
and more hardy people, referred to in stanza V, perhaps drove the
Aztecs, as the Huns drove the Goths, southward, upon the rich regions
of Mexico. These dead Mexican tribes are described on their
return--led by a kind of _amor patriæ_ instinct--to their early homes
in the north.

Before ending this scrawl, I would correct an error into which you
have fallen with regard to my signature. "Zarry Zyle" should be

LARRY LYLE.


THE LAST INDIAN.

    Once more, and yet once more,
  I give unto my harp a midnight-woven lay;
    --I heard the ebon waters roar,
  I heard the flood of ages pass away.--_Kirke White_.


I.

  I slept beneath a tree one Summer eve,
  My couch a bed of blossom-beaded thyme,
  My roof the bough which spirit fingers weave,
  My slumber-song a brooklet's mellow chime:
  I dreamed--and far away thro' space and time,
  My liberated spirit joyfully
  Forth went--a pioneer well skilled to climb
  The cloudy crags and cliffs of mystery.
  I dreamed--I speak my dream; and canst thou read it me?

II.

  On the jagg'd summit of a mountain range,
  More azure than the blue sky, sternly stood--
  Like Sathanas of old--a wanderer strange,
  Drinking deep grief, as one who meets the flood
  Of bitterness in some parched solitude;
  Before him spread, in undulations vast,
  A Prairie sea, all isled with rock and wood;
  And young winds closed their wings above its breast,
  As faint bees close their wings when Summer days have passed.

III.

  The Sun had come--a weary traveller--
  Up o'er the hills of ether, for methought
  'Twas many thousand years since Lucifer
  Fell from his glory, and, with trial fraught
  And leaden labor, Time had weakness brought
  To Sun and Moon. Men saw the Sun upcome,
  And marvelled at its lustre: Sages sought
  That lustre's source, and said "at point of doom
  Mysterious fires full oft the closing eye illume."

IV.

  Methought a change came o'er the face of earth;
  Hill, plain, and hollow shook as with the throe
  Of mortal agony. The mountain girth
  Shrunk, heaved, then burst asunder. In mad flow
  The waters of great lakes foamed, battling through
  Far scattered crags; and mighty rocks, down hurled
  From mountain tops, laid bare the volcano--
  The great volcano! and its flame unfurled,
  Streamed redly, wrathfully, above the reeling world.

V.

  A voice went forth, far louder than the roar
  Of bounding rivers; and the summons broke
  The deep sleep of earth's dead. Each burial shore
  And tree-robed mound in groaning travail shook,
  And giant skeletons from death awoke.
  Barbarians seemed they, armed with spear and bow;
  And thro' their ribs as thro' the winter oak
  Winds whistled; while from bone lips evermo'
  Uptrembled hollowly, horn murmurs, faint and low.

VI.

  And, from the charnel valleys of the South,
  A multitude, vast, vast beyond compare,
  Moved darkly onward. Song and shout uncouth,
  Betokened their wild joy; while on the air,
  Forgotten instruments breathed music rare--
  Sweet unknown tunes, as soft as hymn of rills.
  The Mammoth and the Mastodon were there,
  All yoked;--and then I heard far-groaning wheels:
  The tomb had gaped--the dead tribes sought their early hills!

VII.

  Amid the groan and rumbling heave of earth,
  And noise of waters, came each silver tone.
  But ere my wonder ceased, a storm had birth,
  And rattling thunder mingled with the moan
  And sob of nature. O'er car--skeleton--
  A cloud-veil passed and hid them from my sight;
  While o'er that cloud, far on a mountain throne,
  A city rocked--illumined by the light
  Of its own burning towers--fit type of frail man's might!

VIII.

  And then the Sun waxed dim. The red Moon rode
  Above the trembling nations, with an eye
  Of wrath and anguish, and a brow of blood--
  While one by one, afar, in the dun sky
  The stars went out, as dew-drops, when winds sigh,
  From grass and flower and thin leaf disappear.
  Then no man saw the Sun! but still on high
  The great Moon rode; and, ever redly clear,
  Glared thro' thick fog and mist, till men grew dumb with fear.

IX.

  The wanderer looked forth tremblingly, and lo!
  A wide winged Eagle on the darkness came.
  Her brood had died,--all died! and wild with wo
  And reckless wrath, that terror might not tame--
  Chasing the swart cloud from her eye of flame--
  She sought the summit of that lonely peak.
  She saw the Red Man, and with joyous scream,
  Claimed fellowship; but to her iron beak
  A single death-flash leapt, and wreathed her scornful neck.

X.

  Innumerable mounds belched lurid streams,
  And poured, in hot black showers, the cinder-rain;
  I gazed and saw, as high the forked gleams
  Sprang piercingly thro' volumed smoke again,
  Earth's wan-faced myriads. From the Ocean-plain
  Her living tribes had flown, to seek the light
  And safety of that adamantine chain,
  In shivering crowds; and wildered with affright,
  They toiled in throngs to reach the mountain's farthest height.

XI.

  And one, more daring, stood upon the brink
  Of a volcano,--and his scathed hand raised,
  Dripping with hissing lava. Some would shrink;
  And many called on God; while some, amazed,
  Stood statuelike: and some in madness seized
  With Vampyre tooth, and laid their full veins bare.
  And one--a blue-eyed maiden--upward gazed
  In speechless wo, while gleamed her long fair hair
  And ghastly cheek, beneath that flame's unearthly glare.

XII.

  Methought, pale girl, that thou wert of the line
  Of her I loved; and tears flowed full and fast,
  To see a form so beautiful as thine
  In the Volcano's death-light. This soon passed!
  Again with strength I heard and saw. A blast
  From unseen horn, rang wildly o'er the herd
  Of dead and living men: The myriad vast
  Wailed moaningly when each the strange blast heard,
  And dead and living stood with stony brows upreared.

XIII.

  Earth heaved anew, and toppling crags fell down
  In darkness. Rivers turned and fled the main--
  And galloping--like startled steeds back thrown
  By some strong rampart--rushed in fear again
  To their far founts, o'erwhelming rock and plain.
  The fiend Tornado shrieked and wrung the wood,
  Old Earth's scorched locks--until her ory brain
  Lay shelterless and bare: while beryl-hued
  And bubbling streams, breast, cheek, and cloven brow imbrued.

XIV.

  Mine eye waned slowly into wakefulness;
  The wild forms of my dream waxed faint and dim;
  But ere they fled, methought the pallid race
  Had crumbled into ashes; while o'er him,
  Last of the injured, twin in death with time--
  A strong joy swept. Woe's furrow had been ploughed
  Deep in his heart; he was avenged!
                                     As swim
  O'er Autumn skies the fleets of shattered cloud,
  So swam those scenes and passed. I turned and sobbed aloud.

XV.

  A purfled Oreole sate upon a bough
  Above me, and with gentle carollings
  Shook the still air; e'er raining on my brow
  The dewy globules, with her restless wings:
  I love the bird,--I love the song she sings!
  For that I heard it by a lonely stream
  In days, when love and hope were rainbow things:
  The sweet bird soothed me, but my brain will teem
  Full many a mirthless eve, with fragments of that dream!

_Winchester, Va._




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WILLIAMSBURG BIRTH NIGHT BALL.

MR. WHITE,--From all I can learn, your "Messenger" seems to give
general and increasing satisfaction in this quarter: to use a French
phrase, _tout le monde en dit du bien_. Though it is not probable any
thing so light and playful, (and particularly at this late period of
the month,) should obtain admission into its columns, yet, as one or
two stanzas of the annexed _metrical_, have some how or other found
their way into the newspapers, I have at last succeeded in procuring a
copy of _the whole_, that you may exercise your own discretion in
respect to its insertion. It originated as follows: Some young ladies
of your place, during a visit to Williamsburg to attend the
_Birth-night Ball_, &c. received from an accomplished female friend at
Richmond, a charming poetical letter, describing _a musical party_ at
which she had assisted; and narrating in a familiar, agreeable manner,
the principal incidents that had occurred in their absence. The
following lines were composed, as a _response_ to this lively and
entertaining communication:--


WINTER SCENES AT WILLIAMSBURG.


  Your letter, dear Mary, tho' resting so long,
    Without a response, gave us infinite pleasure;
  For seldom indeed, in the language of song,
    And verse of so beautiful, smooth-flowing measure,
  Have we met with the news and events of the day,
  Reported and told, in so pleasing a way--
  Is it _thus_, that the _Muses_ to each other write,
  And render e'en _absence_, a source of delight?

  _Euterpe_, perhaps, (ever partial, they say
    To a _musical_ fête,) your concert attended,
  And pleased with your talent to sing and to play,
    Thought _music_ with _poetry_ happily blended--
  And so, when you took up the pen to prepare
  An account of your party, to make it more rare,
  Bade you write it _in verse_--and _assisted_ you too,
  To get up a style, so romantic and new.

  Be this as it may--'tis certain that such
    As have been indulged with a sight of your letter,
  _Sans compliment_, all, have admired it much,
    And say, of its kind, that they never read better.
  But how can _we_ answer, in similar style,
  A missive like yours?--we are sure you will smile
  At our awkward and feeble attempt to compose,
  An answer in verse, in our accent of prose.

  But smile, if you please--even laugh, if you choose--
    We _must_ make an effort to put rhymes together,
  To give you some _items_ of Williamsburg news,
    And tell you how well we got thro' the cold weather:
  In converse and reading, we passed with delight,
  The keen winter morning, the long winter night,
  With a family never surpassed upon earth,
  In kind hospitality, virtue and worth.

  'Tis said, this _old city_ has seen its best days--
    We cannot think so--its present possessors
  Are subjects of just admiration and praise--
    Whether _Judges_ or _Lawyers_, or learned _Professors_--
  All mingle with freedom and ease in the throng,
  And move in the current of fashion along;
  At the _ball_, or the _board_, or the cheery _fire side_,
  Society's ornament, pleasure and pride.

  "And are there no _Doctors_ (perhaps you exclaim)
    Distinguished by talents and virtues and merit?"
  O yes, there are several; whom if we but _name_,
    Or mention their liberal and generous spirit,
  "The Messenger's" Critic may cry out--"O fie!
  _Who ever blamed Hercules?_" Subjects so high,
  Like Washington, need not a line to exalt
  Their virtues and worth--_Who ever blamed G----?_

  The fear we suggest, of the "Messenger's" lash,
    As you well may imagine, is merely pretension;
  Its _Critics_ at monarch-like _Hickories_ dash,
    And smile at _flowret_ or _shrub's_ apprehension--
  _Palmettoes_ escape too! but, _Party_, away!
  'Tis time, to the _birthnight_ our homage to pay;
  E'en _the Critic_ himself, we hope may agree
  To spare our "_Sic semper_--PATRI PATRIÆ!"

  The ball of the _birthnight_, on Monday took place,
    And, once more, the hall of the _ancient Apollo_,
  Assembled a train of youth, beauty, and grace,
    In which, well escorted, we ventured to follow:
  _Professors_ and _students_, the _bench_ and the _bar_,
  The _single_ and _married_ of both sexes, _there_,
  In mirth and good humor, the hours employed,
  Partook of the _dance_, or the _music_ enjoyed.

  The _supper_ was _superabundant_--in fine,
    No _gourmand_ complained of a scanty provision
  Of flesh, fish, or fowl--or of excellent wine,
    Which _Bacchus's_ tribe thought a charming addition;
  But the _nymphs_ and the _graces_ impatiently flew
  To the ball room again, the _dance_ to renew;
  And thoughtless of sleep or repose, in their glee,
  Kept it up, it is said, till full _two_ or _three_.

  Of the cake, fruit, and wine, there yet was such store,
    Laid in and prepared for the festive occasion,
  That the Managers thought of _a hop or two_ more,
    As a matter of justice and easy persuasion;
  So, on several nights, the beauty and grace
  Of the young and the old that distinguish the place,
  With music and dancing enlivened the hall,
  Till the close of the week, gave repose to us all.

  All needed it much; for a deep fall of snow,
    Fatigued as we were, to _sleighing_ invited--
  And who could refuse, pray, a gallant young _beau_,
    _Alcibiades_ like, with _driving_ delighted?--
  Thro' the streets, and _around and around_ on the _square_,
  For the _belles_ and the _bells_, were all gathered _there_,
  What racing--what contests _Olympic_ were seen,
  On the snow-white expanse of the _cidevant_ green!

  We have not half finished the _sleighing_ affair,
    With some other topics of social diversion,
  But here we must stop--as we now must prepare
    For a trip to old _York_, on a pleasure excursion--
  We _wish_ you were with us. Your eloquent pen
  Might _there_ find a scene to amuse us again,
  With lively description of things "old and new"--
  But the carriage is waiting; so, dear girl, _adieu!_




UNREASONABLE WISHES.

The subjoined _morceau_ is worthy notice. Many grave essays have been
written upon the vanity and unreasonableness of human wishes; but it
would seem, without much effect. The rhapsodies of lovers in the olden
time were thought sufficiently extravagant, and their wishes have been
quoted as the very essence of inordinate imaginations: in fact,
Shakspeare has classed the lover and the madman together:

  "The lunatic, the lover and the poet,
   Are of imagination all compact:
   One sees more devils than vast hell can hold--
   That's the madman--the other all as frantic
   Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt," &c.

Yet the old fashioned lovers kept some rule in their imaginary
desires, when compared with the vast conception of our correspondent.

  "Ye Gods! annihilate both time and space,
   And make two lovers happy"--

and the passionate exclamation of Romeo,

  "Oh that I were a glove upon that hand!
   That I might kiss that cheek!"

were thought wild enough for those more stoical times. But it seems
that the march of improvement is onward in love-making, as well as in
road-making, as we will trust our correspondent's effusion to show.

       *       *       *       *       *

  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MISS S---- S----


  Would that thou were some isle, my love,
    And I the wave that bound thee,
  With naught but Heaven's pure sky above,
    And I sole guard around thee.

  Then in one fond and long embrace,
    Through calm and storm I'd cheer thee,
  And bless the wind, that face to face,
    Had brought me still more near thee.

_Norfolk, April 9, 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE BROKEN HEART.

  I come, a stricken Deer,
  Bearing the heart midst crowds that bled,
  To bleed in stillness here.--_Mrs. Hemans_.


  I come to my home in the forest shade,
  By the summer boughs in their minglings made,
  To my own bright hills and their clear blue sky,
  With a broken heart in their stillness to die.

  I come from the midst of a changing world,
  And the banners of Hope in my bosom lie furled;
  I bring from the spoiler a mournful token,--
  The unfledged wing of my soul is broken.

  There is weight on my spirit too painful to bear--
  A feeling of gloom that corrodes like despair;
  And the Rose's rich hue and the Violet's bloom,
  Whisper we're nursed but to fade at thy tomb.

  And there comes a sound on the murmuring breeze,
  As it creeps thro' the boughs of a thousand trees,
  And it echoes back from the stars of night
  And the placid lake, like a mirror bright,

  "Thou art not for earth! thou art not for earth!
  And thou bearest no part in its gladness and mirth;
  Its moments of pleasure have ages of care!
  And the love which thou seekest is never found there!"

  And Spring shall return with its leaves and flowers,
  And the song of birds to the woodland bowers;
  To me they shall be as to one that's departed--
  There is rest in the grave for the broken hearted.

S. W. W.

_Raleigh, N. C._




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A DISCOURSE

On the Progress of Philosophy, and its Influence on the Intellectual
and Moral Character of Man; delivered before the Virginia Historical
and Philosophical Society, February 5, 1835. By _George Tucker_,
Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Virginia.


_Mr. President, and Gentlemen of the Society_:--

I feel the weight of the task I have undertaken to perform, the more
sensibly, when I recollect the brilliant qualifications of the
member[1] who was the first choice of the society, and that I must
disappoint the expectations which that choice so naturally raised. The
grave and sober speculations which I am about to submit to your
consideration will, I fear, but poorly compensate those who hear me,
for the graces of elocution, the rich, but chaste imagery, and the
rare felicity of diction by which that gentleman is distinguished; and
I regret on your account, as well as my own, that he has thus
unexpectedly failed to fulfil the wishes of his associates.

[Footnote 1: James McDowell, Esq. of Rockbridge.]

I have thought it would not be unappropriate to the occasion, to
present to the society some views of the influence which philosophy
has exercised, and must continue to exercise, over civilized man.
Amidst the din of political controversy, and the bustling concerns of
life, it is well sometimes to withdraw our thoughts from the
tumultuous scenes around us to the calm views of rational speculation.
Our minds may be not merely refreshed by the change, but they are
likely to acquire elevation and purity in being thus severed from
sordid and selfish pursuits, and made to contemplate human concerns in
the transparent medium of truth and philosophy.

_Philosophy!_ a term to which some attach a mysterious import, as
implying a kind of knowledge unattainable except by a few gifted
minds--whilst others regard it as more an object of aversion than of
affection,--inculcating a system of thought and action equally at war
with nature and common sense,--as a perversion of human reason and
feeling, at once cold and repulsive to others, and profitless to the
possessor. This is not the philosophy of which I propose to speak, but
her counterfeit; which, being as bold and forward as the other is
modest and retiring, has made herself more known to the world than the
character she personates, and has thus brought discredit on the name.

By philosophy, I mean that power of perceiving truths which are not
obvious--of seeing the complicated relations of things, and of seeing
them as they really are, unperverted by passion or prejudice. So far
from being repugnant to nature and common sense, it constantly appeals
to these for the justness of its precepts. It is indeed _Reason_,
exercising its highest attributes in the multifarious concerns of
human life. Such was the philosophy of Newton and Locke, and of our
own illustrious Franklin.

It will be the object of the following remarks to show, that this
philosophy is gradually increasing and diffusing itself over the
world; that it now mingles in all human concerns, and gives to the
present age its distinguishing characteristics; that its progress must
still continue, and more and more influence the character of man and
civilized society; and that in no country is its influence likely to
be more extensively or beneficently felt than in this.

The most superficial observer must be struck with the prodigious
advancement of the human intellect, when he compares the opposite
extremes of society. The savage, when his mind is roused from a state
of apathy, passes into one of strong emotion; for he is capable of
intense feelings, but not of profound and comprehensive thought. He
knows but few facts; and they have not that variety and complexity
which distinguish the knowledge of the civilized man. All that he sees
and hears, is heard and seen by the men of civilization; but to this
the latter is always adding the perception of new and intricate
relations, of which the former is incapable. Thus, compare the
knowledge of the relations of numbers possessed by one who barely
knows how many fives there are in twenty, with that of him who can
mark out the paths of the planets, calculate their mutual attractions,
and predict a distant eclipse to a minute; or the few and simple rules
of justice among a tribe of savages, to the intricate and multifarious
codes of civilized society; nay, extend the comparison to any other
department of human knowledge, and there will be found the same
difference between the two, as exists between the wigwam of mud or
bark, without a door, window or chimney, and the solid and spacious
hall in which we are assembled. Nor is this all; for as the reason, in
common with every other faculty, is strengthened by exercise, the
severer and more incessant exercise to which it is subjected by the
multiplication of new relations, is constantly increasing the
authority of reason, and weakening the dominion of the passions and
prejudices.

The mind therefore becomes, with the progress of civilization, more
capable of perceiving relations--more imbued with a knowledge of these
relations--more comprehensive--more capable of making remote
deductions. It perceives more truths that are complex and
difficult--and has more capacity to detect illusion and error. We thus
see human reason gradually extending its empire, successfully
assailing former prejudice, and fashioning human institutions to
purposes of utility. We see men more and more inclined to value every
object only in proportion as it conduces to the happiness of the
greater number; and to consider nothing as permanently connected with
that happiness, but what gives gratification to the senses without
debasing them; to the intellect without misleading it; and to the
passions when fulfilling their legitimate objects. It is thus we see
each succeeding generation regarding with indifference, and even with
contemptuous ridicule, what commanded the veneration of a former age.

It would exceed the limits of such a discourse as the present to give
even an outline of the advancement of reason, as exhibited in the
various branches of science. Nor is it necessary. It will be
sufficient for us to give our attention to some few striking facts in
the progress of science and art, especially in those cases which being
more recent, are at once better known to us, and have a nearer
relation to our interests. Let us turn to any department of human
knowledge or inquiry, and we see the clearest manifestations of the
growing philosophical spirit of which I speak.

If we look at the character of civil government, we find that every
revolution--every important change--is the result of the progress of
philosophy--of the extension of the empire of reason. Once kings were
regarded as deriving their power not from the consent of the people,
but immediately from the Deity. They were said to be the Lord's
anointed; and implicit obedience--unresisting submission to the
mandate of the sovereign, was enjoined not merely as a civil, but as a
religious duty.

In two out of the four quarters of the world, we all know how much
these opinions are changed; and that there, with the thinking portion
at least, government is now regarded as an institution created solely
for the happiness of the people; that they are the judges of what
constitutes that happiness; and that government may be changed, either
as to its form or agents, whenever it is proved incapable of
fulfilling its main purpose. This principle of reason and common sense
caused and justified the establishment of the Commonwealth in England;
the restoration of the monarchy; the subsequent revolution in 1688;
the American revolution in 1776; the French revolution of 1789, under
all its various phases; and that which produced a change of dynasty in
1830. We have seen the operation of the same principle in separating
the Spanish provinces on this continent from the mother country. We
have seen it in the separation of Belgium from Holland, and in the
liberation of Greece from the Turkish yoke.

Every subordinate institution too, is now judged according as it tends
to promote the welfare of the community; and the notion of rights of
particular classes and orders of men, farther than they can be shown
to rest on this foundation, is deemed presumptuous and absurd. Even
the rights of property itself, the most sacred of any, because they
are the most obvious and are possessed by a greater number, are
derived from the same source, and are regulated and controlled by it.
Every tax in a popular government--every restriction on the free use
of one's own,--whether it be in the form of a prohibition against
gaming, or of laying out a new road, or of an inspection law,
recognizes this principle. It governs legislatures in conferring
rights as well as abridging them. They all find their authority and
justification in the public good; nor does any one now attempt to
resist a tax or defend a privilege, but by appealing to this great
test of right, the interests of the community.

You see too in jurisprudence, that all those principles which grow out
of barbarous usages, or were the result of accident, or of mistaken
theory, are gradually made to give way to the light of reason and the
spirit of philosophy. They conform more and more to the common sense
and common feelings of mankind. Crimes which once incurred the
severest penalties of the law, are crimes no longer; modes of trial
originating in superstition have been abolished; many of the frivolous
niceties of pleading, or rules founded on a state of things which no
longer exist--such as that which excluded written testimony from the
common law courts, and which, like noisome weeds, choked up the
administration of justice, have been eradicated, in spite of the cry
which always will be raised against innovation, and which some of our
best principles, as well as our weakest prejudices, concur in raising.

Nor have we yet reached the end of this course of salutary reform. The
administration of justice may be still more simple; and though the
rules of property and of civil rights must always be numerous and
complicated in a civilized community, yet this necessity furnishes a
further reason why the modes of investigating truth and the rules of
evidence should possess all practicable simplicity. The spirit of
philosophy has been actively at work here. In some instances, perhaps,
it has been too far in advance of the age, and under the influence of
the pride of discovery and reform, or provoked by opposition, it may
have been urged farther than reason and propriety would warrant. It
has, however, arraigned the whole system of judicial evidence, and
endeavored to show that the rules for the examination of contested
facts are so erroneous or defective, that the truth is commonly
discovered better out of court than in it; and that questions about
which all the world is satisfied, when technically examined by
tribunals created purposely for their investigation, either receive no
answer, or a wrong one. The official expounders of the law, partaking
of the liberal spirit of the age, have of late years greatly narrowed
the objections to the competency of witnesses; but it is only the
legislature and public opinion which are adequate to a complete
reform, and they will one day assuredly bring it.

There is much seeming force in many of the other objections of the
reformers to the present very artificial and complicated system of
jurisprudence; but whether their views are satisfactory or otherwise,
they equally serve to show the prevalent disposition of men to bring
all human concerns to the bar of reason, and make them submit to her
decrees.

There is nothing in which the progress of reason and philosophy are
more shown, than in the subject of religion. A large part, perhaps I
may say, the best part of religion, as it is most productive of good
results, is the religion of the heart; and consists in a profound and
thorough sense of the wisdom and beneficence of the Creator--of
thanksgiving for the blessings he has vouchsafed to frail and humble
beings like ourselves--to vigorous self-examinations by our own
conscience--to fervent aspirations after moral excellence in this
life, and a purer and higher state of existence hereafter. But all of
these are impulses of the feelings, rather than the cold dictates of
the reasoning faculty; and being dependant on the laws of our
emotions, which are as unchangeable as our forms, and probably as much
the result of organization, are the same in character, if not in
degree, in every stage of society.

But while philosophy has not altered, and could not alter these
impulses of the heart, we may see here also its benignant operations.
It has driven away from religion the superstitions which fraud and
credulity combined had gathered around it. Man no longer imputes to
the Deity the same violent and ignoble passions by which the baser
part of his own nature is agitated; and instead of regarding cruelty
and vengeance as attributes of the Supreme Being, he is invested with
those qualities which appear to our feeble conceptions more consonant
with divine perfection. Thus mercy to human frailty and pity for human
suffering, are regarded as divine attributes no less than wisdom and
power. On the part of its votaries, humility is invoked to take the
place of pride; forgiveness of injuries to supersede resentment;
meekness and patience and long suffering are held to indicate a truer
devotion than pompous rites and vain ceremonies; and instead of
incense and sacrifices, good deeds to his fellow mortals, and a lowly
and penitent spirit, are deemed the most acceptable offerings which
man can make to his Creator. In this transformation, Mr. President,
you recognize the leading precepts of christianity, which may well be
called the most philosophical of all religions.

It is true that after this religion became the creed of those northern
barbarians, who poured like an avalanche over the south of Europe,
christianity became greatly perverted from its original simplicity and
purity; but it was not destined to remain forever shrouded in these
mists of barbarism. After the growing spirit of philosophy prepared
men's minds for its reception and welcome, it broke forth in its
pristine beauty and splendor. The further continuance of the abuses of
the christian church was inconsistent with the increase of general
intelligence; and the reformation must have taken place had Martin
Luther never existed, or had the Dominican friars never carried on the
traffic in _indulgences_; though it might not have happened at the
precise time, or in the precise manner in which it did occur.

In truth, man's religion, as well as every thing else relative to his
opinions and feelings, partakes of the character of the age; and we
are warranted in saying, that the christian religion in the middle
ages must as necessarily have been subject to its corruptions, its
superstitions, and its persecutions, among a people so rude as that
which then swayed the destinies of Europe, as that after the discovery
of the art of printing, the revival of letters, and the general
progress of science and philosophy, these foul exhalations should
disappear.

It has been supposed, that the spirit of philosophy which has been so
hostile to superstition, is also unfavorable to true religion; and
many, listening to their fears rather than their reason, have readily
yielded to that opinion. But they have been too hasty in drawing
general conclusions from particular facts. It is true that many of the
philosophers of France, and some of those of Great Britain, during the
last century, were not only opposed to the prevailing creeds of their
country, but seemed to have no very fervid religious feelings of any
kind; but they were led first to make war on what they regarded as the
abuses of religion, and then their attacks appear to be levelled
against every thing which bore its name. It is highly probable that,
by a natural process of the mind, from coming to hate the corruptions
of christianity, they felt a prejudice against every thing which was
associated with it. But on the other hand, we have seen some,
occupying the very highest places in the scale of philosophers, who
were sincere and zealous christians. Besides, the present age, which
is the most philosophical the world has ever seen, is also the most
generally and ardently devoted to christianity, as is evinced by the
extraordinary number of Churches, Bible Societies, Missionary
Societies, Sunday Schools, &c. Let then the sincerely devout and pious
dismiss their fears. The foundations of religion are seated in the
very nature and constitution of man; in the deepest recesses of his
heart. It is a want of his moral nature, as indispensable as food to
his physical; and philosophy tends only to separate it from a part of
the dross with which every thing earthly more or less mingles, and to
leave its own pure essence undiminished and untouched.

Let us now pass to the subject of literature, where we shall see the
same evidences of the growing influence of philosophy and reason over
the minds of men. Thus poetry, in its efforts to please and elevate
the mind, by exciting the imagination and feelings, now never
addresses us unattended by philosophy. Her favorite occupation of late
has been to delineate the dispositions and characters of men; to
reveal the secret workings of the passions and the sources of human
sympathy; to exhibit the human mind, in short, under its most
impressive phases. The prevalent taste of the age is for metaphysical
poetry; by which I mean, poetry imbued with philosophy,--poetry which
lays bare the anatomy of the human heart, and discloses all the
springs and machinery by which it is put in play. Those who are gifted
with this beautiful talent, have conformed to the ruling taste, and
their success has been proportionate. It is to this circumstance that
Byron owes part of his popularity; for in exhibiting the most subtle
processes of human passion, its energies and its susceptibilities, he
is superior to any of his predecessors; though in the mere
embellishment of smooth and felicitous diction, and of agreeable and
varied rhythm, or even in the higher attributes of lively imagery and
lofty conception, he can boast of no superiority. Perhaps it would be
more correct to say, that the metaphysical character of his poetry
proceeded not so much from his wish to adapt it to the public taste,
as because he himself partook of the character of his age; that he
wrote metaphysically and philosophically because he spoke and thought
in this way, and he so spoke and thought from the very same causes as
his contemporaries.

This inference is the more warranted, when we find the same tincture
of philosophy in the poetry of his contemporaries,--Southey,
Wordsworth, Campbell and Coleridge.[2] Even Moore infuses into his
amatory poems as much philosophy as the subject will admit, though it
is of the sensual school of Epicurus. Sometimes we see the spirit of
philosophy controlling the poetic spirit, as was the case with
Shelley, Coleridge and some others, in whose poetry the precepts of
philosophy were more obscured by the restraints of verse than aided by
its ornaments. It is an unnatural alliance, and both the poetry and
the philosophy are the worse for the union.

[Footnote 2: The recent poetry of continental Europe exhibits the same
psychological character; as for instance, that of Alfieri and Monte in
Italy, of Goethe and Tieck in Germany, and of Beranger in France.]

In other works of imagination, those intended for the stage, and in
the region of romance, we see the same proofs of the progress of
philosophy. Walter Scott's novels are, throughout, the same
exhibitions of man, whether acting, speaking or thinking, which a
philosopher would take. We are made to see, not by the formality of an
instructor, or the impertinence of a _cicerone_, but by the consummate
fidelity and skill of the representation, every motive and passion of
the actors laid open to our view, and in strict conformity to what we
had often previously observed, though we may not have made it the
special subject of reflection. There never was before so much
philosophy taught by one writer, or taught in so pleasing a mode, or
taught to so many disciples.

Such a gallery of moral pictures could not have been created before
the nineteenth century; and though they had been, they would not have
met with the same unbounded popularity, but, like Milton's Paradise
Lost, would have been in advance of the spirit of the age.

In the drama, the plays of Joanna Baillie, and of Byron, are the most
metaphysical of all dramatic productions--so much so, as to make them
unsuited either to the tastes or capacities of a promiscuous audience.
The tragedies of Voltaire are of a more philosophical character than
those of Racine or Corneille, and these again more philosophical than
the earlier productions of the French drama.

But it is in history that we most clearly perceive the spirit of the
age. Formerly it consisted in little more than a recital of the
actions of princes, public or private; and no occurrence in the annals
of a nation was deemed worthy of commemoration, except battles and
conquests, revolutions and insurrections--with now and then the notice
of a plague, famine, earthquake or other general calamity. Now,
however, the historian aims to make us acquainted with the progress of
society and the arts of civilization; with the advancement or decline
of religion, literature, laws, manners, commerce--every thing indeed,
which is connected with the happiness or dignity of man; he does this,
not only because he deems these subjects more worthy the attention of
an enlarged and liberal mind, but also because we can, from a faithful
narrative of these events, traced out from their causes, and to their
effects, learn the lessons of wisdom--and seeing the approach of evil,
be better able to avert or mitigate it. It is in this spirit that all
history must now be written, to be approved or even read.

In the study of language, we perceive the same evidences of our
intellectual advancement. By arranging the elements of speech
according to the physical organs employed in their utterance, great
light has been thrown on etymology, and in this way, affinities have
been traced, first among languages, and through them among nations
apparently unconnected. And as all language consists of _signs_ of our
mental operations, the general principles of grammar have been sought
in the laws of the mind; while language in turn, has been sometimes
successfully invoked to explain those laws; and thus philology and
mental philosophy have assisted in elucidating each other.

This branch of philosophy (which treats of our mental faculties) has
not indeed made as much progress as many others; for it admits not the
discovery of new facts. But neither has _this_ been stationary. Great
improvements have been made in analyzing its compound states; in
separating its original from its derivative properties; in tracing
many seemingly diverse operations to one simple principle. To be
convinced of this improvement, we have only to regard the theory of
associations as it now is, compared with the slight and vague notice
of it by Locke; or advert to the opinions of the same eminent man on
the foundation of morals. He maintained that there was no original
propensity in mankind to approve one action as virtuous, and another
as vicious; and that there was no practical principle which was
approved or condemned by all nations. He even denied that parental
affection, the strongest feeling in the maternal bosom, was an
original feeling. He refers to the inventions of travellers in support
of his theory, and was as credulous of the anomalous facts they
related, as he was skeptical of innate propensities. Thus he says: "It
is familiar among the Mingrelians, a people professing christianity,
to bury their children alive without scruple; he asserts that the
Caribbees were wont to fat and eat their own children;" and that a
people of Peru who followed this practice, used, when by the course of
nature they no longer had a prospect of more children to eat, "to kill
and eat the mothers."

A more intimate acquaintance with the people of this globe, and juster
modes of reasoning, have dissipated these illusions; and if I mistake
not, the laws of the mind will, in no distant day, be traced with an
accuracy and precision little inferior to those which prevail in most
branches of physics.

In the science of political economy too, we see the advance of the
light of philosophy. The errors which were the result of general and
deep-rooted prejudices, have yielded to the force of reason; and all
enlightened men now agree that nothing is so injurious to national
prosperity as too much regulation; and that the desire which mankind
have to increase their means of enjoyment, operates more unceasingly,
and sagaciously, and beneficially, than any schemes of the government,
however vigilant, intelligent and free from bias; since governments at
best can operate only by general rules, which injure some in
benefiting others,--while the sagacity of individuals, with few
exceptions, devises the best rules for each particular case.

It was for philosophy also to discover the connection between good
government and the national prosperity, and that a community will have
the most industry, skill and thrift, where property is best
protected--where every one can freely exercise his talents or his
capital, and securely enjoy the fruits they have yielded. Philosophy,
or unprejudiced reason, if you prefer it, also refuted an error once
prevalent, that one country, or one part of a country, was injured by
another's welfare; and proved both by reasoning and example, that
every accession of wealth or prosperity, experienced by one portion,
radiates light and heat to all around it.

If the progress of philosophy, or human reason, has done so much in
the moral sciences, it has done yet more in the physical branches of
knowledge for the material world--more invites our attention and
speculation--is more within the reach of experiment, and the benefits
it confers are more direct and obvious. It would be foreign to my
purpose, if I were competent to the task, to mark the steps by which
man has passed from conjecture to certainly--from rash hypothesis to
theories founded on cautious observation and experiment--from
inquiries which, if successful, had only gratified curiosity, to
discoveries and improvements immediately conducive to the benefits of
society. To enable us to appreciate the advance of science, it is
sufficient for us to look at what the condition of man now _is_,
compared with what it _was_.

In whatever direction we turn our eyes, we behold some triumph of mind
over matter. We cannot see a ship, a book, a gun, a watch--scarcely
the commonest implement or utensil--without being made sensible of the
wonders achieved by human science and art,--the result of the combined
efforts of a thousand minds and ten thousand hands, embodied in a form
that has added incalculably to man's power and enjoyment. If we take
the departments of knowledge separately, we are filled with admiration
at the labor by which it has climbed, and the elevation it has
attained. Astronomy, not content with teaching us the motions of the
planets and moons of our system, and by them, enabling us to traverse
the pathless ocean with the certainty with which we travel by land--of
itself a glorious achievement of science--now undertakes to estimate
the weight and density of these bodies--their influence on one
another--of the smallest on the largest--the flight of comets, and
even some of the changes of position in the stars themselves. Optics
has taught us new laws of light, and has subjected the most subtle and
the most rapid body in nature to measurements, of as much certainty as
the gross portions of matter. We now know the weight, density,
motions, elasticity of the air we breathe, and which encompasses the
earth; the laws of sound--its velocity, force, repercussion, musical
tone. By electricity, magnetism, galvanism, are revealed to us new
fluids of the existence of which we did not formerly dream. Their laws
have been investigated with all the accuracy, acuteness and unwearied
diligence which belongs to modern science; and though this branch of
physics is every day receiving new accessions, it already forms a
copious science of itself. While yet in the full career of discovery,
it affords persuasive evidence of the close affinity if not identity
of light, heat, magnetism, electricity and galvanism.

The progress of chemistry, shows us the growth of the human intellect
in its numerous useful results. In the power it has acquired over
brute matter, it has added infinitely to our means of comfort or
enjoyment, by improving the useful arts of husbandry, metallurgy,
dying, bleaching, tanning, brewing and medicine. Some of these
improvements have, indeed, been the effect of accident; but many, nay
the most of them, have been the result of human inquiry and sagacity.
And the _atomic theory_, which gives us an insight into some of the
primary laws of matter, is a pure deduction of reason.

By chemical discoveries, useful processes which once required months,
or even years, are now effected in a few days. The chemist has found
means to separate one of several properties from a drug, so that its
medicinal effect may be undiminished and unaffected by other combined
properties originally with it. Light, which formerly was furnished
only by the valuable substances of wax, tallow, spermaceti or oil, has
been supplied of a better quality, from the cheapest and most abundant
objects in nature; and these improvements are but the precursors of
the more splendid retinue which are hereafter destined to make their
appearance. This science gives us assurance that all those substances
which are most indispensable to man, because they repair the waste
which is unceasingly going on in his bodily frame, are dispersed in
boundless profusion throughout the universe, but under forms and
combinations which conceal them from our unassisted senses; and that
it may be within the scope of human art to separate those which are
nutritious, and assimilate with our system, from those that are of a
noxious or neutral character, and thus to modify the law which has
hitherto limited the numbers of mankind. It is now thought whatever
vegetable substances can be made soluble can be made digestible, in
proof of which, a German chemist[3] has already succeeded in
converting ligneous substances into wholesome aliment; and it has long
been known that sugar may be made by a similar chemical conversion.
What would have been the transmutation for which the alchemist of
former days consumed so many anxious days and sleepless nights,
compared with these? Gold owes its extraordinary value to its
scarcity, and had the adept succeeded in making it at pleasure, he
would have lessened its value in the same proportion as he increased
the quantity. If he could have converted copper into gold, the gold
would have been worth no more than the copper, except for the expense
of the transmutation. And if society had gained some advantage in
being able to substitute it for metals that are liable to rust, yet it
would have lost as much by the destruction of its property of
containing great value in a small bulk, and its consequent unfitness
to perform the functions of money.

[Footnote 3: Professor Autenrieth of Tubingen.]

It is not improbable that some of these splendid visions of science
may never be realized: but then other discoveries and improvements may
take place of equal and greater importance; and should those hopes be
verified, would they exhibit a greater triumph of art than has been
witnessed in our day? they are certainly not more beyond the bounds of
seeming probability than balloons, and diving bells, and rail roads,
would have appeared to a former age.

The most extravagant fancy in which the man of science has indulged
would scarcely exceed the wonders now wrought by steam, whether we
consider the simplicity of the means, or the magnitude of the results.
When in every vessel of heated water mankind had always seen a vapor
arise, who could have supposed that in this simple fact, nature had
furnished an agent, which by skilfully managing, he could multiply his
natural strength a thousand fold, and move from place to place with
the swiftness of a bird? By the alternate production and condensation
of this vapor, which he is able to do by the very common agents of
fire and water, he is able to extract the ponderous minerals from the
bowels of the earth, having made it previously drain off the water
which put them out of his reach. By the same power he fashions the
metal he has made, into bars, or sheets, or rods, according to his
various purposes. By it he performs all those operations which require
incessant action as well as preterhuman strength; and thus it is made
to spin and weave, to saw and bore and plane. By this he grinds his
flour, cuts and polishes marble, prints newspapers, and transfers both
himself and his commodities from place to place, by land or by water,
with a rapidity which had existed only in the creations of an eastern
imagination; and what is no less admirable, with a diminution of
fatigue equal to the increase of speed.

The kindred sciences of geology and mineralogy have undergone the same
improvements as that of chemistry. And by a course of inductive
reasoning, founded on careful observation, the changes which the outer
crust of our earth, to the small comparative extent that we are able
to penetrate it, have been most satisfactorily shown, and referred to
their several chemical or mechanical agents. It has also afforded data
from which important facts in the history of organized beings have
been deduced, and thus it has shed a light on a branch of knowledge
from which it seemed most remote. The notion which once prevailed,
that no species of animals is extinct, has been incontestibly
disproved; and it has shown not only that there were many species
which not only do not now exist, but which could not subsist in the
present state of the world. Where important facts have not been
discovered by human reason, we see its power exerted in profiting by
those which accident has suggested; as in Galvani's discovery and that
of Haüy in crystallography, of vaccination and many others.

Of all the branches of human knowledge there is no one which sooner
exercised the understandings of men than that of medicine, first as a
practical art, and then as a science, as there is none to which he is
impelled by stronger motives; and accordingly we find it practised by
a separate clan, in some of the rudest nations. Yet long and
diligently as it has been cultivated, it has made prodigious advances
of late years, and human reason has here too achieved its accustomed
triumphs. In the surgical branch diseases are cured every day, often
too by young and inexperienced operators, that were once deemed
immedicable, and often proved fatal. The materia medica has been
improved both by happy accidents, and the scientific labors of the
chemist--and the science, trusting only to cautious observation and
experiment, has profited as much by what it has rejected from the
catalogue of sanative remedies, as what it has added. Reason has here
taken the place of superstition and blind credulity, and few
prescriptions are now made on purely empirical grounds. We have the
most conclusive evidence of the advance of the medical science, in the
greater average length of life now, compared with former periods. It
has in England increased in 31 years from 1 in 33 to 1 in 58. A
similar increase has been found to have taken place in every nation of
Europe. In Great Britain, France and Germany, the average increase has
been from 1 in 30 to 1 in 38 in less than two generations. And if a
part of this melioration may be attributed to the moral improvement of
men, to the greater wealth and comfort of a greater number, the
diminution of intemperance and other vices, a part also seems fairly
attributable to the medical science; but in either way it attests the
progress of reason and philosophy.

The progress of those sciences which exercise no other faculty but the
reason, also attest the increase and vigor of the human faculties.
Algebra is not only more generally cultivated than in a former age,
but it is now applied to every species of regular form and motion that
matter can assume, and has thus reached conclusions which seemed
unattainable by human skill; and the calculus which one generation
readily performs, was scarcely intelligible to that which preceded it.

Even our most familiar and household concerns show the increased
influence of reason over our actions. The dress of both sexes is more
conformable to nature than formerly, and less biassed by caprice and
arbitrary or accidental forms. I need only, by way of proof, refer to
hair powder and buckles, and the tight ligatures which once bound our
limbs or bodies, but bind them no longer. Forms have been discarded or
abridged and made subservient to convenience--our modes of eating,
drinking and sleeping--all the ordinary habits of social life prove
the growing ascendancy of reason over habit and prejudice. Though in
all of these we may occasionally see some retrograde steps.

The more philosophical spirit of modern, compared with ancient times,
is illustrated by what was then considered as the seven wonders of the
world. They boasted of magnitude or costliness--of some enormous
expenditure of human labor in a pyramid, a statue or temple, which was
fitted to make a strong impression on the senses. But what are the
objects which now fill men's minds with admiration and astonishment?
They are such as are addressed to their powers of reflection--great
moral changes like the American or French revolutions; the liberation
of Greece or of Spanish America; or if they be of a physical
character, then they are of some successful effort of science and art
which directly conduces to the benefit of mankind; such, for instance,
as the application of steam to manufactures and navigation--the New
York Canal, the Manchester Rail Road, and the Thames Tunnel. These,
and such as these, are the world's wonders in our day.

Such then, Mr. President, is the character of the changes which the
mind of man has wrought on physical nature, as well as in the
improvement of his own condition; and these in turn have effected an
immense change in the character of his mind. _He has become less
subjected to the dominion of his senses and more to that of his
reason._ He is necessarily made to perceive an infinite number of new
and intricate relations, which the progress of knowledge and
civilization are ever adding to those which previously existed, and
his reasoning faculties have acquired strength in proportion to their
exercise. From particular facts he is continually deducing general
laws; and from those general laws, laws still more comprehensive. The
consequence of which is, that the elaborate deductions of one age
become the obvious truths of that which succeeds it, and each
succeeding generation is more capable of intricate processes of
reasoning than its predecessor.

In the same proportion too, as reason acquires strength, the dominion
of the passions becomes weaker. They are less likely to be excited by
unworthy causes, and less violent when excited. Reason obviously tends
to prevent those mental perturbations which arise from false views of
things, as from mistaken notions of right--from the exaggerations of
future good or evil, and wrong estimates of their probability. Many
objects which a more ignorant age has deemed important, the light of
philosophy exhibits in their real insignificance. And in addition to
all these direct causes, it seems not improbable that our minds being
now so much more occupied in noticing causes and effects, and other
important relations, will be less prone to strong emotions, except so
far as they may have the sanction of reason. Let me not be understood
to favor the dream of some speculatists, that philosophy will ever
eradicate the passions. This result is neither possible nor desirable.
It is in their proper indulgence that consists all that is called
either happiness or virtue, and all that deserves to be so considered
by a moral and intellectual being. They are

  "The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife
   Gives all the strength and color of our life."

The passions have been aptly compared to the winds which impel the
ship on the ocean of life,[4] but reason performs higher functions
than "the card." It sits at the helm, and guides the course of the
bark when the gale is not too strong, and takes in sail when it is.

[Footnote 4: On life's vast ocean diversely we sail,
             Reason the card, but passion is the gale.--_Pope_.]

One of the consequences of this growing ascendancy of reason is, that
there will be less inequality in the civil condition of mankind; and
happy are they whose political institutions enable them to accommodate
themselves to the change, without going through the process of blood
and violence. Whatever may be the advantages, real or supposed, of a
difference of ranks, the institution originated in accident, and is
supported by illusions, which natural enough in a certain stage of
society, the light of philosophy tends to dissipate; and as ghosts,
witches and other shadows of the night have vanished at the
approaching dawn of reason, the further progress of day will
extinguish hereditary rank, which, when it does not, like faux-fire,
shine by its own corruption, emits an ineffectual ray at best.

If the preceding views are correct, it would follow that in our
reasonings from the past to the future we must take these changes of
the human character into account, and if we do, that they would
sometimes lead us to expect different results hereafter from those
which formerly took place under similar circumstances. The failure to
make allowance for these changes, has produced much groundless
_apprehension_, much _mistaken confidence_, and much _false
vaticination_.

In thus speaking of the gradual progress of reason and philosophy, I
do not mean to say that the advancement is uninterrupted. Far from it.
Though the tide may be rising, each individual wave does not always
reach as far as that which preceded it: so man, in his onward progress
to a higher state of existence, does occasionally make oblique and
even retrograde steps. By the influence of those prejudices which have
not yet been dislodged from their strong holds--under the sway of our
passions, which indeed may be regulated, but can never be
extinguished, reason for awhile succumbs and philosophy disappears.
Thus, in the Reformation, the struggle between those who sought to get
rid of the ancient abuses, and those who endeavored to maintain them,
was accompanied with ferocity, cruelty and injustice; and men were
often hated and persecuted in proportion to their sincerity in avowing
their real sentiments, and their firmness in maintaining them. Then
too, we beheld those who had been the victims of oppression, when
power changed hands, becoming persecutors in turn; and this, not on
the principle of retaliation, but because the new persecutors were
impelled by the same blind fury as their predecessors, in regarding a
mere difference of opinion as synonymous with crime.

Philosophy had not then advanced far enough to teach them that men
were responsible only to their own conscience and their God for their
modes of faith; and that punishment tended to make hypocrites of the
bad and martyrs of the good, but converts of none. They had yet to
learn that the unadulterated common sense of that portion of mankind,
who were less frenzied by zeal, revolted at such injustice; and that
their sympathies acted more powerfully in favor of the sufferer, than
their fears in favor of their persecutors; a truth which has suggested
the maxim that "the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church."

The French revolution also furnished a signal instance of the
retrograde steps of philosophy. The oppressions, the injustice, the
absurdities of the French monarchy, and above all, the incongruities
of many of its institutions with the state of knowledge and of private
society in France, could not be corrected without calling forth all
the strongest impulses of our nature--the worst passions of the worst
men, as well as the nobler feelings of the best. The advanced state of
reason and philosophy among the educated classes, acting on the sense
of justice, indelibly stamped on the heart of man, made the mass of
the nation see and feel the odium of their civil institutions, and
determined them to attempt a remedy. They were prompted in their
schemes, and quickened in their sensibility by the superior social
condition of their neighbors, the English, and yet more by the
American revolution and its happy issue. Before this great event,
their notice of the defects or abuses of their government was confined
to philosophical speculatists--to rhetorical declaimers--or to those
who wielded the lighter, but no less efficient weapons of ridicule--to
all of whom many of those classes who most profited by the existing
abuses, bowing to the resistless force of truth, and not foreseeing
the danger to themselves, gave their cordial support. Public opinion
was thus gradually gaining strength and unanimity; and when accident
afforded a favorable occasion for the _reformers_ to act, every one
was astonished at the rapidity and force with which they acted. But
there were strong interests and passions arrayed on the other side,
and the shock of the conflict was violent in proportion.

As soon as the cry of reform and change was sounded, every furious and
ignoble passion--every sordid and profligate and depraved motive,
hoping to profit by the confusion, entered into the strife, and
corrupted the whole mass. Then it was that in the heart of
Christendom, we saw a city, associated in our minds with every
refinement of civilization--the emporium of science, literature and
the arts--suddenly transformed into a moral desert. The annals of
mankind had recorded no such metamorphosis. To the _senses_ indeed,
all the monuments of science and art and social improvement remained,
but they seemed to belong to other times. Every thing relative to the
human character was forcibly overturned, or wrested from its natural
position. Women without humanity or timidity, at one moment braving
death, and at another thirsting for blood. Science and practical art
employed in devising new modes of taking away life. Statesmen and
legislators engrossed by the one great subject of how they might
exterminate citizens no less than foreign enemies. Speculative minds
racking their inventions to frame excuses for these enormities, or in
making frivolous changes in the names of streets and provinces--of the
months and days--while _Religion_, finding nothing congenial to her
own mildness and purity, fled from the country, and the infuriated
multitude hallooed and exulted in her retreat: and in the metropolis
of fashion, which had given the laws of dress to all Europe, and one
of whose most distinguished literati[5] had asserted that the apparel
was a part of the man, an attention to outward appearance was deemed
presumptive evidence of aristocracy. Nor was there a more certain mode
of awakening suspicion of _incivism_, than to seem to be devout, or
moral, or gentlemanly, unless these obnoxious qualities were redeemed
by some accompaniment of crime.

[Footnote 5: The Count de Buffon.]

There have been those who would make philosophy responsible for these
extravagances and excesses, because it had been assiduously cultivated
in Paris, just before the Revolution, and some of its maxims were
appealed to in justification of the excesses. But nothing can be more
unjust. There was mingled with the enlightened part of the Paris
population, a far larger portion which was immersed in the grossest
ignorance. They had been brought up as it were in a prison house, into
which the surrounding light of heaven could never penetrate; and, when
set free from the restraints of law, they were powerful instruments of
mischief in the hands of those who were at once skilful and
unscrupulous in using them. There were also those who partook of the
intellectual light of the age, but who from a faulty education, or
accident, or the unjust institutions of society had not proportional
moral improvement--men who saw the inequality with which the goods of
life were distributed; that those who had the smallest share were the
most numerous; and that they might be prompted to the inclination, as
they already had the ability, to be their own carvers. An alliance was
thus formed between cunning and ignorance--the cunning few and
ignorant many--and no wonder that in a short time, all that was
venerable and virtuous and generous, as well as all that had been
tyrannical and oppressive, were furiously assailed and beaten to the
ground. The progress of knowledge had no other agency in producing
this result, than that a portion of society borrowed its _intellectual
light_ without approaching near enough to profit by its _moral
warmth_: and it is as unreasonable to blame philosophy for these
outrages, as to blame religion for the bloody massacres and merciless
persecutions which were perpetrated in her name. With far greater
reason may the moderation observed by the mob of Paris, in the three
day revolution of 1830, be ascribed to the influence of the liberal
and philosophical spirit, which had been gaining ground throughout the
civilized world, and particularly in France for twenty years before:
and it deserves notice, that this moderation, as well as the occasion
on which it would be exercised, was confidently predicted in this
country, by a French gentleman,[6] now enjoying an elevated rank in
France; and he founded his prediction on the improved character of the
population of Paris.

[Footnote 6: General Bernard, whose anticipations of the leading
events of that revolution, in a conversation with the author, had all
the accuracy of history.]

Having thus taken a view of the past effects of the progress of
philosophy, let us now look before us, and endeavoring to scan the
future, learn what are hereafter to be its effects on the world,
especially on that portion of it, in which we are most interested.

We are sometimes reproached with being more disposed to look at what
our country will be, than at what it is; but when the changes are so
rapid and great, we should not only betray a strange insensibility to
our future destiny, but be grossly wanting in prudence, not to keep
the fact constantly present to our minds. It should affect our policy,
legislation, and even our individual contracts and schemes of profit;
and while we do not object to other nations seeing, in the mirror of
the past, interesting memorials of their former glory, they may suffer
us to look at ours, through the prism of hope, in which objects are a
little distorted without being exaggerated, and appear in hues
delightfully gay and diversified. Let us see then how the certain
progress of population, and the probable progress of reason and
philosophy are likely to affect us.

Of the rapid advancement of the United States in numbers, powers and
wealth, we have now a moral certainty. After the lapse of forty years,
we have seen that their population continues to double at the rate
which Franklin long ago assumed, and we have full confirmation of the
views taken by Malthus more than thirty years ago, and by Franklin
long before him, that mankind continue thus to increase where the
means of subsistence are easy. There will hardly be any change in this
particular here, before our numbers have reached 60 persons to a
square mile. Perhaps when we consider the remarkable fertility of the
larger part, not before we have reached 100: but with the former
limit, our country would contain 100 millions of inhabitants, in three
periods of doubling, or in 75 years. Some doubts have been entertained
whether our future increase will not diminish in an increasing ratio;
and a very general error as to the rate of increase, exhibited at the
last census, has favored that opinion. But in point of fact, the
increase for the ten years ending in 1830, was a fraction more than 34
per cent., instead of a fraction more than 33 per cent., as our
almanacs and other periodicals have stated, because they did not
attend to the fact, that the last census shewed the increase only for
nine years and ten months. This result is so unexampled and so great,
that it requires an effort for us to conceive its reality; yet it
rests upon as satisfactory grounds as any future event whatever: and
it is not a remote improbability, that some who now hear me will live
to see our population amount to 100 millions.

For our political organization we have nothing to desire, if our
present government continues. The self-healing power, which more or
less pervades all bodies, politic as well as natural, has unrestricted
vigor here, and may be expected to bring an adequate remedy for every
political disease likely to arise.

But one of the evils apprehended by some, is a dissolution of the
Union; and it is asked, if this has already been seriously threatened,
how will it be when the sources of collision and rivalship shall be
multiplied--when all fear of foreign aggression, which now operates as
a band to keep us together, shall be removed--when personal ambition
shall seek, by a separation, that field for its enterprises which the
Union does not afford--and the natural increase of an indigent and
ignorant class shall furnish him with ready tools for his selfish
projects?

But I do not see the probability that the proud hopes, which dictated
a perpetual league among the states, are to be disappointed. It seems
to me that the occasions in which their interests clash are few,
compared with those in which they coincide, and that one of the
strongest ligaments of union is the diversity of pursuits among the
states, by which they are all benefited by a free commercial
intercourse. Thus, some produce grain and cattle, others, fish, or
sugar, or rice and cotton: some are exclusively agricultural in their
pursuits, and are of course venders of raw produce, whilst others are
manufacturing states, and purchasers of raw produce: some are largely
concerned in navigation, whilst others are inland. Thus all are
gainers by an interchange of their respective commodities and species
of industry; and this mutual commerce, founded in mutual interests,
will less and less require aid from the government.

We may, moreover, reasonably expect, that these sources of mutual
benefit and intercourse will increase, and that new products of
agriculture and manufactures will arise under some propitious accident
or kindness of nature, will extend the mutual dependence of the
states, and proportionally multiply the bonds of union. Each state
will be important to the rest for its useful products, and they in
turn will be valuable to it, both for affording a market, and for the
products they give in exchange. The commerce, too, will be the more
profitable, and likely to be the more extensive, by its being free
from imposts or vexatious restrictions. Under the fostering care of
this freedom, we may expect that wine, and silk, and the olive may be
added to the products of the south--and that whenever labor shall fall
to the point of merely earning a subsistence, tea may be also
cultivated; as no doubt some part of our country is similar in climate
to China, since it is not only in a correspondent latitude, but on the
same side of its continent.

The time will come when most of our manufactures can be procured from
the northern or middle states cheaper than from Europe, and when those
states will also furnish a larger market for the products of the
south. The time has already come when cotton, and rice, and tobacco,
if that pernicious weed shall always constitute one of man's
artificial wants, can be procured more cheaply from the southern
states than elsewhere; and though there is not, within the present
limits of the United States, as much land adapted to the cane as will
supply its future inhabitants with sugar, without that increase of
price which must greatly diminish its rate of consumption, yet the
trade in this useful commodity will not therefore be less important,
either to the states which sell, or those which purchase it.

This commercial intercourse will be greatly extended by the numerous
canals and rail roads, which are destined to intersect our country in
every direction. By the greater cheapness of transportation, the
commerce will be extended, not only because more distant points will
be brought into connection, but also because there will be a greater
number of articles which may be advantageously transported. All the
canals and rail roads from one state to another, which shall be
sufficiently used to compensate for their construction, will be so
many sinews to knit together our wide spread and diversified republic.
New York and Pennsylvania have already thus bound themselves to the
west. Maryland and Virginia, and, without doubt, Georgia and the
Carolinas, will follow the example.

When we shall be thus connected by the golden chain of mutual
interests instead of the iron fetters of power, and by that
homogeneousness of manners which an increased intercourse will
produce, what will be likely to effect a separation? Let us suppose
any state, considering itself aggrieved by some measure of the federal
government, was to withdraw herself from the confederacy, and that the
other states were to acquiesce in her course, either because they felt
no interest in the matter, or because they were willing to surrender
up those interests to a claim of right. It can scarcely be doubted
that such seceding state would find the disadvantages of its new
situation so great, surrounded by rival and hostile and taunting
neighbors--attended with so much contingent danger and certain
expense, that after the first irritation had passed away, it would sue
to be re-admitted.

But when it is recollected that, in no distant day, every state will
either be an outlet for other states to the ocean, or the medium of
communication for those lying on each side of it, it would be
according to all experience to presume that they will not regard a
question thus directly affecting their _interests_, as one also
affecting their _rights_, and will vindicate both, by an appeal to
force, if necessary: and thus the question of _separation_ will always
be a question of _war_. The _constitutional_ question, which may have
been previously agitated, will be drowned in the din and tumult of
arms, and finally decided by the issue of the war. _Victory_ is the
great arbiter of right in national disputes, and that scale of justice
on which she happens to light, is almost sure to preponderate.

I have been supposing the case of a single state, or even a small
section of states to desire a separation. But it may be asked whether
all the states may not voluntarily consent to a dissolution; or at
least so large a portion as to make resistance on the part of the rest
hopeless. I answer that I am not able to conceive any such general and
powerful cause, nor do I know of any example of a similar voluntary
disseverance in history. In every case in which an integral community,
whether consolidated or confederate, has been separated, it has been
by violence, and commonly external violence--either by one nation,
subjugating another, or by some successful leader succeeding by his
arts and talents in arraying one part against the rest: or the parts
of a great empire have been partitioned among the descendants or
legatees of the last occupant--none of which causes of separation can
be expected to operate here. It is indeed a conceivable thing for some
prominent and popular individual to excite a particular state to
discontent, and finally to civil war; and although we have happily had
no example of such flagitiousness, we have seen enough to make us
think it possible: yet whatever may be the supposed success of such
men at home, there will always be many counteractions to their
influence in the adjoining states, and in the same degree that the
agitator is a popular idol in his own state, he will be an object of
suspicion in the adjoining states, who will judge of him by his
actions, unaffected by his arts or the imposing lustre of his personal
qualities.

Our own past history affords some confirmation of these views. It is,
for example, now seen, since the veil which once concealed the acts of
the Hartford Convention, has been partially raised, that the power of
the agents in that combination to separate the union was far less than
had been supposed, and that they could not have led on the states
there represented to make that shew of resistance to the general
government which excited apprehensions for the union, if they had
professed any other than the moderate and legitimate objects of making
their peculiar interests more respected, and of providing additional
guards against the invasion of those interests in the time to come. It
now appears, that however we may disapprove the _means_ used to
effectuate their objects, the _ends_ were blameless; and there is much
reason to believe that the moment the separation of the states had
shewn itself to be the ultimate object of their leaders, that moment
they would have been deserted by the larger part of their followers.

The case of him whose history has been so pregnant of instruction to
lawless ambition, and who eighteen years ago was arraigned in this
very capitol for the highest of all crimes, affords another
instructive example. So long as his object was believed to be the
settlement of the Washita lands, he may have ranked among his
followers the most honest and patriotic of the land. So long as he
merely proposed to emancipate the Mexicans from the Spanish yoke, the
generous and enterprising youth of the west, as unsuspicious of guile
in others as they were incapable of it themselves, might have flocked
to his standard, and even gloried in the act of self-devotion: but no
sooner was it known that the infatuated man was pursuing the phantom
of individual aggrandizement, at the expense of his country's peace
and in violation of her laws, than he was "left alone in his glory."
Most of his followers abandoned him from principle, and the few who
were without principle, deserted him from cowardice. It is peculiarly
gratifying that both of these examples so strikingly exhibit the
attachment of the American people to the union, as it will probably be
only in one or the other of these modes that its integrity will ever
be assailed.

The event by which the union was still more seriously threatened, has
been too recent for me to say much of it on the present occasion. Yet
I may be permitted to remark, without opening wounds hardly yet
cicatrized, that both those who apprehend disunion and those who dread
consolidation may draw salutary lessons from that event; and that each
party may, by a course of imprudence, promote the very evil of which
it is most apprehensive. I will add, that it affords additional
evidence of the strength of the ligaments which bind us together, for
if those who felt themselves aggrieved by the general government, had
been less sensible of the _value_--of the _necessity_ of the
union--then the master pilot,[7] who at the critical moment seized the
helm, and steered the ship of state through the breakers that
threatened her on either side, had interposed his consummate skill in
vain.

[Footnote 7: Henry Clay, who was thus thrice mainly instrumental in
giving peace to his country.]

But when it is considered that the continuance of the union is
indispensable to our peace, prosperity, and civil liberty--that on it
rest our hopes of national greatness, it would hardly seem consistent
with prudence to rely altogether on the natural securities I have
mentioned. We should also sedulously guard against whatever may tend
to weaken our attachment to it; and should therefore confine the
functions of the general government to those objects which are most
indispensable to the prosperity of the whole, and to which the powers
of the separate governments are incompetent. And while it should
exercise no power which was not clearly beneficial, as well as
constitutional, it should forbear to exercise such powers as come
under this description, when they may prove sources of discontent, or
of collision with local feelings and interests. The advantages of such
a course will be to give the federal government greater efficacy in
the execution of its remaining powers, and especially in our foreign
concerns; and it will afford us the best security, not only against
disunion, but the opposite danger of consolidation. The continuance of
our present complex system of government--the only one in which the
highest degree of civil liberty can be reconciled with the greatest
extent of territory--depends on its maintaining a just equipoise
between the general government and the governments of the separate
states; and that equipoise may be disturbed no less by enlarging the
capacity of conferring favors than that of doing mischief--of
appealing to the hopes no less than to the fears of the community.

There is another safeguard against both disunion and consolidation, to
be found in the diffusion of instruction among all classes of people;
to which object all the states have given encouragement. Besides the
general moral effects which such mental culture is found to produce,
wherever it has been tried, it will make the mischiefs of a single
national government or of several disunited governments, which are
already so obvious to those who have reflection and forecast,
intelligible to all. The diffusion of intelligence will operate
advantageously to the same end in another way. It will raise the
self-respect and honest pride of the indigent classes, and these
sentiments afford the best security against an over-crowded population
and its deleterious consequences, for they naturally tend to raise the
ordinary standard of comfort, and the higher _that_ is, the sooner do
the checks to improvident marriages begin to operate.

Supposing our federal union to be thus enduring, the progress of
philosophy may be expected to continue with our advancement in numbers
and wealth, and to exhibit itself in the increased vigor of the
reasoning faculties; the greater purity of religion; the better
government of the passions; an enlarged dominion over physical nature;
a deeper insight into the multifarious laws of mind and matter; and a
general amelioration of our condition, social, intellectual, and
moral. But dangers and evils are apprehended by some, when we shall
have a large class of manufacturers. This must eventually be the
condition of the greater part of the population of every civilized
country, since in no other way can the greater part of a dense
population find employment. A small proportion of the community is
sufficient to cultivate the soil, especially with so fertile a
territory as the greater part of the United States; and the rest must
be employed in manufactures, or starve. Besides, the products of this
species of industry are as essential to our comfort and enjoyment, if
not to our subsistence, as raw produce. We must have clothes,
furniture, utensils, and books, as well as food: and when our numbers
shall be sufficiently great to consume the whole of our raw produce,
as in time it certainly will be, we shall cease to export; and the
great mass of its consumers here, must fulfil the inevitable ultimate
destiny of man--he must labor for his subsistence, either in tilling
the earth, or in giving to its products some new form, which by
ministering to the wants of others, may enable him to satisfy his own.
The people of the United States must therefore become a manufacturing
people, as well as their progenitors, and that too at no very remote
period. At present, most of our citizens are agriculturists, because
they find a ready sale for their redundant products; but while it may
be easy to obtain a market for the surplus produce of fourteen
millions of people, it may not be equally easy to find a vent abroad
for the products of the one hundred millions before spoken of; or even
of the fifty millions which our numbers will certainly reach in less
than another half century. It must be recollected that while we
increase at the rate of three per cent. per annum, our customers do
not increase beyond the rate of one per cent., and some scarcely
increase at all. Those therefore, who will be thus spared from
agriculture, must be employed in manufactures.

The political effects of so large a class of manufacturers in our
country, has suggested two very opposite theories. According to one,
the influence of property will be increased by the change; according
to the other, its rights will be endangered. The advocates of the
first opinion say, that capital has the same relation to manufactures
that land has to agricultural labor; for it is only large capitals
that can be advantageously employed in the principal manufactures; and
that the laborers in both species of industry, will feel their
dependence on their employers. It will therefore happen that the votes
given immediately by the laboring class, will be substantially the
votes of the rich landlord or capitalist.

But on the other hand, it has been apprehended, and not without some
show of reason, that the working class, having the power in their own
hands, by the preponderance of numbers, need only to act in concert,
to control the course of legislation. It is further urged, that if the
means of popular instruction can become general, or though that should
be found impracticable, if the intelligence of the community should
increase with the progress of society, that this class will more
readily feel its power, have stronger inducements to exercise it, and
be better able to devise the means. Admitting concerted action
practicable, as it would be obviously desirable, what, it is asked, is
to hinder these men from ridding themselves of their proportion of the
taxes?--of appropriating to themselves the property of the rich by
various legislative devices, as in limiting the prices of provisions,
in planning expensive schemes in which the utility would be
exclusively to themselves, or not in proportion to the cost,--or even
in some moment of madness and reckless injustice, of passing an
Agrarian law? It is vain to urge that as such a violation of the
rights of property would have the ultimate effect of injuring all
classes, or at least a far greater number than it would benefit, it is
contrary to the general instinct of self interest to suppose the
greater portion of the community would pursue it; for these remote
interests might not be perceived, and though they were, they would not
prevail against the force of present temptation.

But the argument assumes that there will be a majority of the
community who will feel a present interest in such violations of the
rights of property, and this proposition may well be questioned. In
our country, where industry and capital are free to exercise
themselves in any way, there will always be a gradation of classes
from the richest to the poorest, so as to make the line which
separates them an imperceptible one. We have no political
institutions, and few prejudices to make such a separation. Every one
is estimated according to his individual merits, little affected by
those of his ancestors: and although somewhat of the honor or
discredit of parents attaches to the child, yet it is probably little
more than is warranted by the presumption that there is a resemblance
between them. We are not distinguished into castes as in India, where
one portion of society engrosses all the more honorable and agreeable
employments of life, and the other is allotted to its most irksome and
debasing offices; nor into Patrician and Plebeian, as in Rome; nor
into lords and commons, as in England; nor _noblesse_ and _canaille_,
as formerly in France and the rest of Europe; distinctions which at
once provoke combination and make it more practicable.

Nor is the indigent class likely to be as large in this country as in
most others. Our institutions, in many ways, favor both the
acquisition and the diffusion of property. In the first place, by
their being more exempt from restrictions. No trade or occupation is
fettered by monopolies or corporation laws, or laws of apprenticeship,
so that industry and talent being free to act, wherever and however
they please, are likely to find the situations in which they can be
most profitably exerted.

In the next place, all offices and professions which are means of
acquiring property, or are of themselves a valuable property, while
they last, are thrown open to the competition of all; and we see them
as often, or more often, won by those who were born in poverty, and
who have been accustomed to rely on their own resources, than by the
pampered sons of wealth and luxury.

And lastly, the diffusion of property is the greater by the practice
of dividing an estate among all the children of a family; which,
either by the act of law, or the will of the deceased proprietor, has
become almost universal. The law of primogeniture, by artificially
damming up property to prevent its natural diffusion, must increase
the number of the poor in the same degree that it increases the number
of the rich. The estate which remains in the same family in England
for three generations, and continues throughout the property of a
single individual, is here distributed among twenty or thirty, and
often a far greater number. _This single change_ in our municipal law,
would necessarily have the effect of converting the property holders
into a majority of the community.

Whenever, then, the line between the rich and the poor is drawn in
this country, it will always comprehend a far smaller proportion of
the last class than in any other, so long as our civil institutions
retain their present character; and the number of people who have
property to some amount, and who have the hope of acquiring it, will
always be much greater than those who have none. When it is further
recollected that those who have made their own fortunes--a very
numerous class in all free countries--are likely to possess energy and
intelligence; they may also be expected to possess an influence more
than proportionate to their numbers. To these considerations we may
add the connections which arise from favors received or expected, by
the poor from the rich; the influence of habit; the protection of the
laws; the restraints of morality, of indolence, and fear, and they
seem sufficient to assure us that apprehensions of a mischievous
combination of the poor against the rich, are groundless; and that all
which the indigent class can effect for their own advantage by
combination, may not prove a sufficient antagonist to the influence
the rich will be able to exert over them.

I know of no instance of a successful combination of the indigent
classes, except in the case of the Agrarian laws at Rome. But this
subject has been greatly misunderstood, and there never was a more
well founded complaint than that which the poor made against the rich,
on that occasion. Modern historians seem to have followed up the
injustice, by misrepresenting the facts, and assailing the character
of those who had been previously defrauded of their property. The
diligent researches of German scholars[8] have shewn incontestibly
that the Agrarian laws, for which the Gracchi lost their lives,
concerned only the _public_ lands, which had been obtained by
conquest, and not those which formed part of the territory of the
ancient republic. As these public lands were charged with a very
moderate,--merely nominal rent,--it was necessary to impose some limit
upon the portion which a single individual could obtain, which was
accordingly fixed at 500 _jugera_--equal to about 312 of our acres.
But the Patrician class soon found means to evade this law, and having
engrossed these lands, the purposes for which they were set apart--of
affording the means of support to the poor, and of rewarding those by
whose bravery and toils they had been won--was thus completely
defeated: and the redundant population, unprovided with the means of
subsistence, were obliged to become the bondsmen of the rich. Tiberius
Gracchus endeavored to have this flagrant wrong, which was a political
mischief, as well as a moral injustice, corrected: and whatever may
have been his motives, he so evidently had right on his side, that he
finally prevailed. But because he succeeded in defending the
unquestioned rights of the injured party, does it follow that he would
have had equal success in defending injustice? Because he was able to
sustain the violated rights of property, would he have been also able
to destroy them? Certainly not: For he with difficulty succeeded, even
at the cost of his life: and success would have been impossible but
for the dauntless intrepidity and the zealous support which the
goodness of his cause inspired.

[Footnote 8: Heeren and Niebuhr.]

To the progress of our literature and science we may look with
unalloyed hopes. In many branches, both ornamental and useful, we are
still behind the country from which we are descended; and we fall as
far short of her in the quantity of original productions as in the
quality. But this, we confidently trust, is but a temporary
inferiority. Our whole faculties are now engaged in cultivating the
choicest fruits of civilization, and by and by we shall turn our
attention to its flowers. Our late rapid advancement in letters
affords a sure presage of future excellence, and symptoms of this
gratifying change gladden our eyes in every direction. As soon as the
more imperious wants of the country shall be satisfied, and men of
superior powers and attainments shall have filled the learned
professions, and offices requiring science and talent, then we shall
begin to form a class of men of letters, who will devote their leisure
and genius to minister to our intellectual wants: And they will find
here a wide field both for speculation and description, political,
physical and moral. We are justified in pronouncing that our
literature will have freshness, boldness, richness and variety, and I
would fain hope, the crowning grace of simplicity. Poetry, though not
destined again to receive divine honors, or even the same profound
homage as in a later day, will always occupy a high place in the world
of letters: for the pleasure which can be conveyed to the mind by
rhythm, imagery and fervid sentiment combined, are immutable; but the
higher province of intellect will be to instruct and convince; to aid
us in the arduous duties of life--whether as members of a profession,
as citizens of the state, or as moral and responsible beings. Until
that day arrives, let us cherish those institutions which best serve
to preserve and diffuse a knowledge of science and letters, as well as
to increase a taste for them; and never relax in our exertions until
we are at least upon a level with the highest. Next to an elevated
moral character, this is the most proper object of national ambition:
and while I should be content that this country may never give birth
to a Phidias, or Canova, a Raphael or Titian--that it should not
produce as good musicians as Italy or Germany--as beautiful millinery
as Paris--as cheap or good cutlery as Sheffield--I should be mortified
to think that we should never be able to boast of such poets as Byron
or Pope, such historians as Hume or Gibbon, such moralists as Johnson,
such novelists as Walter Scott, or such mathematicians as La Place.

In looking into our future destiny, I have not allowed myself to
travel into the regions of fancy, but have confined my attention to
those results which seemed fairly deducible from causes now visibly
operating; and which are in conformity with the past experience of
mankind. I have not indulged in those overstrained speculations with
which some have contemplated the future progress of philosophy, but
have endeavored to avoid on the one hand, those views of future evil,
which it is the nature of gloomy tempers to entertain, and on the
other, those visions of future excellence or perfection incompatible
with our past experience; such, for example, as the dreams, first of
Condorcet, and afterwards of Godwin. Of a similar character, I fear,
are the predictions of those who think that war may be banished from
the civilized world. Without doubt it is the tendency of the progress
of reason and philosophy, to lessen the chances of war: in the same
way as refinement of manners checks personal conflicts among
individuals. But it will, probably, no more put an end to them in one
case, than in the other; and the time may never come, when the
interests of nations will not clash, when they will not differ in
opinion about their respective rights; when they will not be willing
to resent supposed injustice, and hazard their lives to gratify their
resentment. Nor can occasions be wanting at any time to call forth
these motives to war. Nations may have rivalship in trade; rivalship
in fisheries; they may differ about boundaries, or the construction of
treaties; or they may be involved in the disputes of others. These
causes must be regarded as inseparable from the condition of man, even
if he should no longer be exposed to the danger of war, from mere
differences of opinion on some speculative points in religion,
politics or morals. It may then prove in all future time, as it has
proved in all time past, that it is man's nature to quarrel and fight,
no less than to love or to hate, and the only difference may be as to
the occasions of war, and the mode of carrying it on: in short, that
this ultimate argument of republics as well as kings, will continue to
be appealed to, as it always has been, when all others have failed.

If this is to be regarded as a part of man's inevitable destiny, let
us not indulge in vain repinings at it--but endeavor to prevent it as
far as we can, by a course of justice, and moderation, and
forbearance: and if, nevertheless, our efforts should be unavailing,
let the philosophic and patriotic mind find consolation in the fact,
that though war is the cause of much human misery, it calls forth many
virtues, and affords occasion for the display of some of the noblest
traits of our character--courage, patriotism, generosity,
disinterestedness and every form of virtuous self-denial. It gives a
stimulus to all the more elevated and severer virtues. It breaks up
the icy frost of selfishness, which in the still times of peace may
congeal about the heart. The love of country never burns with a purer
or stronger flame than in the bosom of the patriotic soldier: nor can
any thing but war enable a citizen to make the same sacrifices, or so
prove his self devotion to his country. It may then be among the
dispensations of the ruler of the universe, that war, as well as
peace, is necessary for the development and the preservation of some
of our highest qualities, and to fulfil our destiny. Nor let us vainly
hope to extinguish national more than individual resentment, but
merely to regulate it--to reserve it for those occasions which a sense
of justice prompts and reason sanctions: and although it is but a
blind arbiter of disputes, it is the only one, in some circumstances,
that can be appealed to.

Having thus, Mr. President, brought to your notice, with less of
condensation than I could have wished, the great and rapid strides
which human reason is now making in the civilized world, as exhibited
in every field of intellectual exercise: having noticed the
unequivocal signs that this progress will yet continue, that we cannot
assign to it any precise limits, and that in all estimates of the
future, we must take it into consideration: having endeavored to infer
its probable effects on our condition, taken in connection with the
other changes to which we are destined, I have discharged my main
purpose. Yet I do not feel that I have entirely fulfilled my duty as a
member of the Society, unless I say something of its particular
objects.

One of these objects was to collect and preserve the perishable
memorials of the past history of Virginia, from the time it was a
colony to the present day. While this is a subject which must always
be one of lively interest to her citizens, it is also one in which
diligence will be amply rewarded. Our early colonial history more
abounds in events of a striking and diversified character, than that
of any of the other colonies; and this state, moreover, has a sort of
parental relation to nearly all the states to the south and west. Full
justice has never yet been done to this subject. There are indeed
points in the history of the settlement of the colony, which require
elucidation, and for which the materials are to be found, if at all,
only in the archives of England. But on our later history much light
has been thrown by a diligent examination of the laws of the colony;
and somewhat may be further gleaned from a search into those records
of the county courts, which have yet escaped the ravages of war and
time. The records of these courts, whose duties were always of a very
miscellaneous character, may communicate much information concerning
the state of society, the habits, manners and ways of thinking of the
people. The authentic details of the public offences and their
punishment, is no insignificant portion of a nation's history. Much
has been done in this way by Hening's Collection of the Statutes at
Large; and though a large portion of the treasure has already been
drawn from this mine, it has not been exhausted. After paying a just
tribute to the industry and general accuracy of that work, it also
suggests a caution to future inquirers against a spirit of skepticism
towards preceding narratives, merely because some inaccuracies have
been discovered. Of this I may be allowed to mention one or two
examples, as in the endeavor to shew (in which Burke concurs,) that
the account of all preceding historians of the loyalty of Virginia
towards the House of Stuart, immediately before and after the
Commonwealth, was erroneous--and that because Robertson in his
posthumous historical sketch was plainly mistaken in saying that no
man suffered capitally "for his participation in Bacon's rebellion,"
he is not entitled to credit: or, when Bacon, according to all
previous accounts, had, during a wet spell, at the most sickly season
of the year, in the county of Gloucester, been seized with a dysentery
which proved mortal, to suggest that a death so little violating
probability, should be deemed mysterious, and warranted the _suspicion
of poison by his enemies_.

The history of the settlements of the west exists only in tradition or
family letters, and its materials ought to be collected and preserved,
while it is not too late. The contest between the pioneer of
civilization and the native savage, is full of daring adventure and
romantic interest. If the command of gunpowder, and the use of iron
ultimately gave victory to the former, it was one always dearly
bought. The Indians defended their native rights with desperate valor
and consummate address, and it was only inch by inch that they yielded
their native soil to the invaders.

The origin of some anomalous enactments in the statute book, also
invite inquiry. Thus in the year 1647, lawyers were forbidden to take
any fees whatever, and in 1658 they were excluded from the
legislature. For this uncourteous act, it must be confessed that their
descendants have made the _amende honorable_. The medical profession
seemed also an object of jealousy with the planter; as by another
law,[9] physicians were required to swear to the value of their drugs.

[Footnote 9: Passed in 1646.]

There is too, a good deal of uncertainty and inconsistency in the
statistical accounts of the state. On the duty of the present
generation to collect and preserve every thing relative to the
revolution, I need not lay any stress. There are still numerous papers
in many families, of no sort of value to them, that may yet shed light
on that interesting era.

In all that concerns the other object of this Society, the physical
history of the state, every thing is yet to be done. The records here
are before us, and are indestructible in any reasonable term of time;
but we must first labor to remove the rubbish which conceals them, and
then study to decipher them. This is a tempting field of research, as
it may not only add to our stock of information, but also to our store
of worldly wealth. The great Appalachian chain of mountains, which
traverses the United States from Maine to Alabama, is broader no where
than in Virginia, or consists of a greater number of distinct ridges,
and no where has it given as clear indications of abounding in mineral
wealth. We have found in it already gold, copper, lead, iron,
manganese, gypsum, salt, coal, nitre, alum, marble in great variety,
besides other minerals that are useful in the arts; and a more
diligent and scientific search than has yet been made, may by
increasing their number increase the profit of those canals and roads
that are now projected, and give rise to others not yet contemplated.
Our demand for fossil coal is of growing importance; for our
increasing population at once increases the demand for fuel, and
diminishes the supply of wood. I was happy to see last evening, the
specimen of anthracite coal from the county of Augusta; and the value
of that mineral deserved the high eulogy it received. We may form some
idea of the importance of fossil coal, from the fact that steam
engines in England are now computed to perform annually, the work of
four hundred millions of men! a number nearly double to that now
living on the whole globe.

Nor is the geology of the state to be disregarded. Ever since a
careful examination of the materials of the earth's surface has been
found to afford indications of its past changes, this science has been
diligently and successfully cultivated in Europe, and has not been
neglected in some parts of the United States. It is high time that
Virginia should contribute her quota to its researches. We should be
the more stimulated to cultivate this branch of science in the United
States, in consequence of the remarkable regularity of the different
formations on this continent. Thus along the coast below the falls, we
have south of Long Island the tertiary formation; between the falls
and the Blue Ridge, the primitive; and the great Mississippi Valley,
from the Alleghany to the Rocky Mountains, if principally secondary.
There are however, occasional exceptions to these general rules, and
they should be noticed with care. As our useful minerals lie near the
surface, our observations will, for a long time to come, be
principally confined to that; but as there are instances of shafts
being sunk in search of salt water or gold, the strata should be
carefully noted; and where any pit of unusual depth is sunk, it would
be well to make experiments on the heat of the earth, before the
admission of the ordinary air has altered its temperature. It has long
been asserted that there was an internal heat in the interior of the
earth, and further observation seems to confirm it. This fact has
lately had a seemingly conclusive verification in England. A shaft had
been sunk there in pursuit of coal, to the extraordinary depth of
nearly fifteen hundred feet; and by a number of careful experiments,
the heat at the bottom was found to be 28° hotter than the average
heat of the earth in this latitude, which would seem to show an
increase at the rate of a degree of Fahrenheit for every sixty
feet.[10] Should this correctly indicate the measure of the earth's
internal heat, then at the depth of something less than two miles, we
should come to the temperature of boiling water. When we recollect
that this heat is not farther removed from us than a two thousandth
part of the distance to the centre, (bearing about the same proportion
to the earth as the parchment stretched over it, does to an ordinary
globe,) it seems to afford a ready solution for volcanoes,
earthquakes, and many geological phenomena; and may even excite our
wonder, that some of these results of so mighty an agent are not more
frequent and terrible than they are. And when we recollect that the
confines between organized matter, and that form of it which is
inconsistent with animal or vegetable life, approach so near each
other, it is calculated to humble the pride of man, that he has been
upon this globe all but six thousand years without a suspicion of the
fact.

[Footnote 10: See London and Edinburgh Philosophical Magazine for
December 1834. This experiment coincides with the theory regarding the
internal heat of the earth, promulgated by a member of the French
Institute (Mons. Cordier,) in a memoir presented to that association
about six years since, in which he gives a detail of numerous
observations and experiments on which he founded his theory, now fully
confirmed by the more decisive experiment in England.]

There are also problems concerning our climate which well deserve
solution. The acknowledged difference between the eastern and western
coasts of climates, has been attributed, with a great show of reason,
to the prevalence of the westerly winds; and of the fact of their
greater prevalence there, is the most satisfactory general
evidence--but it is discreditable that the amount of the difference
should not be as well ascertained as the fact itself. The average
difference can be ascertained only by repeated and accurate
observations.

It has also been asserted that the temperature of the Mississippi
Valley is higher than that of the Atlantic coast. Mr. Jefferson long
ago advanced this opinion, and it was adopted by Volney; but there is
strong reason to believe that the direct contrary is the fact. It is,
however, high time that this question should be settled by a series of
thermometrical observations, and a comparison of facts derived from
the vegetable world.

We have, Mr. President, been three years in existence, and as yet have
done little. Let us bestir ourselves in the cause of science and of
our country; and endeavor, under some disadvantages, to give Virginia
the same rank in science and literature that she has always maintained
in her devotion to civil liberty and political integrity. Though borne
along with the rest of the world, by the great current of philosophy
of which I have been speaking, we should not fold our arms in listless
apathy, but diligently ply our oars, lest we should be left further
behind by those in advance of us, and be overtaken by those now in our
rear.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM NEW ENGLAND--NO. 5.

BY A VIRGINIAN.


Scholars in Virginia are not generally aware, that the classical Greek
pronunciation is thought to exist still in Greece; and that
(connecting this fact with the close resemblance of the ancient, to
some of the modern dialects _as written_) that rich and elegant
language is no longer to be regarded as _dead_. Thus confidently think
two intelligent and accomplished natives of Greece, now in
Connecticut, who are reputed (no doubt deservedly) to be thorough
masters of both the ancient and the modern tongue. In a gratifying
interview with one of them (Mr. _Perdicaris_ at New Haven), being
curious to hear Homer in his native melody, I prevailed on Mr. P. to
read me a few lines of the Illiad. They were by no means musical to my
ear--vitiated, doubtless, by the faulty pronunciation to which I had
been accustomed, and destitute of those associated ideas, which
conduce so largely to the beauty of poetry. He sounds _oi_ dipthong,
like _e_; _d_ like TH soft; _g_ like a mere aspiration, as our _h_.
The word _poluphloisboio_ ([Greek: poluphloisboio]) so expressively
sonorous to our ears when pronounced with the full, swelling _roll_ of
the dipthong, he would attenuate into _poluphleesbeeo_--to me much
more like the whistling of the wind through a key-hole, than the
hoarse, multitudinous roar of an agitated ocean. I spare you, here, a
speculation that is passing in my mind, as to how far this diversity
between different ears, proves the notion of the _sound's echoing to
the sense_ to be merely fanciful; and as to the influence of previous
association upon our relish of poetical, and of other beauty--how
much, for example, of the native Greek's rapture at Homer, is owing to
love of country, and how much of an American's ecstacies to classical
enthusiasm, the pride of learning, or the influence of names. Yes, I
spare you--partly, because I have not _much_ that is new to say upon
the subject; and partly because, if I had, it would be wholly out of
season.

By special invitation, I attended a lecture (one of a series)
delivered by Mr. Perdicaris, upon the literary and political history
of modern Greece. It was marked by a rich yet chaste imagination, a
generous glow of patriotic enthusiasm, and the eloquence which they
naturally inspire. You may feel a curiosity, as I did, to know
somewhat of the _outer man_ of a modern Greek. Mr. P. is about the
middle height, or five feet nine; shoulders broad, and a stout frame;
black hair, disposed to curl; large black whiskers, flanking a broad
oval face, the complexion whereof is a darkish olive--as dark, at
least, as Mr. Webster's. Having been eleven years in this country, he
speaks our language fluently and intelligibly: indeed, as is usual
with those who learn a foreign tongue from books, and from enlightened
native speakers, his _English_ is remarkably pure. A few rhetorical
and grammatical faults there were--for instance, "_he left Athens_"
was curtailed (_a la Yankee_) to "_he left_." This is a New
England-ism not confined to the vulgar: neither is the phrase "he
_conducted well_," for "he conducts _himself_ well;" nor "considerable
_of_ a place," for "a considerable place." We hear Yankees of
respectable literary pretensions, too, saying _shall_, where the
English idiom certainly requires _will_; as, "shall you visit Boston
during your tour?"[1]--and clipping the infinitive mood, in a way
equally contrary to the good customs of the realm--thus--"I have not
written yet, but to-day _I intend to_." But I am chasing game that is
hardly worth the powder.

[Footnote 1: If I mistake not, I have heard Mr. Webster himself use
_shall_ in this manner. It is an innovation, sustained by no eminent
authority or precedent in England; and is confined, in America, to the
north side of the Potomac, if not to the east of the Hudson. With that
still grosser affectation, "the house is _being built_," "a war is
_being waged_," it should be promptly arrested, before it shall have
become inseparably mingled in the "well of English undefiled." By the
way, this latter _refinement_ prevails more in the south than in the
north.]

I owe to Mr. P. another intellectual treat: the inspection of an
Illiad, edited by Mr. Felton, Professor of Greek at Harvard. Of all
the editions that I have examined, this is by far the best adapted to
schools; and the most likely to gratify the taste, or to aid the
study, of a retired scholar. The _character_ is a _fac simile_ of
Porson's M.S. Greek--surpassingly neat, simple, and distinct. The text
seems to be given with exemplary fidelity. And it is interspersed with
_Flaxman's Illustrations_; engraved cuts, of all the principal scenes:
which, though mere hints of incidents, and too meager outlines of
persons, greatly heighten the interest of the work. But its crowning
merits, are the Editor's English Preface and Notes. I read the former,
and most of the latter--much more, I dare say, than is usually deemed
needful for a reviewer. They do Mr. F.'s learning, judgment, taste,
feeling, and eloquence, very high honor. He does not make much ado
about the trivialities of _dialect_, _quantity_, and _various
readings_, like the cumbersome annotators upon the classicks,
criticised in the Spectator; nor does he, like "piddling Tibbald,"
'celebrate himself for achieving the restoration of a comma,'[2] or
the correction of an accent. But beauties are pointed out and
commented on, with a critical taste and elegance, calculated to make
the learner's task a luxury; while difficulties are cleared up with a
fulness that leaves little need for oral instruction. The edition is
in one volume; and I hope soon to see it supersede the clumsy affair
of the too learned Samuel Clarke, which now has such fast foot-hold in
our schools.

[Footnote 2: Johnson's Preface to Shakspeare.]

You perhaps think it odd, that I have said nothing of the _judicial
systems_ of New England; and ascribe it either to my acting on Young
Rapid's maxim--"sink the shop, Dad!"--or to my being cloyed with
courts at home, and so, loathing them amid the countless attractions
of my journey. Neither, neither--be assured. 'Though last, not
least'--they have formed a leading subject of my inquiries: and to
judge speculatively, as well as from what is told me of their
practical operation (which I have had no opportunity to witness) they
have some points worth _considering_, if not _imitating_.

The judiciary power of Rhode Island is vested in a supreme court,
consisting of a chief and two associate justices; and a court of
common pleas (composed of five judges) for each of the five counties.
_All the judges are appointed annually by the legislature_. This
feature alone suffices to stamp the whole system with insignificance:
for what skill in jurisprudence--what independence of popular
excitements and party influences--could be expected from judges whom
the breath of a party leader can make and unmake, at each year's end?
When to this we add, that the chief justice of the supreme court
receives a salary of $650, and each associate $550, we need not wonder
that no decision of the Rhode Island bench is ever quoted in other
states. The governor's salary is $400; the lieutenant governor's,
$200. But if, in scantiness of territory and a corresponding
scantiness of means, this state is ordained by nature to be the San
Marino of America, yet it is purely her own fault if, by the
precarious tenure of her judicial offices, she reduces one of the most
important departments of _mind_ to the same diminutive scale, and goes
far to make herself morally and intellectually also, the insignificant
miniature of a commonwealth.

In Connecticut, justice is administered in causes of small amount by
county courts, whose judges are chosen annually: and in larger causes,
by superior courts. The latter are held semi-annually in each county
by one of five judges, who also form the supreme court. They hold
office during good behavior, or until seventy years of age: and have
both law and chancery jurisdiction. The supreme court sits once a year
_in each county_. I do not know what actual loss of valuable services
Connecticut has suffered, by her rule which drives judges from the
bench just at the juncture when their faculties are in many instances
the most happily ripe for its functions: but, that she has lost and
will lose, no one can doubt who remembers, that thirteen of the best
years of Mansfield's judicial life, and fourteen or fifteen of Wythe's
and Pendleton's, were after the age of seventy; and that such a rule
would have deprived the United States' judiciary, ten years ago, of
its present gigantic Coryphæus--confessedly one of the purest and most
powerful minds that ever filled any judgment seat. But what heightened
or adequate terms of censure can be found for the New York rule, which
displaces every judge at sixty? A rule which prematurely discarded
Spencer and Lansing; and which, for more than ten years, has made Kent
employ the full vigor and maturity of his intellect in writing
abstract treatises, and selling _chamber_ opinions, instead of going
on as he had begun, to build up for his state a system of
jurisprudence hardly inferior to that which Mansfield reared for
England?

In Massachusetts, are some very striking peculiarities. The _supreme
court_, consisting of four judges, sits once a year _in each county_,
to decide questions of law, in the last resort. Some one of these
judges, besides, holds annually a _Nisi Prius_ term in each county, to
try appeals from an inferior grade called "courts of common pleas,"
original suits in chancery, and upon the bonds of executors and
administrators. The appeals to them from the common pleas, are _as to
both law and fact_: a jury being empanneled, witnesses examined, &c.,
as if it were an original proceeding. The latter courts are held twice
a year in each county, by some one of four judges; who hold office
(like those of the supreme court) during good behavior. They have
cognizance of all causes, except what I shall designate as vested
elsewhere.

Presentments and indictments for all offences, are found only in the
_common pleas_; where, also, they are tried--_except in capital
cases_. These, after the indictment is found, are certified and
removed from the common pleas to the _supreme court_; at whose bar the
culprit is tried by a jury: a special term being held on purpose, in
any county where the judges are notified that a prisoner awaits trial
for life or death. _En passant_--though _eight crimes_ are, by the
laws of Massachusetts, punishable with death, _only twenty-six
persons_ in the whole state have been capitally convicted, _in thirty
years!_ The number of trials (I do not exactly remember it) bears an
immense disproportion to the number of convictions: so immense, as to
prove that either an undue severity in the laws, or the unreasonable
and too common lenity of juries, aided by the overwhelming superiority
of defending advocates--or (what is most probable) all three causes
together--have well nigh made those laws a dead letter. Prosecutions
are conducted by _district attorneys_, of whom there are four in the
state; each prosecuting within his allotted district. In the supreme
court, however, the attorney general is counsel for the commonwealth.

_Chancery_, or _equitable relief_, is rarely sought in the
Massachusetts courts. Indeed it was unknown, until, within a
comparatively recent period, two or three statutes empowered the
supreme court to administer it, in a very few specified
cases--_mortgages_, _trusts_, _accounts between partners and
co-executors_, _waste_, _nuisance_, and two or three others: omitting
the fruitful subjects of _fraud_, _accident_, _dower_, _et
cetera_--and especially the sweeping power to relieve _wherever there
is no remedy at law_--subjects which, by the multiplication of cases,
have made _our_ chancery, like that of England, the dormitory if not
the grave of justice. And even as to the few specified subjects of
jurisdiction, those statutes rigidly restrict the relief to cases in
which there is _not a plain and complete remedy at law_. Before these
enactments (and _since_, too, in cases without their scope,) the rigor
of the law was mitigated only by the sense of justice in juries; and
by sundry expedients--curious enough, to Virginian eyes--which seem to
have left few _wrongs_ unremedied. For instance--if I am unjustly cast
in a trial at law, by accident or surprise, or for want of testimony
which I did not know of till the term was over; not a bill of
injunction, but a petition to the judge in vacation, within a limited
time, will procure me a new trial. If my debtor fraudulently dispose
of his property; instead of a bill in chancery to ferret out the
fraud, I may have, along with my execution (if I have obtained
judgment) a _summons_ to the colluding purchaser as _garnishee_, to
disclose orally on oath, in open court, what effects he has, of the
debtor.

Roads are laid off by a board of commissioners, established for that
purpose in each county; and invested with judicial powers, in
controversies on the subject.

The probat of wills, the granting of administrations, the appointment
of guardians, and the supervision of the accounts and conduct of
guardians, executors, and administrators, are confided to an officer,
called the _Judge of Probat_, appointed in each county for those
purposes only; and holding his court monthly, in several convenient
places of the county, to hear motions and decide disputes on those
subjects. His records and proceedings are kept by a distinct clerk,
called the _Register of Probat_; and an appeal lies from his decisions
immediately to the supreme court. We, in Virginia, sorely need some
tribunal like this; specially charged with the interests of widows and
orphans.

Equally worthy to be copied, is the Massachusetts mode of constituting
_juries_. Lists of all persons qualified to serve, are kept by the
town-clerks; from which, just before a court, the town quota of jurors
is drawn by lot: and no one is compellable to serve oftener than once
in three years. _They are paid for their service._ Against juries thus
formed, I heard no complaints, of partiality, corruption, or undue
ignorance. They receive a compensation, which at least defrays their
reasonable expenses; and if there be still some burthen, it is borne
equally by all, and recurs at such long intervals, as to be absolutely
unfelt. How different is our plan, of sending out the sheriff just
before a trial, to gather in the sweepings of the court-yard! Suitors
and witnesses, attending perhaps for the tenth time, in hopes of
having their causes determined--strangers from other counties, nay,
travellers from other states--tipplers from the tavern porch--the
nearest merchants, mechanics, and farmers, torn suddenly and
capriciously from their employments--such is the medley, produced by a
system as oppressive to most of the jurors themselves, as it is
subversive of the important ends for which they are empanneled. One is
really tempted to believe, that in adhering so pertinaciously to a
system so obviously defective and so easily remedied, our statesmen
have been governed by a fixed design to bring jury-trial itself into
disrepute.

Wiser in another respect also than we, these "Bay folk" have no courts
(except for cases of twenty dollars or less) held by _men who have not
themselves studied the science they are to expound_: no parallel to
our county courts--those _crack_ tribunals of some great men, whose
admiration arises either from the want of intimate knowledge--they
having ranged generally in a higher sphere--or from their enjoying
over that bench an _influence_, flattering to their vanity, and
blinding to their judgments. How long will the public attention
sleep--how long will the hand of reform be palsied--when will an
attempt be made to cure the unfitness of these courts for the weighty,
multifarious, and difficult functions entrusted to them?--the
ludicrous, if it were a less mischievous, uncertainty of their
decisions, owing to their ignorance of any fixed rules by which to
decide?--the delays, so fatal to justice, that attend their unsteady
ministration?--the ruinous accumulation of costs, besides harassment
and loss of time in dancing attendance upon them through years of
litigation?

The Massachusetts and Connecticut plan, of an _itinerant supreme
court_, cannot be commended to imitation. The common arguments, of
_bringing justice home to the people_, and _enabling suitors to see in
person to their causes_, are not pertinent, where the whole case is
contained in the record; where no witnesses are to be summoned or
examined--no counsel to be instructed in the cause. Then, the loss of
time in travelling, and the want of so extensive a library and so able
a bar, as would be formed if the court sat always in one place, must
essentially impair the correctness of its decisions, and lower the
superiority of its intellect.

The common-law of England is made the basis of Massachusetts law, not,
as in Virginia, by a legislative declaration that it shall be so, but
by adjudications of the courts, recognizing and adopting it as such.
By a still bolder stretch, the courts have acknowledged as generally
binding, English statutes made in amendment of the common-law--not
only before, but _since_ the foundation of the colony: nay, the terms
of the decision do not exclude English statutes subsequent to the
American revolution. This comprehensive grafting of a foreign code
upon the domestic, not by professed and authorised law-givers, but by
mere judges, is perhaps one of the most remarkable instances of
judicial legislation, any where to be found: and must have arisen from
a licentious spirit of _construction_, which, when it acts upon
written laws, may naturally be expected to make them mean almost any
thing that the interpreters choose.[3] The admirers of an _unwritten
law, reposited in the breasts of judges and to be sought only in
precedents and decisions_, may vaunt, if they will, its happy
_elasticity_, dilating and contracting to fit every conceivable
emergency: but I doubt if (among other evils) it does not nurture
habits of latitudinous interpretation, destined to be well nigh fatal
to one of the great boasts of modern times--written forms of
government. Minds accustomed always to make the law adapt itself to
the particular occasion; to regard that _as law_, which the immediate
case requires; naturally fritter away constitutions with as little
ceremony, as children demolish or alter their sand houses and dirt
pies.

[Footnote 3: Hardly less startling an exercise of legislative power by
the judiciary, was in the abolition of slavery. The Bill of Rights
prefixed to the constitution of Massachusetts, adopted in 1780,
asserts, as most of our state constitutions do--substantially copying
the Declaration of Independence--"_that all men are born free and
equal_, and have certain natural and unalienable rights;" namely, the
right of enjoying their lives and liberties, &c. On this, some masters
spontaneously yielded freedom to their slaves; others, on its being
demanded of them. In 1781, a master who refused, was sued by his slave
for a trespass, assault and battery, and false imprisonment; and
pleaded, that the plaintiff, being his slave, had no right to sue him.
The court held, that slavery was contrary to the first article of the
Bill of Rights; and that therefore the plea was bad, and the plaintiff
was free. This decision virtually abolished slavery in Massachusetts,
without any legislative act for doing so. Some other suits were
brought; but in most cases, masters yielded at once. There were then
not quite five thousand slaves in the state. Abolition was similarly
effected in New Hampshire. It was by legislation in New York, where
there were twenty-one thousand slaves, in a whole population of three
hundred and forty thousand.]

The chief court of Massachusetts has tasked the readers of law-books,
as heavily as our's has done. Its decisions fill twenty-seven or
twenty-eight octavo volumes--about our number. The supreme court of
New York has issued more than thirty; the supreme court at Washington
eighteen or twenty; Pennsylvania, Connecticut, South Carolina--but I
forbear the appalling list. Every good law library, however, should
have at least the five sets first named; and they are as yet but just
begun. If the monstrous increase be not checked, what purse can buy,
what head can read (much less remember,) nay what room can hold them,
a century hence? Already, indeed, we are grievously over-tasked: for
besides the thousands of tomes, English and American, now
accumulated,[4] it is impossible to keep pace with the daily
accessions, poured forth from a hundred manufactories of legal
oracles. Some powerful condenser, or another Caliph Omar, is our only
hope. The oppressive bulkiness of law-reports is owing partly to the
reporters; but more, to the judges--who, apparently more intent on the
display of learning and ingenuity, than upon adjusting the rights of
the parties, often swell the simple and clear page or two, which the
case requires, into a rambling and voluminous disquisition of twenty
pages. Nay, not content with _one_ such disquisition in each case,
each judge presents his own; and the reporter spreads them all at
length in his next volume. I wish that both judges and reporters could
be obliged to study, as models of lucid brevity, Yelverton's Reports,
and the still more admirable decisions of Chief Justice Tindal, of the
English Common-Pleas[5]--who frequently compresses into half a page or
less, what our American judges would wire-draw into half a dozen
pages.

[Footnote 4: "Immenso aliarum super alias acervatarum legum cumulo."]

[Footnote 5: In the late "English Common-Law Reports."]

Lawyers are very numerous in Massachusetts--somewhere about seven
hundred; of whom one hundred and sixty or one hundred and eighty are
in Boston. Their intercourse appears to be marked by the same
fraternal spirit, which strews the toilsome path of the profession in
the south with so many sweets and flowers. Admission to the bar is
procured, not by examination, but by leave of court, on recommendation
of those who are already practising there; provided the candidate have
studied five years in some lawyer's office; or have so studied three
years, and be a graduate of some college. He has, besides, to pay for
admission into the supreme court, a fee of thirty dollars, and for the
common-pleas, twenty dollars; to be expended towards a joint library,
for the use of the bar in each county. These libraries are sometimes
large, and well selected. The emoluments of practice, except to the
very leaders of the profession, seem far inferior to those of
practisers occupying correspondent grades of talent and fame in
Virginia: indeed, I doubt whether any but Mr. Webster receives an
amount comparable to the incomes of several there, whom I could name.
Yet the life of a lawyer is probably more pleasant in Massachusetts.
From the pre-requisites to admission, you may infer that well-stored
minds abound more with the fraternity: at least it was so, till our
university, and our several excellent law-schools, began to give a
clearer and more expanded ken to the mental optics of our young
lawyers. Then, in society at large--certainly in the towns and
villages--there is more literature afloat in Massachusetts: amusements
are of a more rational cast. Where _we_ have a horse-race, a barbecue,
a whist-party, or a _pool_ at back-gammon, our Yankee brethren have a
meeting of some lyceum, or other society for mutual improvement, at
which a lecture is given or a debate held, upon some interesting
subject, of economy or morals: or an unceremonious evening visit is
dedicated to conversation, in which politics engross no unreasonable
share. The newspapers--even the most violent political ones--at once
attest and foster the prevalent taste for general knowledge, by
devoting a considerable part of their sheets to literary and useful
matter: unlike the two giants of the press in Virginia, that can
hardly ever spare a column, and never a page, from the
embittering--aye, the brutalizing--themes of party strife, to topics
which might exalt, enlighten, purify, innocently amuse, and humanize
the public mind. There is less locomotion in the practice of a
Massachusetts lawyer: he rarely attends more than two counties; for
the most part, only one. This, if he loves domestic life, is a great
point for him. And in the ordering of a New England home-stead, there
is a quiet, smooth despatch--a neatness--a happy fitting of means to
ends--a nicety of contrivances for comfort--an economy of trouble in
every thing--all calculated doubly to endear it to a home-loving man.
When to all this we add, that though the prime necessaries of life are
cheaper with us, those elegancies and luxuries which as the world goes
have become necessaries, are so much more accessible in New England,
as to make a smaller income yield a larger store of comfort; it will
not seem wonderful, that the balance of enjoyment is on the
Massachusetts lawyer's side. I take for granted, you see, that he is
not insensible to intellectual pleasures; and that _they_ conduce the
most of all to happiness.

This is probably the last time you will hear from me before we meet;
as my tour is drawing near its close. The six weeks it has occupied,
have been crowded with more mind-stirring incident, than any six
months of my previous life. Vivid indeed is the contrast, between the
plodding, eventless tenor of the preceding eight years, and the
exciting, the feverish interest of these six weeks. Yet they have
afforded scarcely a describable adventure; nothing, at all calculated
to make an auditor's eyes stretch wide, or his hair stand on end. In
truth, the interest is explicable in great part by the simple case of
a plough-horse, turned loose to kick up his heels for an hour. He
enjoys the recreation (if his spirit is not broken by excessive work,)
five fold more than a daily roamer of the pasture could do. Judge how
the sport has kept my faculties aroused, by the fact, that though
habitually a great sleeper, requiring seven or eight hours in the
twenty-four, my sleep, since leaving Virginia, would hardly average
five hours. Even while on foot--walking from twenty to thirty miles a
day--my nightly allowance was sometimes less than five, never more
than six hours.

Let me commend to tourists, _foot-travelling_--if they wish to see a
country thoroughly: I do not mean its rivers and mountains, cities,
forests, and churches, but its MEN and WOMEN. _These_ "constitute a
State." Whoever would see _them_ in their truest, every-day garb--of
dress and manners--upon occasions and amid scenes, where refined
disguises are laid aside, and life appears with the least
sophistication possible in our state of society; should walk among
them without equipage and in very plain clothes; call in at their
houses--partake of their meals--nay, find some excuse for tarrying a
day or two at one place--enter their schools, and their public
meetings--see them at their work--and hold "various talk" with them.
In two or three weeks thus employed, he will obtain a deeper insight
into their customs, character and institutions, than from months spent
in whirling along the highways, and attending formal dinner parties.
Unless he is a hardened pedestrian, he should take care to begin by
short journies, of only eight, ten, or fifteen miles a day; and not
till after five or six days, stretch away at thirty miles daily.
Otherwise he may cripple himself, so as greatly to mar the pleasure of
his jaunt. I speak from sore experience on this point.

Though I have been obliged to concede to the Yankees, a superiority in
some respects over ourselves, you will not suspect me of having
over-colored my limnings, or of having wantonly--much less
ill-naturedly--disparaged our good old commonwealth. Without wishing
to lower the generally just and salutary, (though sometimes amusing)
pride her children feel at the bare mention of her honored name, I
have aimed to draw their attention to some traits of Yankee life and
character, which we may advantageously copy--nay, the _want of which_
is the main cause of our lagging march in the numberless improvements,
that distinguish this age, and appear so fruitful of blessings to
mankind. My aim too has been, to disabuse them of a few of the
prejudices, which ignorance and misrepresentation have fostered
against our Northern brethren. Let any one who thinks I have
exaggerated their excellencies, only come among them, and see for
himself; bringing to the scrutiny _a candid mind_, prepared to _allow_
for unavoidable differences.--Indeed our people ought to travel
northward oftener. It would be a good thing, if exploring parties were
frequently sent hither, (as to a moral _terra incognita_,) to observe
and report the particulars deserving of our imitation. Our independent
planters, and shrewd, notable housewives, could not make such an
excursion, without carrying home a hundred _notions_, for which they
and their neighbors would be the richer and better all their days. Nor
might they profit less, by sending their statesmen and law-givers, to
take lessons in civil polity. There are admirable things of every
magnitude; from TOWNSHIP GOVERNMENTS, COMMON SCHOOLS, and COURTS OF
PROBAT, down to _closed doors_, _splayed_ and _rumfordized_
fire-places,[6] _seasoned wood_,[7] and _cold light-bread_.[8] Some
things, too, they would see, to be shunned: I need only name excessive
_banking_,--enormously multiplied _corporations_, for manufacturing,
and other purposes--and, what strikes yet more fatally at the
foundation of popular government, the _caucus_ system. But the
strongest reason for a more frequent intercourse, is the liberalizing
of mind that would result; the unlearning of our long cherished
prejudices, from seeing the Yankees _at home_--that place, where human
character may always be the most accurately judged. They too, have
some (though fewer and less bitter,) reciprocal prejudices, to be
cured by a more intimate acquaintance. No mind but must see the
unspeakable importance of weeding away these mutual and groundless
dislikes. The perpetuity of our union--and the liberty, the peace, the
happiness of its members--in a great degree depend upon the
accomplishment of that expurgation. There cannot be a simpler
_recipe_. _The North and the South need only know each other better,
to love each other more._

[Footnote 6: When the sides of a fire-place are slanting, instead of
being square with the back, they are said to be _splayed_. When the
back leans forward at top, approaching the inner side of the arch or
front top, so as to make the flue only six or eight inches wide, it is
said to be _Rumford-ized_, If my readers pardon me for being thus
elementary, I will presume further upon it, and add, that the latter
term comes from Count _Rumford_, who invented that improvement. The
sides of a New England fire-place often slope at an angle of 120 or
130 degrees with the back; so as to make the width _behind_, not more
than half the width in front. The wood is usually sawed, to fit the
hinder part of the fire-place.]

[Footnote 7: The wood is cut 12, sometimes 15 or 18 months, before it
is burned. If cut in the summer, it is suffered to lie out for a few
months, and then put away till the second winter, in the _wood-house_;
a constant and close appendage to every dwelling. Southrons have no
idea, though Yankees have experimental knowledge, of the saving and
comfort there is in using this, instead of green wood--how vastly
further any given quantity of the former will go, in producing heat.
It has been satisfactorily shewn, that in a cord of green wood, there
are about 140 or 150 gallons of _water_; all of which must be changed
to steam--that is, _evaporated_--before the particles of the wood in
which it is lodged can burn: and in doing this, just so much _heat_ is
expended, which would otherwise be employed in warming the room. The
time spent in this process, makes our people fancy that green wood
actually _burns_ longer than dry: and because a dozen billets of
green, when the water is entirely evaporated, give out more heat than
four dry ones, they think that hotter fires can be made of green
wood!]

[Footnote 8: The bread should not be eaten till it is _cured_, or
stale; i.e., at least twenty-four hours old; and it is _good_, for
several days more. The superior wholesomeness of _cured_ bread is
explained by the fact, that on coming out of the oven, it has an
over-proportion of carbonic acid gas--well known to be poisonous when
unmixed; but by lying in the open air, the bread parts with most of
this noxious gas, and imbibes instead of it, oxygen gas--the
wholesome, vital _principle_ in the atmosphere.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE WALTZ AND THE GALLOPADE.


MR. WHITE,--Although a short time only has passed since I wrote you a
long letter, partly to fulfil a promise made before your Messenger
began to perform his most welcome peregrinations, yet the spirit
moveth me irresistibly to address you again. The immediate cause of
this second tax upon your patience being so soon levied, is the
perusal of an article published some time ago in that spirited paper,
the "Constitutional Whig" of your city,--wherein, to my great
gratification, its talented editor has lashed in well merited style,
that outrage upon the yet unsophisticated manners and customs of our
country, seen, I believe, for the first time in the city of Washington
last winter, as if in mockery of the character and memory of its
illustrious founder. I mean the "Fancy Ball," as it is styled by those
who have undertaken to describe it; although with all due deference to
their superior taste and knowledge, I would venture to suggest "the
frantic hurlyburly" as a more appropriate term. I do this from having
some reason to believe, that a more deplorable caricature of what was
designed to be represented, was never perpetrated by the would-be
fashionables in any country--either _in_ or _out_ of Christendom. This
foreign and apish intruder has not yet, thank heaven, gained such
footing among us, as altogether to preclude the hope of extirpating it
from the land, if a few such pens as that wielded by the editor of the
Whig, could be exerted for so laudable a purpose; and therefore it is
that I venture to cry--"to the rescue," in the hope that several
others will obey the call. Let it once be deemed "_the fashion_" to
have "Fancy Balls," and even the greatest clodhoppers among us are
sufficiently acquainted with the despotism of this tyrant, to know
that _his_ behests will bid defiance alike to reason, ridicule, and
reproof--to good sense, good manners, and good principles.

I am much gratified, Mr. Editor, at another circumstance brought to my
notice incidentally by this article in the "Whig." It is, that our
language, copious as it certainly is, does not yet afford terms of its
own to express several of the foreign fooleries and attempts to
corrupt our yet simple, unaffected character, described as a part of
this extraordinary exhibition, "the Fancy Ball;" such, for example, as
the waltz and the gallopade. For the benefit of those who may wish to
know the literal meaning of these outlandish terms, without the means
of gratifying such wish, I beg leave to offer the fruit of my
researches--aided, as I confess myself to have been, by far better
scholars than I am.

The first term--"_waltz_," is evidently of German extraction, being
plainly derived from the verb "_walzen_" which, with the adjunct
"_sich_," means to roll, welter, or wallow oneself; and with the
prefix "_das_" becomes the participle rolling, weltering, wallowing;
from which selfish process the transition is quite easy, to roll, or
welter, or wallow another. In either case the predominant idea is,
that the term describes some action natural to an animal of the order
Belluæ; for our English correlative terms are never applied to human
beings, but by way of derision or contempt expressed in figurative
language. Quere: how does it accord with human pride and vanity--how
far is it reconcileable to the lowest aspirations that we are ever
willing to acknowledge ourselves capable of feeling, to be ambitious
of imitating either hogs, horses, or monkies in our actions?

If there could be any doubt in regard to the derivation of the first
term "_waltz_," or the object of the practice of _waltzing_, the
etymology of the second term "_gallopade_," must settle the question
beyond farther controversy; and must prove that an imitation of
certain belluine gambols and gesticulations most be the grand
desideratum in adopting these exotic fashions. "_Gallopade_" is
manifestly from the French word "_galloper_," and that again from the
Greek "_kalpazein_" to gallop like a horse. From all this it seems
perfectly clear, that this latter dance at least, (if it may be so
called,) in order to honor its Greek Etymon, should be performed on
_all fours_; since for a biped successfully to imitate any action of a
quadruped, in which all its limbs are used, the biped must make its
arms, if it has any, execute the function of legs. The quadruped
resemblance then, which seems to be the thing coveted, would be
brought as near to perfection as the nature of the case could possibly
admit. Add to this, it is the best imaginable expedient for working
off that dissatisfaction at the ways of Providence which these
gallopading or galloping gentry appear to feel, at perceiving that all
the genera of the Belluæ order, (unless, perhaps, the Kangaroo may be
excepted,) have been so much more liberally dealt with, as to be
provided with one more pair of legs than they have. It may however be
well questioned, how far it is _good policy_ (to say no worse of it,)
to encourage this downward tendency, since the natural proclivity of
our species to indulge brute appetites and passions is generally
allowed to be already much greater than becomes us who claim to be the
only rational part of God's visible creation. Heaven knows that we
even _now_ approximate far too closely to the lower order of animals
in many of our propensities and practices, not to take any particular
pains, nor to use any extraordinary exertions to render this
approximation still more striking. If we can not prevail upon
ourselves to cherish higher aspirations, to act in a manner more
worthy of our exalted station among living and sentient beings, let us
at least strive hard _not to retrograde_.

So much, Mr. Editor, for _the degradation_ of these foreign fooleries.
But their _demoralizing tendencies_ are matters of much higher
concern--of infinitely deeper interest. Let me endeavor to point them
out. The perfection of the "_waltz_" consists in exhibiting to the
gaze of a numerous company of both sexes, the female form in every
variety of position and attitude into which activity of body and
suppleness of limb can throw it--short of what all would exclaim
against as absolutely indecent, continually however verging to that
point. No modest woman ever beheld it for the first time, without the
burning blush of shame and confusion. As to the horse galloping dance,
I know not what allurement _that_ may in time be capable of producing,
since it is not yet sufficiently domesticated to be well understood,
nor very skilfully executed--to say nothing of the very reasonable
doubts yet entertained by many nice calculators on such intricate
subjects, whether such a thing be possible as either an alluring or
graceful gallop performed by horse, man, or woman. But that which I
have said of the "_waltz_," none can deny, however some may be
disposed to palliate it, by alleging that all its numerous postures
and gyrations are still practised under that powerful sense of decorum
which the ladies of our country, (God bless them,) who venture to
indulge in it, have not yet been able entirely to subdue. But the
anxious question is,--_can this always last?_ Can a sense of _decorum_
or of _any thing else_ continue under the constant operation of causes
tending powerfully, nay, inevitably, to annihilate it? There is
nothing so great that time cannot destroy--nothing so small that it
may not increase to an almost inconceivable magnitude. Thus it is,
comparatively speaking, with our best principles--our most approved
manners. Injuries too slight at first to be regarded or feared,
accumulate by unperceived or neglected degrees, until at last they
grow past remedy, and all is lost that was worthy of preservation. Can
our beloved wives and daughters--beloved, because still uncontaminated
by foreign corruptions--can _they_ suffer themselves to be continually
whirled about in all the giddy, exciting mazes of the licentious
waltz, like so many French or Italian Opera girls, without impairing
or losing all self-respect--all that most lovely and endearing modesty
for which they have ever been so justly celebrated, so highly prized?
Can not polished manners, easy carriage, graceful deportment, be
taught at less sacrifice, less risk, than by calling in for the
purpose these deleterious foreign auxiliaries? Surely--_most surely_
they may; for all, I think, will admit, that no more admirable and
perfect examples of these qualities _can_, or probably ever _will_ be
found, than among the ladies of what may be called _the old school_,
many of whom to our own great happiness, are yet spared to teach their
daughters, among numerous useful lessons, that neither waltzing nor
horse-like-galloping is at all necessary to gain for them all the
esteem, regard, and devoted love which they can possibly deem
essential to their happiness in the present life. Thoughtless as too
many of our young men are, and desirous as they may often be to choose
waltzing and gallopading young ladies for _partners in a dance_, most
rarely do they yet commit the egregious folly of seeking them as
_partners for life_. However giddy, rash, and improvident some of them
may be in other respects, they are too well aware that a fondness for
these indecorous displays of the person--these ridiculous, antic
gambols, will do any thing rather than fit their practitioners for the
various, complicated, and arduous duties of the married state--through
_not one of which_ can either a waltz or a gallopade carry them with
the least credit to themselves or benefit to their families.
Better--far better would it be for these daughters to live and die
utterly ignorant of what dancing is, than to be qualified to
participate in its pleasures, at the hazard of soiling, in the
slightest degree, that spotless purity of feelings and character,
which _we men_ rank (and long, very long may we have a right to do
so,) as the richest, the most precious by far of all our moral
possessions. Deprive us of these, and we shall be poor--miserably poor
indeed! Rather let our beloved girls be subject forever to the
ridicule and contempt of all the infatuated votaries of these modern
and foreign[1] corruptions, both of our manners and principles, than
to be longer exposed to their deeply pernicious influence.

[Footnote 1: That your readers may know what our English friends think
of waltzing and gallopading, I take the liberty to add the following
extract from an article in the New Monthly Magazine, "on the
Revolutions of the 19th century." Here it is--

"Look at our balls: In 1800, modest woman danced modestly; and let the
conversation which passed between two partners, standing as far
distant from each other as people ordinarily do in a drawing room, be
what it might, it could do no harm in the way of example. Within this
century it has become the fashion for a delicate girl, who would, as
Fielding's 'Huncamunca' says--'shudder at the gross idea' of man's
advance, to permit herself, and be permitted by her mother--aye, or
her husband, to flourish about a room to a wriggling German air, with
a strange man's arm round her waist, and her delicate hand upon his
brawny shoulder. This thing is called--_a waltz_: there is another of
the same character, called--_a gallopade_, where the same operations
are performed, and in which, instead of turning the woman about until
she gets giddy, the fellow makes no more ado, but claps her up in his
paws, and hurries right on end from one corner of the room to
another."

Thus speaks one of the most popular periodicals in England of these
foreign abominations; and it is for Virginia parents and heads of
families to say, whether they shall be naturalized among us, or
banished from our society as a moral pestilence.]

I am no enemy, sir, to dancing; for I believe it to be not only an
exhilirating, healthful, and joyous amusement, but also entirely
innocent, when not carried to excess: quite as innocent as any other
imaginable thing that can properly be called amusement, in which the
two sexes participate together. But at every hazard of incurring the
ridicule and scorn of our American exquisites, I denounce waltzing and
gallopading, because, from my inmost soul, I dread any thing and every
thing that threatens, in the slightest degree, to change, for the
worse, the character of _the Virginia lady_; for upon _that character_
I most conscientiously believe, the happiness both of ourselves and
our children--aye, and of our children's children, vitally depends. I
cling to _it_ therefore as our best, our last hope, to guard us
against all corrupting innovations. Those upon which I have ventured
to address you, will probably be deemed very trivial matters, I dare
say, by thousands; but many of our ladies, I trust, whose opinions
have still much influence in all our social circles; many who will
acknowledge me for their true, devoted friend, although quite too old
to be their beau, will decide, that I have not ascribed too much power
to these exotic fashions. Like all other corrupting influences, they
have gradually insinuated themselves into favor; their approach has
not been so sudden and violent as to excite alarm. Of this fact, there
is no stronger evidence, than that which is furnished by the history
of the waltz itself, which, trifling as it may seem, _will and must_
have a powerfully demoralizing effect, especially when followed up by
its congenial ally, Masquerades,--of which the fancy-ball-folly is the
certain precursor. Mark the prediction, sir, for I know it will be
laughed to scorn by all the fashionables of the present day, although
I ask only two years for its fulfilment, but expect it much sooner.

When the waltz first made its appearance in this country, it was
exhibited only on the public stage, and _even there_ met with almost
universal reprobation, except from a few reckless profligates, whose
sole object in life is mere sensual indulgence. None so much as
surmised that such a dance could ever be introduced into private
society. At last, a few adventurous foreigners succeeded in
introducing it into private parties: but, for a considerable time,
_they themselves_ were the only performers. It was long before our
country-women could so far forget the early lessons of decorum, self
respect, and modesty, taught them by their mothers, as to make that
public display and spectacle of their persons, which must unavoidably
be made, in waltzing at all, if executed as the fashion required. But
these most natural and laudable feelings, which caused them to revolt
at such an innovation, such an outrage against all their preconceived
notions of propriety, have gradually yielded to the almost resistless
force of example "_in high places_," until the waltz has not only
domiciliated itself permanently in nearly all our towns and cities,
but has enlisted in its defence many bold country advocates. The few
ladies, (comparatively speaking,) among us, who yet have firmness and
moral courage enough, to resist what they deem a very pernicious
example, cannot, I fear, long maintain their most laudable opposition,
against such a host of assailants. Even _you_, Mr. Editor, (if you
will pardon my freedom in making the remark,) seem a little
inclined--judging by some late comments of your's upon waltzing--to
submit to the practice without further resistance.

Having made up my mind, Mr. Editor, to meet as I can, for this attack
upon foreign fashions, the sneers and scoffs of all our American
exquisites, should any condescend to notice me--a class of bipeds (by
the way,) who bear the same sort of resemblance to their European
prototypes, that the buffoon does to the head performer in a company
of tumblers and rope dancers--I shall say nothing to deprecate their
displeasure. But I must still beg leave to assign a few of my chief
reasons for addressing you on this occasion, lest that numerous and
highly respectable portion of your readers, whose good opinion I am
anxious to retain, may mistake my motives. Without some satisfactory
explanation, some of them might even be tempted to exclaim at me, as
old Edie Ochiltree did at the Antiquary--"Lordsake! he's gaun
gyte!"--"he has run crazy, to venture upon taking by the horns this
mad creature, Fashion, as if his feeble arm could at all check the
wild headlong course of such an animal." To prevent such comments, if
possible, I will urge in my own justification, should any be
necessary, that I have done this deed, because I deem it an essential
part of every aged person's obligations to his fellow men, as long as
life lasts, to oppose either orally or in print, for the benefit of
the youth of our country, every innovation, be it what it may, which
threatens to affect them injuriously. Whether they will listen to him
or not, depends upon themselves; _his duty_ in this behalf will have
been fulfilled. I have done it too, because I believe, that the most
feeble laborer with honest intentions, in a good cause, may accomplish
some good which will amply compensate him for his efforts. I have done
it, because apparent trifles are rarely noticed in books, although
many of these trifles have a most powerful and deleterious influence,
not only on our principles of action, but over our manners and
conduct. And lastly, I have done it, because I believe, without the
most remote possibility of this conviction ever being changed, that
the happiness of _the present_, as well as of _every future
generation_, depends upon preserving unsullied the purity of the
female character. _The matrons_ of our country are the first, the most
watchful, the best guardians of our children, where they themselves
have been virtuously educated. _They_ form the manners and character
of these children: _they_ sow the seeds of all their good qualities:
_they_ first discover and cherish with boundless affection and
solicitude, the earliest dawnings of each amiable disposition; and
never relax while life lasts, their anxious efforts to fit them both
for their present and future state of existence. How momentous then!
how vitally important it is! that, when the mothers depart hence to
another and a happier world, their surviving daughters should be
qualified to take their places, with equal capacity to fulfil all
their duties. But this, alas, cannot possibly be, without the most
zealous, unremitting and assiduous care, to guard them, as we would
the most inestimable of our possessions, against all demoralizing
influences whatever. Corrupt the source, and what will be the effect
of its streams? Poison the fountain, and who can drink of its waters
without death--death, both in a figurative and literal sense? An atom
of dust in itself is unworthy of notice; but in reference to the great
planet we inhabit, it is a constituent and essential part. A drop of
water alone, is apparently valueless; yet the mighty ocean itself is
composed of individual drops, without which its bed would be an arid
desert.

The application of these general remarks to our subject, is too
manifest, I hope, to be mistaken. Let nothing, therefore, however
trivial it may appear on a cursory view, be deemed unworthy of serious
attention, which either directly or indirectly, can injuriously affect
the yet distinctive, still unsullied character of our justly and
dearly beloved country-women.

Having thus thought and felt, as long as I have been at all capable of
serious reflection, it is quite too late to change: I am consequently
prepared to submit unmoved to whatever sentence may be pronounced
against this second communication, from your friend, and constant
reader,

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.




[The following amusing incident, is related in the lively manner for
which its author is much celebrated. The moral predicated upon the
bashfulness of his visiter, seems however disproportionably serious.
There are few cases of such extreme _mauvaise honte_ in the present
day, when an excess of _modest assurance_ (by some denominated
impudence,) is rather to be complained of.]


  From the New York Mirror.

A BASHFUL GENTLEMAN.

BY M. M. NOAH.


Modesty, diffidence, and a proper humility, are jewels in the cap of
merit; but downright bashfulness, your real _mauvaise honte_ is
terrible, and is a distinct mark of ill-breeding, or rather of no
breeding at all. Your dashing impudent fops, who say a thousand silly
things to the ladies, and flutter around them like butterflies, are
yet more endurable than your bashful fellow who sneaks into a corner,
terrified to catch a look, or exchange a word with a pretty woman.

Such an identical person paid me a visit on one of the cold days last
week, and broke in upon me with a thousand bows and apologies, while
busily engaged with pen in hand, thinking of a whig candidate for
president, who would not run the risk of being knocked on the head by
our friends the moment his name was announced.

"Sit down, sir, if you please; make no more apologies; sit down and
tell me your business." "Well, sir, I'm come for a curious business,
quite an intrusion, I'm sure, but so it is; necessity knows no
ceremony. Some time ago I read in your paper a description of the
miseries of an old bachelor, and it was so to the life--so true, and
so exactly my condition, that I have made bold to call on you for
advice; for misery, they say, loves company, and one wretched bachelor
may be able to counsel another--thus it is.--" "Stop, stop, my friend;
before you proceed, let me correct an error in which you have, no
doubt, inadvertently fallen. Though I may be able from memory to
describe the misery of single wretchedness, I had not the courage
constantly to face it. You must not be deceived, I am no longer a
bachelor; do you want the proofs, look there; that black-eyed, ruddy
cheeked fellow on the carpet, employed in cutting out ships and houses
from old newspapers, is my oldest; he designs himself to be an editor,
for he contends that nothing is easier; it is only, he says, cutting
out slips from one paper and putting them into another. That little
one who struts about in a paper cocked-hat and wooden sword, with
which, ever and anon, he pokes at my ribs, while deeply engaged in
considering how the nation is to be saved, is my second hopeful; he is
a Jackson man; all children, sir, are Jackson men; he goes for a
soldier if there be wars. That little golden-haired urchin, with a
melting blue eye, who is sure to ask me for candy, while I am
describing, in bitter terms, the tyranny of the Albany regency, is my
youngest; and there, with a basket of stockings near her, sits my
better half; there is the sparkling fire, and here are my slippers:
does all this look like the miseries of a bachelor?" "Well, I beg your
pardon, sir, for believing that you were as wretched as I am; but
still when you hear my story you may possibly advise me what is best
to be done." "Go on, sir." "Well, sir, thus it is: My father realized
a handsome property by his industry, which he left to me; but such
were his rigid notions of the necessity of constant occupation to
prevent idleness and other evils, that my time was employed, after I
had left school, which was at an early age, from sunrise to bed-time.
It was an incessant round of occupation--labor, keeping books, and
making out bills. Behold me now, at the age of twenty-three, with a
good constitution, correct principles, and a handsome income. I have
lost my parents--am alone in the world. I wish to marry, but really,
sir, to my shame I confess it, I have no acquaintance among young
ladies. I do not know any. My secluded manner of living has prevented
my cultivating their acquaintance; and if by accident I am thrown into
their society, my tongue is literally tied. I do not know how to
address them--I am not conversant with the topics which are usually
discussed. In short, sir, I wish to advertise for a wife, and not
knowing how to draw up such an advertisement, I came to beg that favor
at your hands."

"So, so," said I to myself, "here's a little modesty tumbled into
decay--'Coelebs in search of a wife.'" He was a good-looking young
fellow, and had a quick eye, which led me very much to doubt his
reserved, retired and abashed condition before the ladies.

"Have you, sir, considered the risk in taking a wife in this strange
way? How very liable you may be to gross imposition? What lady of
delicacy or reputation would venture to contract an alliance so very
solemn and obligatory, through the channel of a newspaper
advertisement?" "Very probably, sir; but a poor honest girl might be
struck with it; a clever, well-educated daughter, ill-treated by a
fiery step-mother, might, in despair, change her condition for a
better one; nay, a spirited girl might admire the novelty, and boldly
make the experiment." "Well, sir, and how are you to conduct the
negotiation with your native bashfulness? You have no superannuated
grandmother or old maiden aunt to arrange preliminaries." "That's very
true; but, sir, necessity will give me confidence, and despair afford
me courage."

I wrote the advertisement for him, which he thankfully and carefully
placed in his pocket-book, and bade us good morning. "Poor devil,"
said I, "here's a condition--here's a novelty--here's a _rara avis!_ a
fellow of twenty-three, with a good character and income, and not
sufficient impudence to ask for a wife. I know lots of young ladies
who would have sufficient charity to break him of his bashfulness in a
few lessons."

However, his case is not a novel one. It shows the necessity of
parents accustoming their sons in early life to cultivate the society
of respectable females. They should be encouraged in any disposition
they may manifest for good female society, although they may incur the
charge of being either a beau or a dandy. Boys should go to
dancing-school, not only because it teaches them grace, but it
accustoms them in early life to the society of women. They dance with
those girls, whom, in later periods, they may admire and respect as
ladies. The lives of children should be checkered with innocent
amusements--study and labor require such relief; and they should not
be brought up in close confinement, in a doggerel way which unfits
them for society when they are men; nor be driven to the dire
necessity of advertising for a wife, and taking the risk of such a
desperate adventure.




  From the Knickerbocker.

A SCENE IN REAL LIFE.

  'The facts not otherwise than here set down.'
                                   _Wife of Mantua_.

Amidst the exaggerations of modern literature, and the fictions of
that exuberant fancy, which in these latter days is tasked to gratify
a public taste somewhat vitiated, it is useful to present occasional
views of actual existence. Such are contained in the following sketch,
which is studiously simple in its language, and every event of which
is strictly true. We have this assurance from a source entitled to
implicit credit.

_Editors Knickerbocker_.


There is a vast amount of suffering in the world that escapes general
observation. In the lanes and alleys of our populous cities, in the
garrets and cellars of dilapidated buildings, there are pregnant cases
of misery, degradation, and crime, of which those who live in
comfortable houses, and pursue the ordinary duties of life, have
neither knowledge nor conception. By mere chance, occasionally, a
solitary instance of depravity and awful death is exposed, but the
startling details which are placed before the community, are regarded
as gross exaggerations. It is difficult for those who are unacquainted
with human nature in its darkest aspects, to conceive the immeasurable
depth to which crime may sink a human being,--and the task of
attempting to delineate a faithful picture of such depravity, though
it might interest the philosopher, would be revolting to the general
reader. There are, however, cases of folly and error, which should be
promulgated as warnings, and the incidents of the annexed sketch are
of this character. Mysterious are the ways of Providence in punishing
the transgressions of men,--and indisputable is the truth, that Death
is the wages of Sin.

       *       *       *       *       *

Twenty years ago, no family in the fashionable circles of Philadelphia
was more distinguished than that of Mr. L----: no lady was more
admired and esteemed than his lovely and accomplished wife. They had
married in early life, with the sanction of relations and friends, and
under a conviction that each was obtaining a treasure above all price.
They loved devotedly and with enthusiasm, and their bridal day was a
day of pure and unadulterated happiness to themselves, and of pleasure
to those who were present to offer their congratulations on the joyous
event. The happy pair were the delight of a large circle of
acquaintances. In her own parlor, or in the drawing-rooms of her
friends, the lady was ever the admiration of those who crowded around
her, to listen to the rich melody of her voice, or to enjoy the
flashes of wit and intelligence which characterized her conversation.

Without the egotism and vanity which sometimes distinguish those to
whom society pays adulation, and too prudent and careful in her
conduct to excite any feeling of jealousy in the breast of her
confiding husband, Mrs. L----'s deportment was in all respects
becoming a woman of mind, taste, and polished education. Her chosen
companion noticed her career with no feelings of distrust, but with
pride and satisfaction. He was happy in the enjoyment of her undivided
love and affection, and happy in witnessing the evidences of esteem
which her worth and accomplishments elicited. Peace and prosperity
smiled on his domestic circle, and his offspring grew up in
loveliness, to add new pleasures to his career.

The youngest of his children was a daughter, named Letitia, after her
mother, whom, in many respects, she promised to resemble. She had the
same laughing blue eyes, the same innocent and pure expression of
countenance, and the same general outline of feature. At an early age
her sprightliness, acute observation, and aptitude in acquiring
information, furnished sure evidences of intelligence, and
extraordinary pains were taken to rear her in such a manner as to
develope, advantageously, her natural powers. The care of her
education devolved principally upon her mother, and the task was
assumed with a full consciousness of its responsibility.

With the virtuous mother, whose mind is unshackled by the absurdities
of extreme fashionable life, there are no duties so weighty, and at
the same time so pleasing, as those connected with the education of an
only daughter. The weight of responsibility involves not only the
formation of an amiable disposition and correct principles, but in a
great measure, the degree of happiness which the child may
subsequently enjoy. Errors of education are the fruitful source of
misery, and to guard against these is a task which requires judgment,
and unremitting diligence. But for this labor, does not the mother
receive a rich reward? Who may tell the gladness of her heart, when
the infant cherub first articulates her name? Who can describe the
delightful emotions elicited by the early development of her
genius,--the expansion of the intellect when it first receives and
treasures with eagerness, the seeds of knowledge? These are joys known
only to mothers, and they are joys which fill the soul with rapture.

Letitia was eight years old, when a person of genteel address and
fashionable appearance, named Duval, was introduced to her mother by
her father, with whom he had been intimate when a youth, and between
whom a strong friendship had existed from that period. Duval had
recently returned from Europe, where he had resided a number of years.
He was charmed with the family, and soon became a constant visitor.
Having the entire confidence of his old friend and companion, all
formality in reference to intercourse was laid aside, and he was
heartily welcomed at all hours, and under all circumstances. He formed
one in all parties of pleasure, and in the absence of his friend,
accompanied his lady on her visits of amusement and pleasure,--a
privilege which he sedulously improved whenever opportunity offered.

Duval, notwithstanding his personal attractions and high character as
a 'gentleman,' belonged to a class of men which has existed more or
less in all ages, to disgrace humanity. He professed to be a
philosopher, but was in reality a libertine. He lived for his own
gratification. It monopolized all his thoughts, and directed all his
actions. He belonged to the school of Voltaire, and recognized no
feeling of the heart as pure, no tie of duty or affection as sacred.
No consideration of suffering, of heart-rending grief, on the part of
his victim, were sufficient to intimidate his purpose, or check his
career of infamy. Schooled in hypocrisy, dissimulation was his
business: and he regarded the whole world as the sphere of his
operations,--the whole human family as legitimate subjects for his
villainous depravity.

That such characters,--so base, so despicable, so lost to all feelings
of true honor,--can force their way into respectable society, and
poison the minds of the unsullied and virtuous, may well be a matter
of astonishment to those unacquainted with the desperate artfulness of
human hearts. But these monsters appear not in their true character:
they assume the garb and deportment of gentlemen, of philosophers, of
men of education and refinement, and by their accomplishments, the
suavity of their manners, their sprightliness of conversation,
bewilder before they poison, and fascinate before they destroy.

If there be, in the long catalogue of guile, one character more
hatefully despicable than another, it is the libertine. Time corrects
the tongue of slander, and the generosity of friends makes atonement
for the depredations of the midnight robber. Sufferings and calamities
may be assuaged or mitigated by the sympathies of kindred hearts, and
the tear of affection is sufficient to wash out the remembrance of
many of the sorrows to which flesh is heir. But for the venom of the
libertine, there is no remedy,--of its fatal consequences, there is no
mitigation. His victims, blasted in reputation, are forever excluded
from the pale of virtuous society. No sacrifice can atone for their
degradation, for the unrelenting and inexorable finger of scorn
obstructs their progress at every step. The visitation of death,
appalling as is his approach to the unprepared, were a mercy, compared
with the extent and permanency of this evil.

Duval's insidious arts were not unobserved by his intended victim. She
noticed the gradual development of his pernicious principles, and
shrunk with horror from their contaminating influence. She did not
hesitate to communicate her observations to her husband,--but he,
blinded by prejudice in favor of his friend, laughed at her scruples.
Without a word of caution, therefore, his intercourse was
continued,--and such was the weight of his ascendant power,--such the
perfection of his deep laid scheme, and such his facility in glossing
over what he termed _pardonable_, but which, in reality, were grossly
licentious, indiscretions of language and conduct,--that even the lady
herself was induced, in time, to believe that she had treated him
unjustly. The gradual progress of licentiousness is almost
imperceptible, and before she was aware of her error, she had drunk
deeply of the intoxicating draught, and had well nigh become a convert
to Duval's system of philosophy. Few who approach this fearful
precipice are able to retrace their steps. The senses are
bewildered,--reason loses its sway,--and a whirlpool of maddening
emotions takes possession of the heart, and hurries the infatuated
victim to irretrievable death. Before her suspicions were awakened,
the purity of her family circle was destroyed. Duval enrolled on his
list of conquests a new name,--_the wife of his bosom friend!_

An immediate divorce was the consequence. The misguided woman, who but
late had been the ornament of society and the pride of her family, was
cast out upon the world, unprotected, and without the smallest
resource. The heart of the husband was broken by the calamity which
rendered this step necessary, and he retired, with his children, to
the obscurity of humble life.

       *       *       *       *       *

At a late hour on one of those bitter cold evenings experienced in the
early part of January, of the present year, two females, a mother and
daughter, both wretchedly clad, stood shivering at the entrance of a
cellar, in the lower part of the city, occupied by two persons of
color. The daughter appeared to be laboring under severe
indisposition, and leaned for support on the arm of her mother, who,
knocking at the door, craved shelter and warmth for the night. The
door was half opened in answer to the summons, but the black who
appeared on the stairs, declared that it was out of his power to
comply with the request, as he had neither fire,--except that which
was furnished by a handful of tan,--nor covering for himself and wife.
The mother, however, too much inured to suffering to be easily
rebuked, declared that herself and daughter were likely to perish from
cold, and that even permission to rest on the floor of the cellar,
where they would be protected, in some degree, from the 'nipping and
eager air,' would be a charity for which they would ever be grateful.
She alleged, as an excuse for the claim to shelter, that she had been
ejected, a few minutes before, from a small room which, with her
daughter, she had occupied in a neighboring alley, and for which she
had stipulated to pay fifty cents per week, because she had found
herself unable to meet the demand,--every resource for obtaining money
having been cut off by the severity of the season. The black, more
generous than many who are more ambitious of a reputation for
benevolence, admitted the shivering applicants, and at once resigned,
for their accommodation for the night, the only two seats in the
cellar, and cast a fresh handful of tan upon the ashes in the fire
place.

It was a scene of wretchedness, want, and misery, calculated to soften
the hardest heart, and to enlist the feelings and sympathies of the
most selfish. The regular tenants of the cellar were the colored man
and his wife, who gained a scanty and precarious subsistence, as they
were able, by casual employment in the streets, or in neighboring
houses. Having in summer made no provision for the inclemencies of
winter, they were then utterly destitute. They had sold their articles
of clothing and furniture, one by one, to provide themselves with
bread, until all were disposed of, but two broken chairs, a box that
served for a table, and a small piece of carpeting, which answered the
double purpose of a bed and covering. Into this department of poverty
were the mother and daughter,--lately ejected from a place equally
destitute of the comforts of life,--introduced. The former was a woman
of about fifty years, but the deep furrows on her face, and her
debilitated frame, betokened a more advanced age. Her face was wan and
pale, and her haggard countenance and tattered dress, indicated a full
measure of wretchedness. Her daughter sat beside her, and rested her
head on her mother's lap. She was about twenty-five years of age, and
might once have been handsome,--but a life of debauchery had thus
early robbed her cheeks of their roses and prostrated her
constitution. The pallidness of disease was on her face,--anguish was
in her heart.

Hours passed on. In the gloom of midnight, the girl awoke from a
disturbed and unrefreshing slumber. She was suffering from acute pain,
and in the almost total darkness which pervaded the apartment, raised
her hand to her mother's face. 'Mother,' said she, in faltering
accents, 'are you here?'

'Yes, child: are you better?'

'No, mother,--I am sick,--sick unto death! There is a canker at my
heart,--my blood grows cold,--the torpor of mortality is stealing upon
me!'

'In the morning, my dear, we shall be better provided for. Bless
Heaven, there is still one place which, thanks to the benevolent, will
afford us sustenance and shelter.'

'Do not thank Heaven, mother: you and I are outcasts from that place
of peace and rest. We have spurned Providence from our hearts, and
need not now call it to our aid. Wretches, wretches that we are!'

'Be composed, daughter,--you need rest.'

'Mother, there is a weight of woe upon my breast, that sinks me to the
earth. My brief career of folly is almost at an end. I have erred,--oh
God! fatally erred,--and the consciousness of my wickedness now
overwhelms me. I will not reproach you, mother, for laying the snare
by which I fell,--for enticing me from the house of virtue,--the home
of my heart-broken father,--to the house of infamy and death: but oh,
I implore you, repent: be warned, and let penitence be the business of
your days.'

The hardened heart of the mother melted at this touching appeal, and
she answered with a half-stifled sigh:

'Promise me then, ere I die, that you will abandon your ways of
iniquity, and endeavor to make peace with Heaven.'

'I do,--I do! But, alas my child, what hope is there for me?'

'God is merciful to all who ----'

The last word was inaudible. A few respirations, at long intervals,
were heard, and the penitent girl sunk into the quiet slumber of
death. Still did the mother remain in her seat, with a heart harrowed
by the smitings of an awakened conscience. Until the glare of daylight
was visible through the crevices of the door, and the noise of the
foot passengers and the rumbling of vehicles in the street had aroused
the occupants of the cellar, she continued motionless, pressing to her
bosom the lifeless form of her injured child. When addressed by the
colored woman, she answered with an idiot stare. Sensibility had
fled,--the energies of her mind had relaxed, and reason deserted its
throne. The awful incidents of that night had prostrated her
intellect, and she was conveyed from the gloomy place, A MANIAC!

The Coroner was summoned, and an inquest held over the body of the
daughter. In the books of that humane and estimable officer, the name
of the deceased is recorded,--'LETITIA L----.'

B. M.

_Philadelphia_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CHRISTIAN EDUCATION.


It is a grand desideratum in all the affairs of life, to hold fast
what we get. The business of evangelizing the world, is like the stone
of Sisyphus, continually recoiling upon each successive generation. We
want something like what the sailors call a Paul to the Capstan,--a
sort of Ratchet. This is the business of Christian Education, and the
problem is to devise such a system of religious training and
instruction, as shall be best adapted to that end.

It must be admitted that hitherto but little has been done,
notwithstanding that the blessings of the gospel are promised to
believers and to their children also. It is not found that the care of
pious parents, to infuse religious sentiments into the hearts of their
children, is attended with any remarkable success. Indeed, there is
often found a prejudice against religion, which seems to have grown up
with them, and is eradicated with the more difficulty, because it has
sprung up and rooted itself in a soil cleared from the rank weeds of
vicious indulgence, and prepared to receive the seed of the spirit of
God. This seed the enemy snatches away, and scatters the tares of
enmity and rebellion in the place of it. They spring up in the night.
They grow in darkness, shaded by the pall of a staid demeanor and
assumed sobriety of deportment.

The promise is nevertheless often fulfilled in a remarkable manner,
long after the anxious parent has gone to his rest, and the child,
grown up to manhood, has taken his station among his fellows, in the
affairs of life. Then it is, that the recollections of his youth, of
the discipline and habits of his childhood come upon him, like a
confused and troubled dream. Softened by time, as by distance, objects
lose their asperities; any harshness which had once estranged him is
forgotten, and he now comes to dwell, with sad and self-reproachful
feelings, on his departure from the example of strictness, sobriety
and gravity, which he had once renounced:--

  "How gladly would the _man_ recall to life
   The _boy's_ neglected sire, whose sternest frown
   Was but the graver countenance of love."

Under the influence of such feelings, he often turns back into the
path from which he strayed. But how much better never to have left it!
How many sorrows has he in the mean time brought upon himself, by
vicious self-indulgence! How much matter of repentance has he provided
for his future life! How many has he led astray by evil counsels and
evil example, who are still wandering in the mazy wilderness of sin,
and may never recover the way that leads to heaven!

It is surely well to consider, whether there is no remedy for these
evils. Every man is a priest in his own house, and is not only charged
with the care of the souls of his children; but is bound also, as far
as possible, to make them instruments of good to others. What should
we say to him who should make his house a menagerie of ravenous and
destructive beasts, to be turned out as they grow up to prey upon the
flocks and herds of his neighbors? And what better is he who carefully
adorns and accomplishes the persons and minds of his children, with
all the graces of manners, intelligence and address, which give them
so much power over the principles and conduct, and happiness, of their
associates, without guarding against the abuse of this power, by
impressing their hearts with the love of religion and virtue, and a
sense of the value of the souls of others? They go forth as fiends of
darkness, in the garb of angels of light, and contamination, and
misery, and death, are the fruits of their intercourse with the
children of men.

Of this fault, it is not pretended that christian parents are
willingly guilty. They are not even careful in many instances, to
impart the ornamental parts of education, which so much enhance the
power of seduction, but they innocently supply an instrument hardly
less powerful, in the familiarity with the language of the Bible,
which is often acquired by those who have no taste for its doctrines.
When the devil cannot robe himself in the rainbow garment of Ithuriel,
he can, at least, "quote scripture for his purpose," and many a heart
has been corrupted, and many a mind confounded by scraps and ends of
texts, torn from their connexion, and uttered in derision by those who
have been taught to get verses by rote--but not, as the good old
phrase is, _by heart_. O! ever while we live, let us make our children
learn the Bible BY HEART, or not at all, that when they speak its
language, they may speak as one whose "mouth speaketh out of the
fulness of his own HEART."

This is the great point to be accomplished. How is it to be effected?
The answer is plain. By addressing the gospel to the HEART. By the
same means which a judicious and affectionate parent uses to infuse
into the bosom of his child, the spirit of cheerful and willing
obedience to himself. Let him carefully show both himself and his
Maker to the infant's mind, as the personification of love. While he
anxiously contrives to make him feel that to the love of his earthly
parent, he owes all the benefits that he receives, let him point his
attention also to that Father who is in heaven, and from whom he
himself derives all the means of ministering to the wants and
pleasures of the child. When he gives a bit of bread to the hungry
urchin, and asking if it is good, receives an answer which shows that
the little fellow's heart is full of grateful love, let him tell him
what it is made of, and while he shews him the green blade from which,
by a wonderful and mysterious contrivance, the grain is to be
elaborated, and marks the half-incredulous wonder with which the
information is received, let him tell him that this is the work of
God, who causes the rain to fall, and the sun to shine, and matures
the fruits of the earth for the benefit of his children. Such
occasions of calling the attention of a child to the goodness, and
bounty, and love of God, are continually recurring. He is never too
young to receive impressions of love. Before he knows the meaning of
the word, he takes them from his experience of the care and fondness
of his mother; and long after he has begun to prattle, this feeling
thus early implanted, continues to flourish alone, and affords the
only sanction of parental authority. How happy is he, and how sweet to
behold his happiness, while in the pursuit of his little foolish joys,
the "todlin wee thing" needs no restraint from mischief, but the
playful look, half-smile, half-frown, and the admonishing voice which
warns without alarming. Well might our Saviour say, "that of such is
the kingdom of heaven," where love is the only law, and love the only
duty, and love the only sanction. Under this sweet engaging
discipline, love becomes the habit of his mind, and long before he is
capable of comprehending any but the simplest ideas, the foundation is
laid in his heart, of those affections, by means of which he is to be
formed to virtue, honor and happiness. What idea (next after those
derived from things present, to the senses,)--what idea is more
simple, more easily apprehended, than this; that while he receives all
good things from the hands of his parents, they are sent to him by a
friend he has never seen, whose name is God. What occasion for telling
him who God is, or where he dwells, or any thing more than that he is
good, and loves good boys, and will continue to love him and send him
good things as long as he is good? Is it not easy to impress his mind
with the same feeling which is cherished towards his dear Aunt or kind
Grandmama, of whom he is reminded every morning, when he drinks his
milk out of a pretty cup, on which he is taught to read, "a present
for my dear boy?" There is no time lost. The idea of the spiritual
nature of God cannot be communicated until the mind is ready to
receive it, and then it is uttered in one word, and comprehended in
one moment. The vanity of a parent may be mortified, that his child
does not know any thing of these high mysteries, at an age when other
children of whom we read in good books, have been found disputing with
the doctors about the trinity and the compound nature of the Redeemer.
But this vanity, like many other human errors, needs the restraint of
reason. For if it be asked, how long should this state of things be
kept up? I would answer, as long as possible. If man is never to enter
into the kingdom of heaven but as a little child, I would gladly keep
him as a little child to the day of his death. But as this is not
possible, I would apply my answer to the actual state of facts, and
say that the discipline of love should be continued as long as love
continues to supply the necessary motives to necessary restraint.

I would therefore venture to recommend the imposition of no
restraints, and no tasks, but such as are necessary; and if possible,
I would impose only such upon an infant as are obviously necessary,
and, on an older child, such as he can be clearly made to see the
necessity of. Such a system not only prolongs the reign, and confirms
the habit of love, but prepares the mind to acquiesce with entire
confidence in the wisdom and discretion of the parent. Let care
therefore supply, as much as possible, the place of authority. Let the
mother's eye be on her child, and then, instead of turning him loose
with a code of unexplained laws upon his back, she will have it in her
power to draw his attention from unlawful to lawful objects, and to
lead him away unconsciously from forbidden places. The beautiful story
of the mother who bared her bosom to draw away her child from the edge
of the cliff, illustrates this idea.

I would say then to christian parents, prolong as much as possible the
season of childhood--the empire of endearment and love; prolong that
season when the hearts of your children are all your own, and divide
them with God. Let their heads alone. No one ever teaches a child to
talk. He learns it of himself more readily and more perfectly, than he
can ever afterwards acquire a new language under the most skilful
instructor. He has enough to do in acquiring those ideas which are
necessary to him, and are suggested by the objects around him. He
learns a great deal, and it is easy to help him to learn, without
giving him lessons. He may have nothing of what we would dignify by
the names of _knowledge_ and _wisdom_, but he will acquire a great
deal of _sense_, and may have very just notions of what it is to be a
good boy, without having his mind perplexed with definitions of sin.
The spirit of imitation will keep him busy. Teach him to love you, and
he will need no command to make him try to do what he sees you do. Let
him crawl. He will not long be content to go on all fours, when he
sees his beloved and honored father walking erect. Curiosity will make
him eager enough to know the meaning of letters, and he will esteem it
a privilege to be allowed to look at round O, and crooked S, and to be
taught to read for himself in the pretty picture books, out of which
his dear mother is in the habit of reading entertaining stories to
him. Keep bad examples from before his eyes, and the opportunities of
mischief out of his way, and keep his heart alive to a sense of the
love of his parents and the love of God, until his mind has time to
settle into a HABIT of love, obedience and virtue.

For reasons of the same sort, I would refrain from presenting in the
second stage of education, any views of religion that to the literal
and unpractised mind of a child, _might seem_ at variance with his
earlier conceptions of the divine character. I am very sure that any
doctrines _actually_ at variance with them must be false; and though I
believe that none such may be entertained by any sincere and
intelligent christian, yet it has somehow so happened, that many modes
of expression have obtained currency in the world, which a novice
would be startled at. I should therefore be careful, not to go beyond
the plain letter of scripture in explaining to him religious truth.

The well digested form of sound doctrine as it is there set forth,
would be almost my sole reliance. I would be careful to accompany this
with appeals to his own experience and observation for the truth,
that, as a general rule, it is our own fault if we are not happy. That
occasionally, indeed, we receive injury at the hands of others, and
that therefore it is that we are so often led to fall into pits of our
own digging, that we may be not so fond of digging them in future. I
would endeavor thus to familiarize him with a sense of the necessity
of punishment, as the preventive of evil, and to enable him to
comprehend to what lengths of mischief the simple principle of
self-love would impel the best imaginable finite being, if he could
feel perfectly sure that no manner of harm to himself could possibly
arise from the indulgence of any desire. This idea, as it seems to me,
is capable of being placed in plain colloquial language, in so clear a
light, that any ingenuous mind would be readily brought to acquiesce
in the necessity of God's moral government of the moral universe, in
the necessity of punishing sin in order to prevent it, and the true
benevolence of resolutely inflicting the necessary punishment, as the
preventive of the far greater sum of suffering which the impurity of
sin would produce. I should not fear that a mind habituated throughout
to cherish the sentiments of gratitude and love, would be slow to
understand, or reluctant to believe a plan of comprehensive and
_general utility_ devised by the spirit of universal benevolence for
the _greatest possible good_ of the whole, or impatient to endure such
portion of evil, as, in the execution of such a plan, it might be
called to bear.

I should anxiously endeavor to make my pupil sensible, that a plan of
coercion, intended to procure a cheerful, affectionate and happy
obedience, (and no other obedience can be happy,) must be understood
by those who are made subject to it, to be so intended, and to explain
to him the decisive proof of such intention which is afforded, when
the ruler himself condescends to endure a portion of the punishment
due to the sins of his people, and graciously pardons all whom this
exhibition of his goodness brings to sincere repentance.

With these suggestions, gently insinuated from time to time, and
containing as I verily believe the pure milk of the word, the best
aliment for youthful minds, I should content myself, and leave him to
seek the confirmation of these ideas in the Bible; nor would I suffer
him, until on the verge of manhood, to puzzle his understanding and
_afflict his spirit_ with the perusal of works of theology.

In confirmation of the ideas I have suggested, let me beg the reader
to observe how much more readily, and more frequently, the principles
of religion take root in female minds, than in those of men. How many
examples do we see among them of the most tender and fervent piety,
and how seldom do we find it incumbered with the heavy lumber of
theological learning, or frittered down into nice and shadowy
distinctions. Yet are they wise unto salvation, possessing that faith
by which the _heart_ believeth unto righteousness, though perhaps
unable to give any other reason for their faith, than that God is
love, and in proof of his love gave himself to die for the sins of the
world. Whence comes this tendency among them to imbibe this simple and
saving faith, unless it be from the peculiarities of their education?
The discipline of infancy is prolonged with them. They are kept under
the eye of the mother, whose unsuspected vigilance supplies the place
of commands, imposes an unperceived restraint, and renders the habits
of decorum, propriety, meekness and obedience, a sort of second
nature. Restrained only by the silken cord of love, whose weight they
feel not, they never strain against it, nor try to throw it off. Their
minds and tempers are formed rather by habit than precept, and their
obedience is secured, not by punishment or the fear of it, but by
prevention. They are accustomed to do right, because they have no
opportunities of doing wrong, without violating that instinct of
propriety, which makes it painful to do what we feel to be wrong in
the presence of those we love. When left to themselves, they do what
is right, because they have been long accustomed to do it; and they
know it to be right, because thus acting, they have always lived in
the enjoyment of those peaceable fruits which an upright conduct can
alone produce.

It will be seen that many of my remarks on the subject of instruction,
apply also to that of discipline. I have already shown that the
discipline, whose purpose is to prepare the child for his duties to
his parents, should be modified by a proper regard to his duties to
God. In like manner, that which may be called religious discipline,
should be so regulated as not to counteract what has been already
done. _Parental_ training, if I may so distinguish it, should be so
managed as to cultivate the love of the child for his parents;
_religious_ training, so as to cultivate his love for God. It would be
strangely inconsistent, that we should be careful not to offend and
estrange a child by imposing on him, of our own authority, any harsh,
unexplained and inexplicable commands, and at the same time load him,
by the alleged command of God, with burthens grievous to be borne.
Duties which he is not old enough to understand the nature of, are not
his duties. There is no more violation of God's law in a child of a
certain age playing on the Sabbath, than in the sports of a puppy. Yet
long before he is old enough to be capable of a violation of this law,
it is a matter of great importance that he should be gradually and
carefully trained, and prepared to obey it. In this training, I would
carefully avoid any thing like austerity. I would familiarize his
infant ear to the name of _Sunday_, and accustom him to regard it as a
day of privileges. Put on his best clothes, caress him, praise him,
warn him to keep himself sweet and clean, make him take notice that
every body else is so, and that nobody is made to do any work, and all
because it is Sunday; make him observe the staid and quiet behavior of
every body about the house, and see how soon he will get his little
stool, and set up with his hands before him, and try to _behave
pretty_ too. When this is done, enough is done for the beginning. When
he is tired of imitating the grave demeanor of others, let him go. The
spirit of imitation will return again and again; the habits it induces
will make a deeper and deeper impression, and if he is carefully
imbued with a love for his parents, and a love for God, without being
taught to dread and hate the Sabbath, he will be thus well prepared to
submit cheerfully to its restraints, by the time he is old enough to
know the reason of them. Let him see that you too, submit to them
cheerfully. Let him miss nothing of your accustomed kindness or
amenity of manner on that day. Do not let him learn to think of it as
"a day for a man to afflict his soul, and hang down his head like a
bull-rush," a day of fault-finding, and formal observance, and
Judaical austerity. In short, let him see that you esteem the Sabbath
as a day of privilege, and leave the rest as much as possible to the
spirit of affectionate imitation.

I would say the same of other religious duties. Do not force the
little drowsy urchin to sit up to family prayers. When he happens to
do so, let him hear you thank God in simple terms for the privilege of
being permitted to pray to him, and implore of him blessings whose
value he feels and knows. If you find occasion to preach in your
prayers, (a bad practice by the way,) do not preach about matters
which none but a Doctor of Divinity can be expected to understand.

On the interesting subject of fashionable amusements, as they are
called, I own I feel more difficulty. It chiefly arises from the
consideration that the youth who is old enough to take an interest in
such amusements, is at a more unmanageable age than formerly. It is
not so easy to restrain him, without letting him be conscious of the
restraint. It is not so easy to draw him off from a pernicious
pursuit, to one less dangerous. He is no longer to be satisfied with
those cheap equivalents for forbidden gratifications, which made it
easy to command his obedience, without estranging his affections. The
whole business of education at this stage, is a difficult and delicate
operation. I cannot imagine any general rule for a class of cases as
various as all the infinite varieties of the human character. Let us
suppose some of them.

If, in spite of all the care that had been taken to soften and subdue
his heart, and beguile him from self-love to the love of his friends,
and of God his best friend, if in spite of all this he continued
obdurate, wilful and rebellious, I am conscious that I should be at my
wit's end. I do not know but that in such a case, it would be the part
of wisdom to yield to those feelings which a parent would naturally
experience, and, acting as in obedience to the unerring instincts of
nature, to resort to severity instead of tenderness, and endeavor to
bring down his heart with sorrow. As a part of such a system, it would
be a matter of course, to deny him this indulgence.

A different case would be that of a youth of mercurial temper, and
warm feelings, who had grown up in habitual love and reverence for his
parents and his Maker, and whose buoyant spirit and restless temper,
and keen appetite for enjoyment, might render him impatient of such
restraint. Even in this case I should not too readily relax it. I
should endeavor if possible to ascertain whether it might be enforced
without impairing those tender and reverential sentiments. If so, I
should enforce it. If not, I would yield with undissembled reluctance,
but without reproach. I should endeavor to draw him into a contest of
generosity, with a hope that he would not long consent to be outdone.
But in no case would I surrender the end for the means, and do
violence to the best, and kindliest, and holiest affections of the
human heart, and run the risk of destroying them, by restraining a
youth from things not evil in themselves, but only evil in their
tendencies. The only antidote to the love of pleasure, is the love of
God. In truth the great evil of the love of pleasure, is that it is an
antidote to the love of God, and when the authority of God is used to
force one away from a much coveted enjoyment, there is danger that it
may but make him love God less, and pleasure more. But it is the
saying of a wise man, that where an appetite for any thing actually
exists, the best security against excess, is in a regulated
indulgence; and to this indulgence I would resort with an humble hope
that my pupil might find wisdom to add this too to the list of
blessings experienced at the hands of his Maker, until the victory
should at last result to him to whom it belongs.

For the remaining case of a young man having no taste for such
pleasures, and content to spend his time in reading and meditation, I
would prescribe nothing more than this; that he should not be
encouraged to bless God that he was not as other men, but be kept on
the alert by a warning that sin enters into the heart by more avenues
than one.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

Festival of San Agustin de Las Cuevas--El Paséo de Las Vigas.


MAY 23d, 1825.--Yesterday and to-day we attended the festival at _San
Agustin de las Cuevas_. The avenues leading to this little town, were
thronged with people on foot, on asses, on mules, on horses, and in
coaches drawn by six or eight mules. The whole population of Mexico
seemed flocking to it and to _Istapalapa_, at which latter place is
the feast of the Indians. Most persons take lodgings for the three or
four days of the _Pascua_,[1] for which they pay enormous rent. From
day-light until ten o'clock, these pious christians hear mass in the
parish church. We had to travel four or five leagues, and, therefore,
did not arrive in time to witness these religious solemnities; but at
twelve, we were introduced into the cock-pit--a rough, circular
building, with seats around it rising one above the other--and in the
centre, an area serving as an arena for the combatants. Its roof, high
and open to admit light and air, was decorated with long wide shreds
of various colors--diverging from the centre--all in scenic taste. The
seats were soon filled with spectators of all ages, sexes and classes.
The most fashionable ladies of Mexico were present, and the most
distinguished men of the republic were engaged in betting heavily on
the champions of the pit. The noisy clamor of fifty voices, seeking
bets with stentorian cries, warned us of the approaching fight. The
cocks, armed with sharp slashers, like double edged sabres, are
arrayed before us--suddenly the pit is cleared--an awful silence
prevails--they rush to the conflict--a few moments decide the fate of
one--and all is again confusion. For three hours the sport continues,
to the great diversion of the spectators, who appear to take an eager
interest in the cruel scene. The women around me were betting and
smoking, and two friars sat at my right hand. What a picture of
Mexican customs is before us! Women--fashionable women, and priests in
a cock-pit on a Sunday! 'Tis quite bad enough for us to be seen here,
but we are curious travellers, and must observe every thing we can.
After witnessing a few fights, we visited the gambling rooms, to see
the game of _monte_, which resembles faro. The tables were loaded with
doubloons and dollars, and surrounded by players, who, in a few
minutes, won and lost many hundreds.[2] Here I saw no women betting,
but there was one a looker on like myself, but I don't know if the
scene was as novel to her as to me. On walking next through the plaza,
I observed all species of games, at which the blanket gentry--male and
female--young and old--were trying their fortune, invited in many
instances by an image of the Virgin or of some patron saint. Gambling
is, I may safely conclude, the general vice of this nation.
Drunkenness is not common in these assemblages, and is confined
chiefly to the Indians.

[Footnote 1: Whitsuntide is the period for this festival.]

[Footnote 2: Mr. Ward, who is good authority, states that "the bank at
these tables varies from 1,000 doubloons (16,000 dollars) to 3,000
doubloons, (48,000 dollars.) Fifty or sixty of these (800 or 1,000
dollars,) are an ordinary stake upon the turn of a card; but I have
seen as many as six hundred and twenty, (9,920 dollars,) risked and
won."--_Ward's Mexico_.]

After dinner, we walked to a green plot without the village, where the
ladies were dancing to the music of two or three guitars. At this
amusement we left them each evening, and returned to the Hacienda. At
night the cock-pit is carpeted, and converted into a ball room. Thus
the fashionable people of the city of Mexico, celebrate for three
successive days this religious feast.

In choosing San Agustin for these amusements, the selection is
certainly a good one. Conveniently situated at the edge of the plain
of Mexico, about twelve miles from the city, to the south, the site is
very pretty, and the scenery is extremely gay in contrast with the
sterility which immediately surrounds the capital. Water is so
abundant in this village, that every garden is irrigated, and the
trees and plants always possess a freshness of verdure which is rarely
seen upon the table land. The mountain of _Ajusco_[3] rises behind the
town--the tallest peak of this southern ridge--its top is rugged and
barren. It is sometimes sprinkled with snow during the winter. A
remarkable bed of lava from an adjacent peak, overlays a large corner
of the plain near _San Agustin_, round the point of which the road
leads from Mexico--so distinctly is it defined, that it is easy to
imagine the melted mass flowing from the furnace of the volcano till
it gradually congealed.

[Footnote 3: The _Cerro_ of Ajusco is, according to Humboldt, 12,119
feet above the sea--consequently 4,649 feet above the plain on which
the city of Mexico is situated.]

       *       *       *       *       *

FEBRUARY 26th, 1826. I have just returned from witnessing the gayest
sight which Mexico ever presents. This is the promenade of _Las
Vigas_.

_El Paséo de Las Vigas_ is a beautiful road just without the inhabited
part of the city, at its south-eastern extremity. It is bordered by
double rows of aspins and willows; and upon one side of it, passes the
canal which connects the lakes of _Chalco_ and _Tescuco_. Though it is
the month of February, nature has assumed the gay mantle of
spring--all is verdant--all is smiling with luxuriant sweetness. The
temperature of the shade is most delightful.

At the moment when the sun, sinking behind the mountains, has lost its
oppressive warmth, the population of Mexico pours itself upon this
charming spot. Hundreds of coaches roll along amid multitudes on
horseback and on foot. These ponderous vehicles, uniform in shape, are
various in their decorations, showing the several fashions which
prevailed at the time of their construction;--some adorned with
paintings commemorative either of heathen mythology or of remarkable
historical events; the pannels of some tell us of sieges or of battles
in days long gone by; some represent the perils of the deep; others
exhibit Neptune riding gently upon his subdued waves, or perhaps the
"pale Diana" or the "laughing Venus," or Calypso in her grotto using
her bewitching sorceries to win the youthful hero. These, and similar
devices, mark the period of vice-regal magnificence, and are now
peculiar to the hackney coach. Those of modern date, are in better
taste, being painted modestly, of a uniform color, but the wheels and
carriage part are generally richly gilded.

The coaches are filled with well dressed women--I won't say that many
of them are beautiful--who recognize their acquaintances by a
coquetish quirk of the fan--(a never-failing attendant even in coldest
weather)--or an active play of the fingers, at which the Mexican
ladies are very dexterous, and which might be misconstrued by the
uninitiated as a beckon to approach. Horsemen, in the characteristic
costume of the country elsewhere described, pass and repass,
exhibiting their proud and gallant steeds; and the multitude on foot
display their Sunday dresses, in which there has been of late a
manifest improvement.

The canal is strewed with boats, crowded with passengers of the lowest
class, who are amusing themselves with guitars, to which they sing and
dance. They return decorated with flowers woven into a chaplet, which,
contrasted with the black hair hanging down in a single plait behind,
of a pretty Mestiso girl, renders her quite interesting,
notwithstanding her copperish color.

All these in themselves present a highly exhilarating picture; but
added to the fine prospect of the mountain barriers of the Mexican
plain, and especially of the snowy peaks of the volcanoes of Puebla
which rise in full view to the south-east, this scene can scarcely be
equalled.

As pleasing however, as the scene is, and though we meet none but
smiling faces, yet I cannot refrain from observing that remarkable
inequality so revolting to the feelings of a republican. Marchionesses
and countesses with the richest jewels, are seen at one glace with the
poor _lepero_, whose all is the single blanket which hides his
nakedness. Nor is it agreeable to see a strong guard of cavalry, whose
attendance it must be presumed, is necessary to prevent disorder.
Sentinels, indeed, are posted around and in all the public buildings
of Mexico--they are posted at the entrance to the halls of Congress
and to the galleries, in various parts of the palace, (a name by which
the government house is still known,) where the President resides, and
in which are the public offices--and they are posted even in the
theatre. I am sorry thus to detract any thing from the scene which I
witnessed this evening with so much pleasure, but candor requires it.

Lent has now commenced. Public amusements (except occasionally a
concert at the theatre,) and large parties are suspended for a while.
The ladies complain occasionally of ennui. Their present diversion is
stupid enough. They assemble in small _tertulias_ every night at each
others' houses, and play an uninteresting game with cards, called
lottery. The sole object achieved is to kill time, of the value of
which Mexicans have no idea, for in themselves they have no resources
whatever. Reading is so irksome they cannot endure it--and work of any
kind costs labor. They can do naught but eat, sleep, smoke, talk, and
visit the theatre.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NATURE AND ART.

There is extant a beautiful tradition relative to the visit of the
Queen of Sheba to King Solomon, when she "proved him with hard
questions," in order to ascertain the greatness of his wisdom and the
acuteness of his ingenuity. She ordered before him two vases of
elegant flowers--one natural, the other artificial, but of workmanship
and colors so exquisitely beautiful, that to detect in them any
unlikeness or inferiority to the genuine ones, seemed beyond the power
of the human eye. They were placed in a lattice which opened on a
parterre of the royal palace, the appropriated residence of swarms of
bees, which were engaged in gathering their delicious food. The King
ordered the lattice to be opened, and the gathering and nestling of
the bees among the honied petals of the natural blossoms, developed at
once the eye-defying secret and the ingenuity of the monarch.


  The wily Queen at the lattice placed
    Twin vases, rich and rare,
  Each with a cluster of blossoms graced,
    Beautiful, bright and fair.
  Roses, the glory of Sharon's vale--
    Lilies of thousand hues,
  Such as are rock'd by Judean gales
    And nursed by her crystal dews,
  Mingled in beauty their tints of light;--
    "Which," said the royal dame,
  "Are the fresh-born buds of the day and night?
    And which from the artist came?"
  The Tyrian dyes and the Tyrian skill,
    Glow'd in the art-made flowers,--
  Those that were nursed by the gurgling rill
    Or petted in Flora's bowers,
  No grace of fashion or shade could show
    With the beauteous things to vie;
  Alas! for him who the truth must know
    Alone by his own keen eye.
  But the lattice ope'd on a soft parterre
    That blushed to the sun's warm kiss,
  And Bees at their nectar banquet there
    Revelled in summer bliss.
  "Open the lattice," the Monarch cried--
    Sweet in the melting ray
  The humid blossoms the Bees descried,
    And pilfered the sweets away.
  Trembled in pride on their wiry stems
    The flowers that the artist made,
  But show'd not a cup where the honied gems
    Or soft farina laid.
  _Fragrance was not!_ oh! the blighted heart,
    Lured in a fatal hour,
  By the dazzling glow of deceptive art,
    Like a Bee to the scentless flower,--
  How it turns in the blight of its grief away
    From the figure that _looks_ so fair,
  But in Love's own blessed, unclouded ray,
    Is soulless and senseless there!

ELIZA.

_Maine_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE OF THE WEST.

FOUNDED ON FACT.

  The course of true love never did run smooth.--_Shakspeare_.


The incidents which I am about to relate, suggest some very natural
reflections. He who now migrates to the mighty west, in pursuit of
wealth or fame, encounters none of those innumerable hidden and open
dangers which thronged the way of those who turned their faces
thitherward half a century ago; he feels not, nor need he possess, the
adventurous spirit, the intrepidity, and the astonishing resoluteness
and daring of those brave and hardy pioneers. They ascended the lofty
Alleghany, and looked off upon the ancient and almost unbroken forest,
extending far beyond the Mississippi, and covering the vast valley
which lay between them and the Rocky Mountains; while only here and
there a small settlement, composed of a few families collected
together for mutual convenience, and defence against their common
enemy, disturbed its solitary reign. So soon as they entered upon it,
they met with a foe the most wary and subtle, the most sleepless and
untiring in his hostility, the most vigilant to seize every
opportunity to satiate his bloodthirsty disposition, inflicting the
most cruel and merciless tortures, and murdering indiscriminately
every age and sex; the bold and dauntless husband, who met him hand to
hand in murderous conflict, the helpless imploring wife, and the
innocent babe sleeping upon her bosom, ruthlessly torn from her dying
grasp, fell alike beneath the deadly blow of the savage, as he smiled
with a fiendish satisfaction over his bloody deed. And is there no
cause to mitigate our anger when contemplating such scenes? Is there
no excuse for the wild, uncivilized Indian, though pursuing with a
hatred the most vindictive his enemy, yet displaying towards his
_friend_ a noble and disinterested conduct which puts to blush the
enlightened white man? Yes! They had discovered the designs of the
whites; oppressed with a thousand wrongs, driven from their homes and
the tombs of their ancestors, to which they are more fondly attached
than any other people,--"hunted down like the partridge upon the
mountain," they had formed a deadly hostility, an undying revenge
against those, whom, when few and defenceless, they had received with
open arms, and by whom they were now, viper like, stung to the heart;
and they had stationed themselves upon the verge, and lurked
throughout what they believed to be their own possession, their own
inheritance,--determined to dispute every foot of it with those who
were encroaching upon them, and pursuing with a steady purpose their
extermination.

Slowly would the emigrant plod his weary and fearful way, for months,
before he could reach the place of his location, his thoughts
frequently recurring to the peaceful and quiet abode he had left, for
a home in the wilderness filled with multiplied hazards. Here a small
hut was erected to shelter his family, while he labored from morn till
night, with his rifle by his side to protect him from his insatiate
enemies, bent upon the destruction of all who invaded their territory.
Almost every day, reports of aggravated murders perpetrated by the
Indians reached his ears, filling his family with alarm and terror
lest they should become the next victims; and himself liable at every
moment to be hurried off from them upon an expedition to drive back
the enemy, and check for a while their invasion of the settlements. No
one ever felt secure; and never did they retire to rest without taking
all necessary precaution to repel an attack, and barring securely
every entrance into the house. And even in the more dense settlements,
should they collect together for the purpose of divine worship, it was
necessary that every one should meet well armed, lest even _there_
they might be attacked by their relentless and implacable enemy.

Now how changed the scene! What wonders have fifty years effected! The
mighty tide of emigration has rolled on rapidly, diffusing prosperity
and every convenience in its train. The vigorous and powerful arm of
the government, after all other proffered terms had been rejected, has
forced the savage hordes beyond the limits of the Union, or reduced
them to a tame submission, and subdued their natural warlike and
ferocious disposition by the introduction among them of the arts and
principles of civilization. The inhabitant upon the most extreme
western frontier, feels as secure in his log cabin as the wealthy
farmer upon the seaboard. Under the fostering protective wing of a
free constitution, the population has swelled to an astonishing
amount. _States_ have sprung up, exercising a large degree of weight
and influence in the government, where but yesterday the red man, now
constrained to retire, pursued through the tangled woods the wild
deer, secure and undisturbed in his enjoyment by the presence of one
single envious _pale face_. Where once the savage held his frantic
revels or pitched his wigwam, now stands the populous and flourishing
city, whose spires pierce the clouds, and where arts, science, and
literature, flourish in all the vigor of maturity. Cultivated farms
and splendid mansions, occurring at short intervals, beautify the
interior, where but lately the wild beasts roamed their native
forests. Upon the placid bosoms of the most noble and beautiful
streams, where once naught was seen or heard but the rough hewn canoe
of the Indian and the dip of his paddle, now may be constantly heard
"the puff of the engine and flutter of the wheel" of that most
beneficial production of Fulton's immortal genius, as it rides
majestically by, wafting to a profitable market the productions of a
fertile and alluvial soil. For the advantage of commerce and the
facility of communication, distant waters have been united and noble
thoroughfares constructed from one section of the country to the
other; mountains have been levelled and plains elevated. An energetic
government sends with unrivalled rapidity, and unerring certainty,
intelligence of every kind from one end of the Union to the other, so
that the most distant friends scarcely realize their separation. The
whole region now teems with industry and enterprise. Independence,
ease, contentment and hospitality characterize the inhabitants. The
emigrant from the eastern states now leaves his home and his friends
with a light heart, for a country where merit receives its reward,
where he will meet with success in every undertaking, and where wealth
or fame will crown his labors. And all this in fifty years! The valley
of the Mississippi, _then_ a wilderness, _now_ a populous and mighty
empire! What unbounded resources, what powerful energies do the people
of this country possess! What glorious and encouraging fruits are
these, of self government--of a republican constitution.

Among the emigrants to Ohio, just after the revolution, were a Mess.
Claiborne and Newton, who removed, with their families, from one of
the tide-water counties of Virginia, and settled upon the beautiful
banks of the Scioto, some distance above its mouth. Mr. Newton
selected as a site for his dwelling, a small hill upon the west side
of the river, gently descending to the water's edge, sparsely covered
with the tall majestic trees of the forest, and commanding a
delightful prospect of the river, as it lay like a polished mirror
reflecting the sunbeams from its smooth surface, or gently rippling as
the soft breezes of evening played upon its bosom; also, of the
extensive rich bottoms on either hand, and of the extensive woodland
in front. Behind, the country gracefully undulated, presenting the
pleasing variety of hill and dale, of wood and prairie. It was, in
fact, a charming situation. And long since that time, the enterprise
of another owner has made it the most handsome country seat in the
state. A noble mansion now crowns the hill with every ornamental
appurtenance, while the flats on each side, regularly divided, wave in
golden plenty, or are clothed in living green, on which hundreds of
cattle graze, or repose beneath a few of the old trees which are yet
standing. It fails not to arrest the attention and call forth the
admiration of the passenger along the Scioto. 'Twas here Mr. Newton
built him a tolerably convenient cabin, and commenced his labors. He
had taken up a large tract of country, sufficient to present each of
his children with a handsome patrimony. To the bank was moored a
graceful sail boat, such as had never floated on those waters before,
and which glided upon their even current as "a thing of life." This
was kept principally for the purpose of visiting Mr. Claiborne, who
had selected a level grove about half a mile above, on the other side,
in full view of Mr. Newton's. Directly to the rear, a frowning cliff
reared itself to the clouds; the river laved the rocky bank in front,
down which there was a descent by a flight of steps hewn out of the
limestone, where also was tied a small sail boat. There was, however,
a broader and better way a little above. Mr. Claiborne too, had made
extensive surveys in the country, intending to divide his large
possessions among his children. Modern improvements have also made
this a spot upon which the eye of the delighted and tasteful traveller
is pleased to linger.

An undisturbed intimacy had ever existed between these two families;
and now that they were separated entirely, as it were, from the rest
of the world, exposed to a common danger, and were pursuing no
clashing interests, it had refined into a warm and steady friendship.
A constant intercourse was kept up between them, and means provided to
communicate immediately the alarm, should danger threaten. These two
gentlemen being in the prime and vigor of manhood, labored with
untiring industry. As there was no underwood, and the trees were tall
and did not grow very thick together, _girdling_ sufficed, and they
soon had a considerable farm prepared for planting Indian corn.

The woods abounded in excellent game, and they frequently accompanied
each other in hunting excursions, but never venturing too far, for
fear of accidents or attacks from the Indians; and always taking along
their eldest sons, in order to gratify their anxiety; but principally
to instil into them a bold, fearless, and adventurous spirit,--to
teach them some of the rudiments of the arts and stratagems of border
warfare,--and to train them to a skilful management of their
rifles,--all qualifications indispensably necessary for the
inhabitants of an unsettled and hostile country.

Among all the youths of these two families, Charles Claiborne had
early attracted notice. He displayed indubitable evidences of a
superior intellect, the most gratifying to his father, and which at
the same time won for him the respect and love of his associates. No
envious feelings rankled in their pure bosoms; they sincerely admired
him, and felt that in hours of peril to his skill, intrepidity and
bravery, they must principally look for safety. He had now nearly
attained his eighteenth year, tall and erect as an Indian Chief,
possessing an ease and grace the most simple and natural. No mark of
effeminacy was visible about his manly frame; compact, nervous, and as
active as the wild panther which he hunted. His high, broad and open
forehead, over which his smooth dark locks fell in neglected richness,
betokened the freeness and equability of his disposition, and at the
same time his resoluteness and determination; and a slight wrinkle
betrayed the existence of busy thought. Beneath an arched projecting
brow, his dark gray eye shot forth the fire of youth and genius. It
shone with a peculiar lustre; it would kindle with indignation or
contempt, as he contemplated crime or baseness, or soften down to
tenderness as a tale of woe or distress enlisted his sympathies. The
whole contour of his face was of a perfect mould. Devotedly fond of
intellectual culture, of acquiring information, he soon made himself
master of the little library which his father had brought with him,
composed of a few standard histories, Shakspeare and the Spectator;
and was now, at every spare interval, drawing rich stores of legal
knowledge from a musty old Coke, which he found among the rubbish
brought in his father's wagon, determined to "offer his professional
services" to the litigious part of the community when the country
should become more densely populated.

Several other families had already settled in the neighborhood, and
Charles was deservedly the favorite of them all. But there was _one_
to whom I shrewdly suspect he was even now _peculiarly_ agreeable, and
for whom the kind and obliging neighbors,--who will have their young
acquaintances in love or engaged, any how, and who arrange all such
matters in their gossiping conclaves without the conusance of the
parties,--had already allotted him. In this case they were not (as
usual) without some ground for their suspicions.

Eliza Newton was now arrived at that most interesting period in a
woman's life, just sixteen, when combined with the simplicity and
coyness of the girl, she possesses many of the graces and charming
attractive attributes of maturer womanhood. Like the opening rose,
which displays its crimson folds at morn before one sunbeam has kissed
the dew-drop from its leaves of softest texture, or dimmed its fresh
rich tints, her loveliness was unfolding every day. Like the wild
flowers which she loved to gather from the meadow, she had grown up
without any artificial culture of fashionable _hot beds_, in all her
native sweetness, unpretending beauty, and unaffected modesty. Roaming
at will among the delightful groves around her father's dwelling,
brushing the early dew with her pretty feet from the fragrant herbage,
or wandering at even along the silent banks of the gentle Scioto, when
each zephyr

  Offered his young pinion as her fan,

she acquired all the freshness and buoyancy of perfect health. Agile
as the young roe upon the mountain, she moved with the ease, elegance
and elasticity of a Sylph. Not too low to want a sufficient dignity of
mien, she was not so tall as to exceed the proper stature of her sex.
"Her hair's long auburn waves," curbed by a silken fillet, rolled back
from her small white forehead, flowed upon a chiselled neck white as
an Alpine mountain top; her dark blue eyes lay sleeping behind long
raven lashes, until roused, when they betrayed every sentiment of her
soul, beaming with affection or melted with pity; the transcendent hue
of her cheeks contrasted finely with the pure, healthful whiteness of
her complexion, and her sweet moist lips, just curved out enough to
bespeak her mild and even temper. In fine, she was so perfect a model
that

  The eye might doubt if it were well awake,
  She seemed so like a vision.

Amiability and kindness were the prominent traits of her character,
accompanied with the other female graces. Of a most delicate and acute
sensibility, she was keenly alive to the slightest insult, and would
repel it in a firm and dignified manner; but was ever ready to pour
the balm of reconciliation into a wound mistakenly inflicted. She
carefully forebore to speak disrespectfully of any one, and always
endeavored to place their conduct in the fairest light, which sprang
from the pure benevolence of her heart. And yet withal, she had no
little of the pride of her sex, ready to tear herself from a heart
where she had reason to believe she reigned not sole empress; slightly
imbued with jealousy, which is frequently a concomitant of the most
ardent and devoted attachment, as the deadly viper oft lays encoiled
under the bed of violets upon which we are tempted to repose. From the
small stock of substantial literature which her father's poorly filled
book case afforded, she had cultivated her mind to a degree which
thousands fail to do who have _skimmed_ over an Alexandrian library.

Let no one deem these portraitures exaggerated in any respect, for
these families were among the most respectable and intelligent on the
eastern shores of the Old Dominion; but the barrenness of their sandy
plains yielded them but a small quantum of what was necessary to
sustain them in their high and expensive mode of living. They found
that vast retrenchments were to be made, or they must experience the
pinchings of poverty; and, too proud to endure the mortification of
either in the midst of their old associates and visiters, they
determined to emigrate to the west, where the rich soil affords, with
but little labor, abundance of the necessaries of life, while the
woods and rivers furnish many of its luxuries.

The parents of Charles and Eliza themselves, had marked with
satisfaction and pleasure their growing attachment, and failed not by
evidences of approbation to encourage it. And for _once_ the designs
of prudent parents and the inclinations of inconsiderate, confiding
youths coincided, and promised to result in the happiest of
consequences. Would that it _could_ be always so! How many gray hairs
would it save from going down to the grave loaded with a weight of
sorrow! how many tender hearts would it preserve from an early and
hopeless blight! How many lovely and interesting females would it save
from tortures worse than the fabled one, of being linked to dead
bodies, those of being wedded to rich fools, or sots, or knaves, upon
whom they can never place their affections, and whom they frequently
hate from their inmost hearts.

Though they had ever been in habits of constant intimacy, taught to
view each other in the light of brother and sister, and mingling
freely for years in every sport of their childhood, yet a year or two
having almost magically brought Eliza to womanhood, she began to feel
a strange restraint in the company of Charles, which the presence of
no one else produced. As rapidly as the sweet accents might be falling
from her active tongue, his entrance hushed them completely; and even
he would _labor_ for some time, through a few short sentences. Yet
notwithstanding these unusual effects, each felt that the cause which
produced them was not unwelcomed; and when _plagued about it_, (as the
phrase is) the crimson blush that mantled their burning cheeks,
indicated too clearly where arose this sudden alteration in their
deportment towards each other,--what had put an end to all the little
familiarities before so frequent. Gradually, however, would the leaden
weight fall from Charles' tongue; and as he would relate to the
company in most graphic and thrilling terms his dangerous pursuit of
the fierce panther or infuriated wolf, following them into the most
retired recesses, encountering them in their darkest caverns, and
drawing them forth dead, to the astonishment of his less venturesome
associates,--or his "hair breadth escapes" in wresting from the
infuriated she-bear her whelps, the very great interest vividly
manifest in Eliza's countenance, the breathless attention with which
she hung upon every word and caught each syllable as it fell from his
lips, and the quickly averted glance, her color slightly heightening
as he _frequently_ directed his eye towards her, soon convinced
Charles that he was the object of something more than an ordinary
regard in her bosom; nay, that he had actually won her affections. As
for himself he had long since been enthralled; nor could it be
otherwise. There is in every bosom, susceptibilities for all the
emotions; and so soon as causes calculated to excite them are
presented, quick as an electric flash the emotions succeed. Thus in
love, there is a susceptibility in every mind to be pleased with
certain virtues or actions; and when we perceive them, it is as
impossible not to admire them as to believe that they have never
existed. And when a combination of such qualities without a blemish is
discovered in any person, he had as well try to drive back the current
of the Mississippi as to resist the inevitable consequence. The
emotion of _love_ involuntarily arises; he _must_ love, for such is
his mental constitution; the feeling becomes a part of himself; he had
no agency in effecting it; he feels not, nor can he feel a disposition
to divest himself of it. Circumstances may induce him to check it, to
trample it down, to clip each bud as it appears, but he can never
extinguish it; he cannot destroy it. But let him give himself up to be
bound in its pleasant fetters; let him suffer it to sway an undivided
sceptre over him; let him give loose reins to it; let him plunge
himself into its delicious tide, and drink with a quenchless thirst
its intoxicating draughts; and then let him be thwarted, and no one
may safely predict the consequences to even the most powerful
intellect, that contemns every other loss or reverse of fortune. Until
something is done to excite a contrary emotion, ages of separation
cannot dim or extinguish it. For as in some fluids the application of
heat may entirely alter their qualities, so in love, a deception or
disappointment in some admired or prominent qualification, frequently
changes every feeling of regard for the object, into the most bitter
and relentless hatred.

A very short time intervened, before Charles summoned the resolution
to communicate the existence of his passion. Upon a mild evening in
May, as the shadows stretched their gigantic lengths across the plain,
Charles moored his little boat at the foot of the hill, and ascended
to Mr. Newton's. Eliza (as usual) met him at the door, and ushered him
into an apartment denominated the parlor, though appropriated to
various uses. They were seated by an open window toward the west,
along the frames of which a honey-suckle twined its clinging tendrils;
the mild, red rays of the setting sun peered through its thick
foliage, and added a brighter tint to Eliza's fine complexion; the
evening dews were falling upon the blooming honey-suckle, which
breathed its fragrant odors upon the happy pair. She seemed to look
peculiarly sweet and lovely. A few desultory remarks upon the serenity
and pleasantness of the evening, and then--in language which I shall
not detail--he poured out his heart's fulness into her ear. At this
avowal, her face budded into a rich rubescent glow, and the veins in
her clear, round neck, swelled almost to bursting. She replied not;
but a yielding of her soft little hand, which be involuntarily pressed
to his lips, confirmed the happiness of the enraptured swain--and blew
into an inextinguishable flame, that spark of love, which he had long
cherished within his heart, and fanned with a sleepless assiduity. He
soon departed for his father's; he rowed slowly up the river, whose
waves reflecting the moonbeams, seemed like molten gold, while the
stars twinkled brightly above him: the scene was enchanting, and his
already excited feelings caught the inspiration. A plunge against the
bank awakened him from his reverie, and he discovered that he was far
above his father's. The delighted girl retired to her room, and wept
herself to sleep--when she dreamed incessantly of Elysian fields, and
happy islands upon the bosom of the deep blue sea, through which she
and her Charles roamed happy as their fabled inhabitants. Very
_frequently_ after this, was Charles' little boat seen gliding, in the
cool of the evening, towards Mr. Newton's; and he seemed much more
addicted to hunting of late, particularly on the _west_ side of the
river, especially as he never failed, on his return from his fatiguing
rambles, to meet at Mr. Newton's the best refreshments, prepared in
Eliza's most tasty style.

Thus a year marched onward in the track of time, unmarked by any
unusual incident. The parties heeded not its rapid flight, but
enjoying together every amusement and innocent pleasure which their
imaginations could devise, they lived in a state the nearest to bliss
they ever saw on earth.

Early however, in the following summer, as Mr. Claiborne's family were
sitting beneath a large oak in the yard, being refreshed by the pure,
cool breezes from the river, Charles espied Eliza wandering, with a
little sister, along the meadows on the opposite side, gayly and
joyously taking her accustomed recreation, and plucking the
innumerable wild flowers that decorated her path. So long had this
settlement been undisturbed, that a dread of the savages no longer
existed; both children and females walked miles unaccompanied, and
without the least apprehension of danger, relaxing their precaution in
many particulars. While Charles was eyeing with delight Eliza's
graceful movements, he saw two Indians dart suddenly from the edge of
a thick copse of pawpaw, and seizing the frantic girl and child, bear
them off, shrieking, into the woods. Charles distinctly heard the
screaming, which pierced his inmost soul. "My God!" he exclaimed, "she
is taken;" and springing from his seat, he rushed into the house. The
affrighted family followed him, to learn the cause of his conduct; but
all he said was, "the Indians have taken her! have taken her!" Excited
almost to madness, seizing his rifle, he flew to the stable, mounted
his fleet hunter without his saddle, and calling his faithful
bloodhound, went as fast as his charger, urged on by every incentive,
could carry him; and at the same time crying, "Indians! Indians!" He
swam the river, and the astonished family soon saw him entering the
woods, his fierce dog upon the track. The alarm was soon given, and
the whole neighborhood was in commotion. Charles pursued, as well as
he could through the trees, the course of his unerring bloodhound.
Swift as the wind, had the Indians run over hill and dale towards the
lakes, until long after midnight; thinking they had not been seen, and
had eluded pursuit; weary with bearing upon their backs their helpless
captives, and reaching a deep ravine, they determined to kindle a fire
and prepare some refreshments. They bound each of the girls to a
sapling with a strip of bark, and commenced their culinary operations.
Scarcely had they been seated an hour, before Charles approached, and
seeing the light, called in, softly, his hound, and dismounted to
reconnoitre. A moment's observation satisfied him. He could see but
one of the Indians, and he sat just beyond Eliza, his _head_ only
perceptible above her's. The least tremor or precipitancy might defeat
his purpose--kill the prized object which he wished to rescue, or
place them both at the _mercy_ of the savages. With deliberation, a
firm and steady arm, he levelled his rifle, and fired,--the impatient
dog at the same time springing forward with the fierceness of a tiger.
Charles rushed to the spot, with a drawn knife. One Indian lay
senseless weltering in his blood; and seizing a tomahawk, he plunged
it into the head of the other, who was engaged in mortal strife with
the eager hound, which clung to his throat with an iron grasp. He
severed at a stroke the cursed cords that bound the pretty form of his
Eliza. As the truth opened to the vision of the enraptured girl,
overpowered with joy, she fell insensate into his arms: he drew her
closely to his bosom, felt the wild fluttering of her little heart,
and kissed to life again her bloodless lips. Gradually she revived,
and in the bewildered consciousness of waking, threw her arms around
his neck, calling his name in the most tender, affectionate accents.
"Could all the hours of hope, joy and pleasure in Charles' previous
life, have been melted down and concentrated into a single emotion,
that emotion would have been _tame_ to the _rapture_ of Eliza's
momentary embrace."[1] Upon complete restoration, she wept with real
pleasure; poured out upon her benefactor, her deliverer, her own
Charles, ceaseless expressions of gratitude and love--renewed her
faithful vows, and "plighted them upon her heart." Ah, why not, in
such a moment, let the bright spirit wing its upward flight, nor keep
it here to feel the stings of remorse or pain. Day had dawned. This
was the first human blood Charles had ever shed; and as he left this
eventful spot, yet pointed out to the traveller, he cast an eye of
pity upon the senseless corpses, and even then a sigh of regret
escaped his tender bosom. Taking Eliza behind him, and her sister
before, he pointed out the way to his hound, and commenced his return.
He soon met with some of the party who had commenced the pursuit, and
with them, returned to bear the precious, rescued captives, to their
anxious, miserable parents. Such a day of rejoicing, the settlement
had never seen before, when the glad tidings were made known; and the
heroic adventure of Charles received the merited applause of all.

[Footnote 1: Bulwer.]

Of late years, there had been a rapid influx of emigrants from the
east to this part of the Ohio; and a small village had sprung up, as a
mushroom in the night, a few miles below this settlement. To this
place all the produce of the country was carried, by the inhabitants,
to be exchanged for such articles of necessity or luxury as they
wanted. It soon became a flourishing little town. Its necessities
called for a post office, to which there was a weekly mail on
horseback from the East, and from Fort Washington, (now Cincinnati.) A
very respectable merchant of that place was appointed, with general
satisfaction, the post master. His name was Bryant, a native of
Pennsylvania. He was considered a very honorable and active young
gentleman--very prepossessing in his appearance, easy and agreeable in
his manners, intelligent, and quite popular. His evident fondness for
drinking was not _then deemed_ a disgrace, and his tendency to
extravagance was attributed to his generous and liberal disposition;
and every body sagely predicted, that age would lop off these
excrescences from a character otherwise very good. He had seen Miss
Newton several times, and had become enamored of her, and his visits
to her father's became very frequent; for though he received no
encouragement whatever from the daughter, he was always treated
politely and respectfully, and with true old Virginia hospitality, by
the parents.

The earnest efforts of the President of the United States, to give
security to the northwestern frontier by pacific arrangements, having
proved unavailing, it became evident that vigorous offensive
operations only would bring the Indian war to a happy conclusion.
Accordingly, in 1791, General Harmer was ordered to leave Fort
Washington with a considerable body of troops, and to bring the
Indians to an engagement, or at least to destroy totally their
villages upon the Scioto and Miami rivers. A general call was made
upon the militia of Ohio and the surrounding states, to join in this
expedition, which if successful, would permanently secure them against
the dreadful incursions of their savage foes. Fired with indignation
at the late outrage committed in the neighborhood, and impelled by a
noble ambition for distinction, young Claiborne commenced enlisting a
company of volunteers. He soon succeeded in obtaining a hundred
signatures to his list, from the extensive county of Ross, and was
unanimously elected their captain. The first of October was appointed
as the day for commencing their march.

As much as Eliza admired this manifestation of bravery and patriotism
in Charles, and how highly soever she might be pleased to hear of his
distinction, this resolve of his was a source of real pain to the
affectionate and devoted girl. The innumerable dangers and hardships
of Indian warfare, magnified by her attachment to him who was to be
subject to them, overwhelmed her with grief and sad apprehensions.
Charles' visits to Mr. Newton's were no less frequent than heretofore,
and his efforts to console his weeping Eliza, and relieve her fears,
were unceasing. He painted to her, her own late fortunate escape, and
told her of the salutary consequences to their own security and
prosperity, which must ensue from a subjugation of the enemy. She was
partly reconciled and resigned. But banish she could not, her
forebodings of ill, so natural. Ah! love, why

  "With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers?"

Why is the brimming cup of bliss dashed down just as it touches the
opening lips? Why are all our fond hopes delusions--all our realities
as fruit of the dead sea, beautiful to the eye, but turning to bitter
ashes on the tongue--but to loosen the already too tenacious hold with
which we cling to this world, and fasten it on the skies? Who reads
not this in every day's experience? Yet who, alas! obeys the warning?
With painful, tortured feelings, did this devoted pair note the
merciless rapidity with which time bore off the two short weeks yet
remaining, before his departure. The last day of September had
arrived, and to-morrow Charles must meet his company at the village.
Towards evening he rowed over to Mr. Newton's, with a heavy heart; yet
fearful of no consequences from his absence, but the pain of a
separation from one whose being constituted a part of his own
existence. Charles had given up his whole heart, and loved with an
ardency stronger than death itself. A melancholy sadness sat upon
Eliza's countenance, and a crystal tear-drop glistened in her pensive
eye,--which made her appear peculiarly interesting to the devoted
Charles. The reader must imagine the thousand mutual vows of unaltered
and unalterable affection--the unreserved surrender of the whole
heart--the frequent oaths by the immoveable hills--the pressing
importunities never to forget or forsake--to casket in each other's
heart but one jewel, each other's image--and the innumerable other
such things which lovers are wont to pour forth on far less serious
occasions. He promised to write frequently; and to insure her of his
purpose, he said that should he not, she might properly think that he
had forgotten her, and that all his vows were false; for there would
be a constant intercourse between the army and Fort Washington,--to
which place he could forward his letters, and thence they would
certainly come safely by mail. When about to leave, he took her pretty
little hand, and drawing a plain gold ring from his pocket, placed it
on her slender, tapered finger; and knowing that the blood which
flowed beneath his grasp, came warm from a heart that throbbed for him
alone, he impressed it with a thousand kisses, and washed them off
with his manly tears. Let not the callous, cold-hearted worldling,
curl his worthless lip in derision--or the _proud_ man made of sterner
stuff, "blush for his sex." Unfeeling indeed, would he have been, had
he done otherwise; for there stood the prettiest creature in the
world, who had enriched him with an enviable affection, one arm around
his neck, her aching head leaning against his breast, and her pure,
innocent bosom, which never yet felt the piercings of sorrow's icy
dart, heaving with the most convulsive sobs. Who has not felt that the
thought of a month's separation from one we love, though conscious of
its short duration, sickens the heart? But hope, the mild soother of
every ill which betides us, and which brightly gilds our darkest
forebodings, could here scarcely administer its delusive consolation;
and they were to separate, pained and tortured by the "undying
thought, that they _no more_ might meet." He who can look with scorn
or coldness on such a scene as this, or calling it weakness, laugh at
it,--may keep his poor enjoyment for me, and without my envy, go along
his cheerless path, unillumed by a single ray of true and warm
affection, himself a stranger to one tender emotion.

The volunteers commenced their march on the morrow, intending to unite
with the main body of forces on the Miami; but in a few days met
General Harmer on his way to reduce the savages upon the Scioto, and
did much brave service in the severe but fruitless conflict on that
river,--Claiborne gallantly and heroically distinguishing himself at
their head, and obtained a particular notice in the public despatches
of the commanding officer. He returned with the troops to Fort
Washington, and addressed a letter to his father, and one to Eliza,
giving a glowing description of the deadly engagement.

In the disastrous battle upon the Miami, under General St. Clair, he
was among the bravest of those who, under General Darke, so daringly
charged at the point of the bayonet the concealed Indians, and drove
them from their covert twice, but without material advantage; and
among those who greatly distinguished themselves for fearlessly
fronting the most threatening danger, was Captain Claiborne--and
justice was done to his intrepidity and cool bravery in the official
despatches. In the glorious battle upon the Maumee, where General
Wayne commanded--refusing to surrender the station of commandant of
his own brave and hardy volunteers, now greatly reduced, for the
office of Colonel in the regular army, he was in the front rank of
that legion, which advanced with trailed arms, and hunted the Indians
from their concealment, which produced the utter route of the enemy,
terminated in their overthrow, and forced them to a tame
submission--which eventuated in a definitive treaty of peace in 1795,
and brought joy and gladness to the heart of every western citizen.

Four tedious and eventful years had Charles been absent from one,
around whom his heart's tenderest affections clung with a deathless
tenacity, and for whose sake not one hour in the day o'erslipped him,
that he sighed not. Why he never returned while the army was stationed
at its various winter quarters, I am unable to say. But unnumbered
times had he written the most passionate and affectionate letters; and
to them all he had never received an answer. For this he consoled
himself with the thought, that they had supposed it fruitless to send
letters to one whose situation was so uncertain, or to Eliza's
delicacy to entrust her communications to so precarious a mode of
conveyance, which was rendered probable by his _father's_ not having
written. Any excuse satisfied him, and quelled every doubt of the
fidelity of one whose constancy it was painful to _suspect_. 'Twas the
thought of her--the thought that the unyielding opposition of these
savages so long detained him from her presence, that drove him upon
their unshrinking ranks with a tiger-like ferocity, and nerved his arm
for the resistless stroke. And now that his object was accomplished,
at the head of the few remaining volunteers who started with him, he
took up his line of march for the peaceful valley of the Scioto, where
he flattered himself he should close his life in tranquillity and with
honor, possessed of a treasure, richer far

  "Than all the trophies of the victor are."

How false, alas! all human calculations! What a cheat our every hope!

After a long and painful journey, he reached a hill which overlooked
his home--that silent valley, where he had enjoyed his only bliss
unmixed with grief.

  "He stopped. What singular emotions fill
   Their bosoms who have been induced to roam,
   With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill?"

He reached his father's house, and was received with the greatest joy
by its inmates. They had almost despaired of his return, so long had
they been ignorant of his very existence; and his arrival dissipated
the cloud of grief which had frequently overshadowed them. The bustle
of first greetings over, he had some excellent refreshments set out
for his companions; and when they drank his health with repeated
cheers, he addressed them for a few minutes in the most feeling
strains, expressed his gratitude for the noble and faithful manner in
which they had discharged their duties, and wished them years of
prosperity and happiness to compensate them for their toils and
dangers. When he finished, each one pressing his hand, shouldered his
knapsack and left for his own _home_.

And now he hurried to his mother's apartment to gather some
intelligence concerning his friends; and to his first inquiry about
Eliza, the old lady rather pleasantly remarked, "you staid too
long--she's married!" Little did she anticipate the effect this
communication produced. With an incredulous air, he replied, "you
jest. Eliza Newton, married! dead, rather! no, never. But to whom!"
"To Mr. Bryant?" At once the fatal truth flashed upon his mind, and
pierced his brain like a hot fire-brand. "_Eliza Newton_, so
forgetful, so ungrateful, so inconstant, so _deceitful!_" His heart
sunk within him. The object which he adored, _unworthy!_ Suddenly his
head drooped to his knee, and one convulsive groan told the anguish of
his soul. His mother called to him in soothing accents. He lifted
himself, deadly pale, his lips all dabbled with blood, a vein had
burst, his fiery eyes gleamed with a wild and unnatural glare, and
gazing with a piercing stare upon his petrified mother, he shrieked in
a thrilling, fearful tone, "impossible, _she_, false! then where is
truth?" and springing to his feet, he fell senseless on the floor. His
distracted mother just recovered from her alarm, flew for assistance;
he was soon consigned to a bed, and a messenger despatched to the
village for a physician. He gazed on all with a vacant stare--his old
broken-hearted father sat beside him, and he turned himself away. His
weeping sisters sat around his pillow, but he knew them not. His
temples throbbed furiously, and his blood coursed through his veins in
rapid, boiling waves. All feared that his manly intellect had been
shivered by this sudden and tremendous stroke. The physician
arrived,--and assured them, that he had hopes that his mind was not
irreparably impaired, and by keeping him still and quiet, with the
help of some cooling draughts, he might yet recover, though his brain
was considerably affected. He remained a while to watch the symptoms,
and then leaving such directions as his skill suggested, he left this
afflicted family. He returned and reported the case and its cause. The
report soon reached the ears of Mrs. Bryant--when with a chilling
effect, the remembrance of early affection came across her--the ghosts
of by-gone joys stalked around her--but no distraction ensued--_tears_
came to her relief, and quenched the fires that seemed to consume her
heart. Frequently the stroke which crushes the stout and stubborn mind
of man, only bruises the more pliable and yielding intellect of woman,
as the storm before which the slender reed bows to the ground, but
rises when it is past, tears up by the roots, and dashes to a thousand
pieces the gnarled oak. There was one consoling thought, however,
which mitigated the pains that Mrs. Bryant felt. There was another
reason which calmed her troubled bosom. Whenever there appears an
object of pity, or charity, every feeling of woman is enlisted to
administer relief; and as the lighter bodies float upon the surface,
self, with all its concerns and every other consideration, for the
present, sinks to the bottom,--while tenderness, sympathy and
kindness, direct every sentiment and exertion in favor of the
sufferer. Such was the case in the present instance. Her husband was
from home, and Mrs. Bryant loaded with every thing suited to
Claiborne's situation, hastened to her father's, and then to Mr.
Claiborne's. She was kindly and affectionately received by the family.
Pale and agitated, she entered the apartment of her unfortunate
Charles. He turned an unmeaning glance upon her, but recognised her
not. This she scarcely regretted, as she might administer each healing
potion, or bathe his burning temples, without his knowing the hand
which did it. For a week or two she remained at her father's, going
over every day, and frequently sitting beside his bed through the long
silent watches of the night, ruminating with a bleeding heart, upon
her own unfortunate situation, all her affection revived for one she
had driven to madness, and whom she could never possess--keen despair
and biting remorse, her only reward for the part she had acted in this
sad tragedy. As memory retraced upon her mind with a burning finger
each happy moment of her youth now gone, and her fond hopes
disappointed--she cursed bitterly the hour in which she first saw the
light. Unspeakable anguish!--Mr. Bryant returned, _and thought her
presence necessary at home_. Reluctantly she obeyed, she feared to see
his face. She was deceived--she had never rendered him her whole
heart, and even that little seemed now to quit its hold. Censure her
not, but listen further. With a sharp reproof for her _imprudence_,
Bryant suffered her no more to visit her father's. Submissively she
obeyed. She endeavored to respect and appear agreeable to her husband.
And by her unceasing exertion she partly succeeded, and he seemed
reconciled, but from her heart of hearts, his image was excluded.
'Twas true the nuptials had been celebrated, the troth plighted, but
it was all a sacrilege, they had never been united "heart in heart."
Her affections had never been _wholly_ estranged from Claiborne.
Assidiously after his departure, did Bryant urge his suit, but without
the least prospect of success: yet the ardency of his love, suffered
no denial to frustrate his designs. He however grew apace, in favor
with her father; his bland, and agreeable manners, and business
habits, made him quite acceptable to the old gentleman. Two years had
now gone by, and yet not one word in any shape from Charles. The
defeats of Harmer and St. Clair had reached their ears, and probably
he had fallen among the heroic officers, who met their fate in those
calamitous engagements. So thought Mr. Newton,--if not, he had treated
them very disrespectfully. Eliza was loath to think so. But we have
observed that she was acutely sensible, and possessed of some of the
pride of her sex. She remembered Charles' last words, and began to
suspect they were designedly spoken, and that probably he had gone on
this expedition for the express purpose, else why would he have staid
so long unnecessarily, as she supposed; and not a syllable had he
written her, though two years had elapsed. Even to a less jealous mind
these incidents would have been strong confirmations. And dwelling
upon them, she wrought herself into the belief that Charles had
deceived her--and she determined to be independent, and to tear her
affections from him, cost what it might. She sighed that it was so,
but gave him up without an effort. Had he never returned, she might
probably have lived at least a contented life.

Bryant was scrupulously silent on the subject of Charles' absence or
his neglect, suffering it to produce its own effects. Yet Eliza loved
_him_ not. But since she had loosed her hold on Charles, she seemed to
be out on the boundless sea--without a spot on which to cast hope's
anchor; and woman must love something--she loves to love. And yielding
to the importunities, the frequent suggestions of her father, who
thought it would be a very _prudent_ match, and a very agreeable one
with a little exertion on her part--she determined to _hazard_ the
throw, and granted Mr. Bryant her hand. Would that parents grown
prudent with age, and thinking only of _wealth_, would recall for a
moment their own youthful sentiments, and not urge their children into
engagements against which every feeling revolts--for however small the
defect objected to, or how groundless soever each little prejudice,
yet they may produce jars and schisms the most disagreeable and
painful, and for which no splendor of equipage or name can ever
compensate. The nuptials of Eliza and Bryant were celebrated the fall
before Charles' return, with considerable eclat for that quiet
settlement. And though the bride seemed calm and contented, yet she
had lost her former gaiety and buoyancy of spirits. With the exception
of a slight ebullition of anger, occasionally, things had glided on
smoothly till Charles' return, and thus they stood at that time.

Slowly and gradually Claiborne recovered his senses and health. After
three months close confinement he was so far improved as to be able to
ride a little on horseback, or take short excursions upon the river in
the sail boat. The presence of old scenes revived his memory, and
seemed to strengthen his other faculties. Though pensive ever, yet his
alienation returned not. After he had fairly recovered, for the first
time, he inquired, if they had never heard from him. When told
_never_, he said it was mysterious, as he had written hundreds of
times, and first from Fort Washington itself. He said a black deed
might yet develope itself. And when informed that Eliza had kindly
waited on him, until prohibited by her husband, he exclaimed,
"deception! I am satisfied. But let me not stay where every scene
sends a dagger to my heart." All preparations were soon made and the
unhappy Claiborne left his home, his weeping friends, the haunts of
his early youth, and the theatre of his only blissful hours, for the
territory of Mississippi, where he practised law. He soon became
popular throughout the whole country, and was finally elevated to the
Chief Magistracy of the state. After having filled his term of office
with distinguished honor, he retired to private life; and soon after
sunk to an early grave, "unregretting--regretted by all." Like the
meteor flash, his career was brilliant, but transient. With his health
he never regained his natural gay and lightsome temperament. Gloomy
and melancholy he shunned the abodes of pleasure or merriment--lived
in retirement, and cherished within his bosom an unextinguishable
flame, that "finally corroded each vital part," and sunk him to the
tomb.

Not long after Claiborne's departure, Bryant went upon a trading
expedition, and for the first time left his keys with his wife, with
the charge, that if a certain person called for some money, to let him
have it out of his desk. While there for that purpose, her
curiosity--I might say her suspicions--led her to examine the contents
of the drawers, when in one, oh! blackest deed on memory's record! oh!
most base and villainous deception! She met with a large packet of
letters addressed to herself and Claiborne's father. Pale and
motionless she stood, struck with amazement and horror. She saw
herself the _wife_ of a vile hypocrite--the author of all her own
misery and sorrow--the demon of the desolation and blight of happiness
she had witnessed in an excellent family--the injurer and almost
_murderer_ of the noble and generous Charles Claiborne. The idea froze
the blood in her very heart. She read Claiborne's repeated
declarations of increasing affection in every letter--the irksomeness
of all his pursuits uncheered by her smiles,--his kind but touching
reproofs for not writing--his marked effort in every line to please
and delight--they were all unsealed and had been read by this
cool-blooded villain. The blackness of the deed was aggravated by the
deliberation with which it was done, and that too, while he perceived
the anxiety and painful suspense of the dearest friends of one, whom
he was thus so deeply injuring. The poor Eliza had borne up under all
but this; and now that she saw her _husband_ a fiend at heart--her
anguish was insupportable--her bosom was racked with every conflicting
emotion--her eyes swam--her bewildered brain whirled, and she sank to
the floor. How long she lay in this state she knew not; but when she
recovered, she replaced every thing carefully, and retired. Ten
thousand agonizing reflections inflicted their torments upon her mind.
She soon resolved upon her course. Erring on the better side, she
determined to endure every suffering, to preserve her _husband_ from
ignominy, but to cherish her sorrows, which she hoped would very soon
wear out the little of life that remained--

  But life's strange principle will often lie,
  Deepest in those who long the most to die.

And she _did_ live, to be chained yet longer to one she could but
hate--she lived to receive the abuse of one who by a hell-engendered
artifice seduced her from the sheltering, peaceful roof of her
father--she lived to see him a beastly slave to intoxication--she
lived to see her whole family reduced to want and misery by becoming
sureties for this now unprincipled spendthrift--she lived to see the
just retribution of heaven poured out upon the defenceless head, of
this serpent, which wound his way into Paradise and brought its
inmates to shame and poverty--she lived to see him die in want and
disgrace, raving with the agonies of despair. And she herself survived
but a short time, a pensioner upon the bounty of a few friends, who
received her into their houses, to cheer, if possible, the approaching
close of her painful and wretched existence;--which blind,
presumptuous man, ignorant of the wise designs of Providence would
fain pronounce too severe a fate, for a flower so tender and beautiful
in its first buddings.

_Lovingston, Virginia, March 25, 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A TALE OF A NOSE.

BY PERTINAX PLACID.

  I had a dream, which was not all a dream.--_Byron_.


The story which I am about to relate may by some be considered
extravagant. I shall not argue the point; but content myself with the
reflection that mankind have never yet been unanimous in their
opinions in relation to any subject which admitted of a question.
There are two special merits which I claim for my story, viz: that it
is _brief_, and that it has a _moral_. Such as it is I offer it to the
consideration of the reader.

It was a beautiful night in July.--The noble steamer "Dewitt Clinton"
was speeding her way through the moonlit waters of the Hudson,
thronged with passengers. We had left Albany late in the afternoon;
already we had passed the majestic Cattskill, and were entering among
those gorgeous scenes of nature which have been celebrated by an
hundred pens.--Julia and myself had escaped from the crowd below, to
the upper "round house" or roofing of the boat, which commanded an
unobstructed view of the objects on either side of the river, and
where we were secure from interruption, the myriads below being too
busily engaged in contending for berths, and preparing for their
night's lodging, to seek out our retreat or participate in the
enjoyment of the beauties we were contemplating.

After paying due homage to the magnificent scenery around us, our
conversation took a more common-place turn, and, as we had met that
day after a long separation, during which Julia had paid a visit to
some of our old friends in the north, she detailed to me the many
happy meetings and amusing incidents of her excursion. She had gone
through a long narration of the sayings and doings of aunts and
cousins, and had given me a full list of new members of several
families which we remembered in their simple elements, when the
fathers and mothers were girls and boys, innocent of all thoughts of
matrimony, and ignorant of its joys and sorrows. She enumerated the
births, deaths and marriages of a whole village, in each individual
resident of which we had felt more or less interest in our early
years, and detailed their various changes of fortune and situation. In
fact she brought up many years' arrearages of information, to me of
more importance than the result of the Kentucky election, or the fate
of the prime match on the Union Course between the best horses of the
north and south. The private history of the old associates of my
youth, as thus narrated to me, might have afforded a moral to adorn a
tale of much higher interest than this I am now writing.

"And you saw my Aunt Deborah," said I. "Pray how does she look, and
what did she say? I remember the eccentric old soul, as if the ten
long years since I have seen her had been but as many months. Many a
lecture did she utter on the extravagance, the impetuosity, and the
recklessness of my boyhood; and much did she preach to me of prudence
and moderation, I fear, in vain. Does she still remember my wild
pranks?"

"Oh yes--but her censure of your wildness was so mingled with praises
of your good qualities, that I doubt whether she would have permitted
another person to speak ill, even of those points in your character
which she blamed the most."

"Kind old woman! It was so when I was a boy. She was perpetually
lecturing, and yet she was most kind to me. And somehow, in spite of
her irksome admonitions, for which I had then no great relish, I soon
discovered that I was a favorite with her."

"On one point she was particularly urgent. She questioned me whether
you had as yet learned the value of money, observing, that in your
younger days you had been a good-for-nothing little spendthrift."

"I hope you did not deceive the good old lady. It would be but fair
that she should know that the prudence with which I was not born, has
failed as yet of obtaining a lodgment in my head. It would have been a
pity to deprive her of the glorious consolation of knowing that her
predictions of my improvidence have been fully realized."

"Well, I did not think it necessary to inform her of the full extent
of your delinquency; but I admitted to her that you had not the gift
of _saving_, which she admires so much."

"She often told me that I would never acquire it."

"Oh, now I remember, she charged me to deliver to you a renewed
admonition to prudence and economy. 'Tell E----,' said she, with great
solemnity, made still more solemn by the huge pinch of snuff which she
disposed of at the moment, 'that he must look forward to the future,
and now, while he is prosperous, prepare for a less plentiful time,
which may come. Tell him that, unless he studies prudence and economy,
sooner or later, _his nose must come to the grindstone_.' I hope you
will profit by the exhortation."

"I wish I could, I hope I may," said I, with something like a sigh
interrupting for a moment the laugh, which I could not resist, at the
expense of my good-hearted aunt Deborah.

Some further conversation occupied us for a short time, when we were
admonished by the comparative quiet which had taken place of the
bustle below, that it was time to seek such rest as we might find
among the crowd.

Those persons who have not travelled in a "night-boat," as a steamer
is called which performs its trips during the night, are probably not
aware of the kind of lodgings which it affords when the number of
passengers is large. The disposal of five hundred lodgers on board a
steam boat is no trifling task. The berths are of course limited in
number, and when crowded, the floors of the cabins are covered with
sleeping contrivances of various descriptions. Settees, cots, and a
kind of oblong box, having thin mattresses spread over them, with a
sheet and blanket perhaps, are wedged together, each calculated to
hold the body of a human being, by the most scanty and economical
measurement. The berths are first exhausted by those who are most
prompt in looking after their own comfort; and then comes the scramble
for the cots, settees, &c. In this contest high words often occur, and
in some instances I have heard of serious conflicts for the possession
of one of these miserable dormitories.

On this occasion I had enlisted the good offices of the younger
Captain Sherman, who promised to secure me a lodging, and when I
entered the cabin it was pointed out to me. Numbers had been less
fortunate, and unable to procure a place of rest below, had
accommodated themselves upon benches, chairs, &c. above,--or wrapped
in cloaks, had stretched themselves on the deck. Clambering over those
who had already retired, I stretched myself on my pallet. In doing so
I awoke my next neighbor, a gigantic Kentuckian, who lay cramped up in
his scanty cot, like a stranded leviathan among a shoal of porpoises.

He cast his eyes upon me, and with an ineffectual attempt to extend
his limbs, muttered, "Close stowing this, stranger."

I assented to the truth of his remark; but he seemed in no mood for
conversation, and was soon fast asleep. The heat was suffocating from
the effusions of so many human bodies lying in rows, almost touching
each other,

  "Thick as the autumnal leaves which strow the brooks
   In Vallombrosa."

I found it impossible to sleep. The feverish state of the atmosphere,
and the tumult around me, scared the drowsy god from my pillow--[I had
no pillow by the way, but made my great coat serve as a substitute for
one.] The thundering and crashing of the engine,--the dashing of the
paddles in the water--the stamping of feet above our heads--the uproar
of many voices, heard at intervals when some order was given to the
crew--the _banging_ of the wood upon the planks, at it was transferred
from the pile to the engine-room--the rumbling of ballast-boxes, as
they were occasionally transferred from side to side, for the purpose
of _trimming_ the steamer--the harsh rattling of the tackle, as a boat
was lowered, to land or take off passengers by a _tow line_,[1] and
the simultaneous rush to the gangway of those who were to go on shore,
while the subtile fluid which gave motion to our floating caravan,
being partially restrained, emitted a wheezing and uncomfortable
sound.

[Footnote 1: This method of landing and taking off passengers was
practised for many years on the Hudson, but finally abolished by law,
on account of its risks, several fatal accidents having been caused by
it. The steamer was not brought to during the operation; but a tow
line attached to the small boat, was out from the steamer, and drawn
in by the machinery with great velocity.]

But who shall describe the varied and terrific music of the steam
engine? I do not attempt it, not doubting that in the march of
improvement, the poet will hereafter make it a special theme; and that
some American Mayerbeer or Mozart, will consider the composition of a
passage by steam from Albany to New York, as affording facilities for
expression and contrast, equally sublime with the March in Saul or the
Battle of Prague.--Occasionally we came to a dead stop at some
principal landing place. For a moment the engine was hushed, as silent
as death; then a feeble whistle was heard from the steam pipe, (sweet,
shrill and almost plaintive,) followed by a roar of the imprisoned
element, fiercely exulting at its recovered liberty, as it was _let
off_ from the engine, and rushing forth with such gigantic impulse as
to shake every timber in the vessel.--Gradually the roar subsides;
slowly, slowly, until a humming sound succeeds, as though all the bees
of Hybla were swarming around our heads. Suddenly it ceases, and for a
moment the steam is silent. Then again, the hoarse thunder of the
machinery commences, the paddles dash the water from beneath them,
with giant strides, and the motion of the vessel is distinctly felt,
as she rushes onward in her course.

Such were the sounds above which afforded to the hundreds of sleepers
a discordant lullaby, sufficiently hostile to repose, one would think,
to drive slumber from the eyelids of Somnus himself. But all this
"mortal pudder o'er our heads," was less distracting than the concert
of discords which was in a coarse of performance immediately around
me, comparatively, it is true, in a _minor key_.--One hundred and
fifty _wind instruments_ of various constructions and dimensions, were
playing _ad-libitum_, in every diversity of tone and time, concertos,
fantasias and airs, which breathed of any thing but heaven. Here could
be heard the mournful strain of a proboscis which seemed attuned to
melancholy--there, the fierce blast of a nostril which emulated the
magic horn of the wild huntsman; while in ludicrous contrast, hard-by
were heard the stifled eruptions of a snout, which might have been
taken for the rehearsals of an inexperienced porker. One drew in his
breath with a painful squeel and a low whistle, and puffed it forth as
he would have done in extinguishing a candle--another, began in a
gentle strain, "like the sweet south, breathing upon a bed of
violets"--gradually rising to a full and manly tone--still gaining
strength as it advanced--now louder and more rapid--dashing onward
with alarming impetuosity--louder, louder still; and now, the very
brink of this musical cataract having been reached--a _crash_ ensues,
like the termination of that terrific passage in the overture to Der
Freyschutz, which almost freezes the blood. The explosion past, this
fantastic nose commenced again its tender strains, and again rose to
its climax. Another rolled forth a heavy bass, deep, solemn and
monotonous, like the muttering of distant thunder, or the roar of the
vexed ocean heaving its waves on the shore after a storm. Another,
with teeth compressed, seemed to draw in breath repeatedly without
respiration, and suddenly to disembogue this over supply of air with a
single emphatic snort, which threw his mouth open to its full extent.
Some squeeled continuously; some groaned; and others whistled through
their mouths in drawing in breath, and through their noses, in
respiring it.

It will not be wondered that I could not sleep, yet my fellow
travellers seemed unannoyed. I fell into a train of profound thought
upon the causes of the various cadences of different noses, and
puzzled myself upon the shapes and dimensions suitable to produce
certain simple or compound tones in the concert. In following out
these reflections, I wondered what description of music I must make
myself, and could not but wish to hear myself snore--(a thing I
believe impossible.) I could not avoid handling my own nose, to fix
according to my imperfect theory, the extent and character of its
musical capacity. By an association of ideas, the consideration of
this question brought back to my mind the prophecy of aunt Deborah. I
pondered upon it until the reflections which it suggested became
painful. I endeavored to banish it from my thoughts, but could not
entirely succeed. After a considerable time, I fell into a kind of
_snooze_--a state which was neither absolute sleeping or waking--a
kind of conscious unconsciousness, partaking of both in nearly equal
degrees. Visions of imaginary objects glanced before me, which seemed
to partake of or to be blended with the scene and sounds around me.
Dim figures came and went between me and the lamp, hanging at the
extremity of the cabin, on which my eye was fixed. Among these beings
my aunt Deborah two or three times made her appearance; her starch'd
cap, peaked nose, and keen grey eye, were not to be mistaken. I could
identify even her tortoise snuff-box, which seemed as new as when I
saw it ten years ago. Her look was rigid and menacing, and seemed to
bode me no good--for I dreaded a lecture. These objects were the
materials of dreams:--active thought and volition had nothing to do
with their production. Yet my eyes were open,--my senses were awake. I
could see and mark the motion of the red curtains, swinging to and
fro--I still heard the unwearied nasal minstrelsey to which I have
alluded, as distinctly as before.

The philosophers, I believe, have explained this contradictory state
of the body and mind. I fear I have not described it so as to make
myself clearly understood; but I am no philosopher, unless it be a
laughing one. Those who have experienced a visitation of the "night
mare," will I presume, comprehend my meaning.--I am not aware that
this state of things had ceased, but believe the combat between real
and unreal impressions was still going on in my mind, when I plainly
perceived two large, gaunt blackamoors (whom I well remembered to have
seen when at home in Richmond, pursuing their daily toil in Myers's
tobacco factory,) descend the cabin stairs, and approach the spot
where I lay. The obstacles of a crowded room did not seem to impede
them; and I soon felt their iron grasp on my limbs. I was lifted by
them from my pallet, and borne, I know not how, up the stairs, past
the engine, to the forward deck. I endeavored from the moment they
laid hands on me, to struggle with them; but my limbs were powerless:
I endeavored to call out, and awaken my fellow lodgers; but my voice
had lost its sound, my tongue seemed paralyzed: I could not articulate
a syllable. The cold sweat of terror stood upon my brow. I had a
presentiment that some awful fate awaited me, but I could form no
conception what it was to be.

At the place where they halted in their progress, I saw a huge
grindstone, from behind which a little black urchin leaped up, and
seizing the handle, commenced turning it with surprising velocity,
looking into my face and laughing with that hearty glee so peculiar to
the cachinations of his race. I knew the imp too well, for I had seen
him in his tatters an hundred times, hopping the gutters in front of
the Eagle Hotel. A horrible consciousness of my fate now flashed upon
me. The prophesy of my aunt Deborah came into my mind, and I felt that
it was to be fulfilled. I cast my eyes around me in despair, when they
fell upon the figure of the old lady herself, standing upon the prow
of the vessel. Her look was severe and reproachful. The finger of her
right hand was uplifted, as if she would have said, "I have warned you
in vain!"--while her left hand conveyed a pinch of snuff to her
nostrils, which they received with an inspiration so keen that it
hissed in my ears like hot iron. My glance at this figure was but
momentary. Scarce had the imp commenced turning the instrument upon
which I had now become aware that I was to be tortured, when the
Titans in whose gripe I was held, forced my head downward, until my
proboscis rested upon the revolving stone, and I felt its horrid
inroads upon that sensitive member. The first excoriation was severe.
I writhed and struggled to free myself, but the power which held me
was indomitable. Gradually the urchin relaxed in the rapidity of his
motions--the stone revolved slowly, and I saw that my torment was to
be a lingering one.

In the midst of their task the inhuman wretches began to chaunt songs
and incantations adapted to the horrid ceremony. I remember some
snatches of the ballads they sung. Never shall I forget them, for the
cruel mockery of their fiendish merriment was more galling than the
pain I endured, or the awful reflection that I must pass the rest of
my days the noseless object of pity and contempt. One of the stanzas
ran thus:

  De man who hold he nose too high
    Mus' be brought low:
  Put him on de grinstone
    And grind him off slow.
            Wheel about, and turn about,
            And wheel about slow;
            And every time he wheel about
            De nose must go.

I was at no loss to recognize in this a parody on a popular ballad by
James Crow, Esquire, very skilfully arranged for the piano-forte by
Mr. Zephaniah Coon; and I despised my tormentors the more for their
plagiarism and want of originality. At the end of each _refrain_, the
barbarians sent forth as a kind of supplementary chorus, shouts of
laughter, which seemed to come from their very souls. It was none of
your civilized _ha ha's_--nor your modish _he he's_--but the hearty,
pectoral _yeoh yeoh yeoh_ of the unsophisticated "_nigger_."

All this time my nose was gradually diminishing. The imp at the handle
turned it slowly but steadily; the grasp upon my shoulders was firm,
and the pressure upon my head was so heavy, that the inexorable stone
was fast penetrating flesh, cartilage and bone, and reducing to a
level the inequalities of my visage. This could not last forever; and
at length I felt that the sacrifice had been consummated--the friction
of the stone upon my cheeks, gave fearful evidence that what had been
a nose, existed no longer, and brought the horrid reflection that I
was noseless! That the pride of my countenance was gone, and forever!

The awful consciousness of my bereavement made me desperate, and
strung up my sinews to a gigantic effort for freedom and
revenge.--Suddenly the grasp upon my body was loosened, and as
suddenly the agents and the instrument of my torment vanished.

I awoke, covered with perspiration and in a mortal tremor. The cabin
was dark, and but for the snoring of my neighbors, I should not have
known where I was. My nose was still suffering a most uncomfortable
sensation, and I breathed with difficulty from some unknown
obstruction. Although instantly aware that, to use the language of
Molly Brown, I had merely "dreampt a dream," I instinctively lifted my
hand to my face to reassure myself that my nose remained in
undiminished amplitude and longitude. In searching for that
interesting feature, I found that it was eclipsed and borne down by
some weighty substance, which the sense of feeling soon informed me
was the ponderous fist of my Kentucky neighbor, who had in shifting
his position during his slumbers, unceremoniously thrust it into my
face. I was cramped for room, and tugged to rid myself of the
incumbrance, when its owner awoke.

"Halloo stranger!" said he, "you kick about like an eel out of water."

I explained to him the cause of my uneasiness, for which he briefly
asked my pardon; and re-adjusting himself, again fell asleep. I could
not follow his example, my mind being occupied in recalling the
incidents and sensations of my dream, which fully engaged my thoughts
until I was made aware, by the shouting and scampering upon deck, that
we had reached New York.

And now for the _moral_ which I promised my readers. It is this--Do
not think too much of your nose--or hold it too high,--lest it should
be brought to the grindstone in good earnest; and moreover, never
sleep in a steam boat cabin, where men are planted, like Indian corn,
_in rows_--if you can avoid it.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MORELLA--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

  Auto kath' auto meth' autou, mono eides aei ou.
  Itself--alone by itself--eternally _one_ and single.
                                            _Plato_. _Sympos_.


With a feeling of deep but most singular affection I regarded my
friend Morella. Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my
soul, from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never
known--but the fires were not of Eros--and bitter and tormenting to my
eager spirit was the gradual conviction that I could in no manner
define their unusual meaning, or regulate their vague intensity. Yet
we met; and Fate bound us together at the altar: and I never spoke of
love, or thought of passion. She, however, shunned society, and,
attaching herself to me alone, rendered me happy. It is a happiness to
wonder. It is a happiness to dream.

Morella's erudition was profound. As I hope to live, her talents were
of no common order--her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt this, and
in many matters became her pupil. I soon, however, found that Morella,
perhaps on account of her Presburg education, laid before me a number
of those mystical writings which are usually considered the mere dross
of the early German literature. These, for what reasons I could not
imagine, were her favorite and constant study: and that in process of
time they became my own, should be attributed to the simple but
effectual influence of habit and example.

In all this, if I err not, my reason had little to do. My convictions,
or I forget myself, were in no manner acted upon by my imagination,
nor was any tincture of the mysticism which I read, to be discovered,
unless I am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds or in my thoughts.
Feeling deeply persuaded of this I abandoned myself more implicitly to
the guidance of my wife, and entered with a bolder spirit into the
intricacy of her studies. And then--then, when poring over forbidden
pages I felt the spirit kindle within me, would Morella place her cold
hand upon my own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy some
low singular words, whose strange meaning burnt themselves in upon my
memory: and then hour after hour would I linger by her side, and dwell
upon the music of her thrilling voice, until at length its melody was
tinged with terror and fell like a shadow upon my soul, and I grew
pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too unearthly tones--and thus
Joy suddenly faded into Horror, and the most beautiful became the most
hideous, as Hinnon became Ge-Henna.

It is unnecessary to state the exact character of these disquisitions,
which, growing out of the volumes I have mentioned, formed, for so
long a time, almost the sole conversation of Morella and myself. By
the learned in what might be termed theological morality they will be
readily conceived, and by the unlearned they would, at all events, be
little understood. The wild Pantheism of Fitche--the modified [Greek:
Palingenesia] of the Pythagoreans--and, above all, the doctrines of
_Identity_ as urged by Schelling were generally the points of
discussion presenting the most of beauty to the imaginative Morella.
That _Identity_ which is not improperly called _Personal_, I think Mr.
Locke truly defines to consist in the sameness of a rational being.
And since by person we understand an intelligent essence having
reason, and since there is a consciousness which always accompanies
thinking, it is this which makes us all to be that which we call
_ourselves_--thereby distinguishing us from other beings that think,
and giving us our personal identity. But the Principium
Individuationis--the notion of that Identity _which at death is, or is
not lost forever_, was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense
interest, not more from the mystical and exciting nature of its
consequences, than from the marked and agitated manner in which
Morella mentioned them.

But, indeed, the time had now arrived when the mystery of my wife's
manner oppressed me like a spell. I could no longer bear the touch of
her wan fingers, nor the low tone of her musical language, nor the
lustre of her melancholy eyes. And she knew all this but did not
upbraid. She seemed conscious of my weakness, or my folly--and,
smiling, called it Fate. She seemed also conscious of a cause, to me
unknown, for the gradual alienation of my regard; but she gave me no
hint or token of its nature. Yet was she woman, and pined away daily.
In time the crimson spot settled steadily upon the cheek, and the blue
veins upon the pale forehead became prominent: and one instant my
nature melted into pity, but in the next I met the glance of her
meaning eyes, and my soul sickened and became giddy with the giddiness
of one who gazes downward into some dreary and fathomless abyss.

Shall I then say that I long'd with an earnest and consuming desire
for the moment of Morella's decease? I did. But the fragile spirit
clung to its tenement of clay for many days--for many weeks and
irksome months--until my tortured nerves obtained the mastery over my
mind, and I grew furious with delay, and with the heart of a fiend I
cursed the days, and the hours, and the bitter moments which seemed to
lengthen, and lengthen as her gentle life declined--like shadows in
the dying of the day.

But one autumnal evening, when the winds lay still in Heaven, Morella
called me to her side. There was a dim mist over all the earth, and a
warm glow upon the waters, and amid the rich October leaves of the
forest a rainbow from the firmament had surely fallen. As I came, she
was murmuring in a low under-tone, which trembled with fervor, the
words of a Catholic hymn:

  Sancta Maria! turn thine eyes
  Upon the sinner's sacrifice
  Of fervent prayer, and humble love,
  From thy holy throne above.

  At morn, at noon, at twilight dim,
  Maria! thou hast heard my hymn.
  In joy and wo, in good and ill,
  Mother of God! be with me still.

  When my hours flew gently by,
  And no storms were in the sky,
  My soul, lest it should truant be,
  Thy love did guide to thine and thee.

  Now, when clouds of Fate o'ercast
  All my Present, and my Past,
  Let my Future radiant shine
  With sweet hopes of thee and thine.

'It is a day of days'--said Morella--'a day of all days either to live
or die. It is a fair day for the sons of Earth and Life--ah! more fair
for the daughters of Heaven and Death.'

I turned towards her, and she continued.

'I am dying--yet shall I live. Therefore for me, Morella, thy wife,
hath the charnel house no terrors--mark me!--not even the terrors of
the _worm_. The days have never been when thou couldst love me; but
her whom in life thou didst abhor, in death thou shalt adore.'

'Morella!'

'I repeat that I am dying. But within me is a pledge of that
affection--ah, how little! which you felt for me, Morella. And when my
spirit departs shall the child live--thy child and mine, Morella's.
But thy days shall be days of sorrow--that sorrow which is the most
lasting of impressions, as the cypress is the most enduring of trees.
For the hours of thy happiness are over, and Joy is not gathered twice
in a life, as the roses of Pæstum twice in a year. Thou shalt not,
then, play the Teian with Time, but, being ignorant of the myrtle and
the vine, thou shalt bear about with thee thy shroud on earth, like
the Moslemin at Mecca.'

'Morella!'--I cried--'Morella! how knowest thou this?'----but she
turned away her face upon the pillow, and, a slight tremor coming over
her limbs, she thus died, and I heard her voice no more.

Yet, as she had foreseen, her child--to which in dying she had given
birth, and which breathed not till the mother breathed no more--her
child, a daughter, lived. And she grew strangely in size and
intellect, and was the perfect resemblance of her who had departed,
and I loved her with a love more fervent and more intense than I
believed it possible to feel on earth.

But ere long the Heaven of this pure affection became overcast; and
Gloom, and Horror, and Grief came over it in clouds. I said the child
grew strangely in stature and intelligence. Strange indeed was her
rapid increase in bodily size--but terrible, oh! terrible were the
tumultuous thoughts which crowded upon me while watching the
development of her mental being. Could it be otherwise, when I daily
discovered in the conceptions of the child the adult powers and
faculties of the woman?--when the lessons of experience fell from the
lips of infancy? and when the wisdom or the passions of maturity I
found hourly gleaming from its full and speculative eye? When, I say,
all this became evident to my appalled senses--when I could no longer
hide it from my soul, nor throw it off from those perceptions which
trembled to receive it, is it to be wondered at that suspicions of a
nature fearful, and exciting, crept in upon my spirit, or that my
thoughts fell back aghast upon the wild tales and thrilling theories
of the entombed Morella? I snatched from the scrutiny of the world a
being whom Destiny compelled me to adore, and in the rigid seclusion
of my ancestral home, I watched with an agonizing anxiety over all
which concerned my daughter.

And as years rolled away, and daily I gazed upon her eloquent and mild
and holy face, and pored over her maturing form, did I discover new
points of resemblance in the child to her mother--the melancholy, and
the dead. And hourly grew darker these shadows, as it were, of
similitude, and became more full, and more definite, and more
perplexing, and to me more terrible in their aspect. For that her
smile was like her mother's I could bear--but then I shuddered at its
too perfect _identity_: that her eyes were Morella's own I could
endure--but then they looked down too often into the depths of my soul
with Morella's intense and bewildering meaning. And in the contour of
the high forehead, and in the ringlets of the silken hair, and in the
wan fingers which buried themselves therein, and in the musical tones
of her speech, and above all--oh! above all, in the phrases and
expressions of the dead on the lips of the loved and the living, I
found food for consuming thought and horror--for a worm that would not
die.

Thus passed away two lustrums of her life, yet my daughter remained
nameless upon the earth. 'My child' and 'my love' were the
designations usually prompted by a father's affection, and the rigid
seclusion of her days precluded all other intercourse. Morella's name
died with her at her death. Of the mother I had never spoken to the
daughter--it was impossible to speak. Indeed during the brief period
of her existence the latter had received no impressions from the
outward world but such as might have been afforded by the narrow
limits of her privacy. But at length the ceremony of baptism presented
to my mind in its unnerved and agitated condition, a present
deliverance from the horrors of my destiny. And at the baptismal font
I hesitated for a name. And many titles of the wise and beautiful, of
antique and modern times, of my own and foreign lands, came thronging
to my lips--and many, many fair titles of the gentle, and the happy
and the good. What prompted me then to disturb the memory of the
buried dead? What demon urged me to breathe that sound, which, in its
very recollection, was wont to make ebb and flow the purple blood in
tides from the temples to the heart? What fiend spoke from the
recesses of my soul, when amid those dim aisles, and in the silence of
the night, I shrieked within the ears of the holy man the syllables,
Morella? What more than fiend convulsed the features of my child and
overspread them with the hues of death, as, starting at that sound,
she turned her glassy eyes from the Earth to Heaven, and falling
prostrate upon the black slabs of her ancestral vault, responded 'I am
here!'

Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct--like a knell of death--horrible,
horrible death, sank the eternal sounds within my soul. Years--years
may roll away, but the memory of that epoch--never! Now was I indeed
ignorant of the flowers and the vine--but the hemlock and the cypress
overshadowed me night and day. And I kept no reckoning of time or
place, and the stars of my Fate faded from Heaven, and, therefore, my
spirit grew dark, and the figures of the earth passed by me like
flitting shadows, and among them all I beheld only--Morella. The winds
of the firmament breathed but one sound within my ears, and the
ripples upon the sea murmured evermore--Morella. But she died, and
with my own hands I bore her to the tomb, and I laughed, with a long
and bitter laugh as I found no traces of the first in the charnel
where I laid the second--Morella.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CONTENT'S MISHAP:

A VERITABLE HISTORY.

BY PERTINAX PLACID, ESQUIRE.


  CONTENT once dwelt in humble cot
    Beside a stream with music flowing,
  Embower'd in shade--a verdant spot--
    Woodbines and wild flowers round it growing.

  There NATURE lavish of her store
    Breath'd fragrance over plain and mountain;
  A soft entrancing aspect wore,
    And sang sweet strains by brook and fountain.

  Within the cot where dwelt the maid
    PEACE ever reign'd, with mild dominion,
  And LOVE, reform'd, no longer stray'd,
    But loos'd his bow, and furl'd his pinion.

  There PLENTY crown'd each savory meal
    With simple food from NATURE'S bounty;
  And HEALTH contemn'd the boasted skill
    Of all the Doctors in the county.

  One morning PRIDE, a city belle,
    In FASHION'S gaudiest trappings glaring,
  The fragrant meads for once to smell,
    That way had driven to take an airing.

  By chance, a vagrant cloud sent down
    A shower to cool the sultry weather,
  When PRIDE protested with a frown,
    'Twould spoil her riding-hat and feather.

  CONTENT'S snug dwelling stood hard by,
    And thither PRIDE her car directed:
  Welcomed with homely courtesy,
    She smiled to find her dress protected.

  The first brief salutations o'er,
    PRIDE view'd with scorn the humble cottage,
  Its narrow rooms, its sanded floor--
    And turn'd her nose up at the pottage.

  Then thus, to meek CONTENT she spoke:
    "I wonder so genteel a maiden
  Should dwell in this secluded nook,
    As dull as ever hermit pray'd in.

  'Tis shameful such a form and face
    Should hide themselves in this mean hovel:
  That so much loveliness and grace
    Should with such stupid people grovel.

  How would you grace those splendid halls
    Where I and PLEASURE lead the million!
  There you would shine at routes and balls,
    Queen of the _waltz_ and gay _cotillion_.

  These humdrum folks you live with now
    Are _cut_ by all who aim at fashion:
  To see you so beset, I vow,
    It puts me quite into a passion.

  Here's PEACE, a tiresome, dowdy thing,
    Fit only for the chimney corner,
  To listen while the crickets sing,
    And teach the brats their _Jacky Horner_.

  PLENTY is well enough 'tis true,
    Where hungry peasants gorge their rations;
  But her rude fare would never do,
    For FASHION'S delicate collations.

  And LOVE,--who once was all the rage,
    And turn'd the heads of half the city,
  Dealing his shafts on youth and age,
    As you have learnt from many a ditty--

  Has long been voted quite a bore,
    He made so many a sad miscarriage;
  And now, the part he play'd before,
    CONVENIENCE takes at every marriage.

  This rustic-looking, sheepish boy
    I ne'er should dream was master CUPID,--
  Whom once I knew so full of joy--
    He looks so quiet and so stupid.

  I cannot bear that you should dwell
    In such a lonely sequestration,
  When you might reign a city belle,
    And taste the sweets of admiration.

  Come then, nor longer tarry here
    In this retreat so lone and dreary:
  In PLEASURE'S brilliant throng appear,
    Where TIME'S bright pinions never weary."

  The artless nymph, ta'en unawares,
    Was dazzled by PRIDE'S invitation;
  But still she fear'd the City's snares,
    And answer'd with great hesitation.

  She said a happy life she led,
    That care had ne'er her bosom enter'd
  Tho' tenant of an humble shed,
    Here all the joys she ask'd for centred.

  But PRIDE protested 'twas a sin,
    That so perversely she should prattle,
  When HOPE, (the jade) who just dropp'd in
    That moment--closed the wordy battle.

  HOPE whisper'd in the maiden's ear--
    What 'twas I never could discover,--
  But from her beaming eye, 'twas clear
    CONTENT'S resistance all was over.

  Suffice to say, the car was brought,
    The ladies in it soon were seated:
  PRIDE took the reins, and quick as thought,
    The valley from their vision fleeted.

  'Tis true CONTENT some sorrow felt
    At leaving PEACE and LOVE behind her;
  But HOPE sat by, and fondly dwelt
    On all the happiness design'd her.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Soon by Dame FASHION'S mystic aid
    CONTENT became another creature;
  Such _art_ was in her form display'd,
    She needed not the charms of nature.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Behold our country maiden now!
    In PLEASURE'S train a gay attendant;
  Before her throng'd admirers bow;
    Her beauty was pronounced transcendent.

  In every scene where PLEASURE reign'd
    CONTENT was found, a radiant charmer;
  And while the novelty remain'd,
    Her wild career did not alarm her.

  Months pass'd in one continued round
    Of parties, balls, and routes and levees,
  And tired CONTENT at length had found
    No happiness in PLEASURE'S bevies.

  Jaded in this unceasing maze,
    Her eye grew dim, her cheek grew pallid:
  PRIDE only could her spirits raise,
    And oft her melancholy rallied.

  But long even PRIDE could not hold out;
    Sorely the maid her change repented--
  Her dreams had all been put to route--
    CONTENT was sadly discontented.

  One morning HOPE, who scarce had seen
    The maiden since she sought the City,
  To make a flying call, popp'd in,--
    And saw her alter'd looks with pity.

  "Ah faithless HOPE!" exclaim'd CONTENT:
    "Why did you flatter and deceive me--
  Why urge the step I now repent,
    And be the first to scorn and leave me.

  Oh, but for you, deceitful friend,
    I still had lived untouched by SORROW,
  Where beauteous flowers their fragrance blend,
    Nor blushes from cosmetics borrow.

  I might have dwelt, a happy maid,
    With PEACE and LOVE, in blest seclusion,
  Afar from FASHION'S dull parade,
    Her endless throngs of gay confusion.

  Fain would I to my cottage fly,
    But PRIDE resists, and SHAME upbraids me;
  And PLEASURE, ever hovering nigh
    With some delusive tale dissuades me."

  HOPE, with a woman's ready wit,
    From all reproach herself defended;
  And forced her listner to admit
    Her counsel "_for the best_" intended.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CONTENT at length "made up her mind"
    ('Gainst PRIDE'S usurp'd control rebelling,)
  To leave the bustling town behind,
    And seek again her humble dwelling.

  'Twas a bright morn in early Spring,
    When, HOPE her languid steps attending,
  Through vales where birds were on the wing,
    To that lone cot the maid was wending.

  The sun shone bright on hill and lea,
    The flowers from leafy shades were peeping;
  The brook ran murmuring merrily,
    And flocks were in the valleys leaping.

  The Cottage reach'd, she met once more
    The smile of PEACE, and LOVE'S embraces;
  JOY lit the maiden's eye again,
    And from her brow chased sorrow's traces.

  Soon HEALTH return'd, with genial glow,
    Her languid frame with strength induing,
  The blood resumed its wonted flow,
    The roses on her cheeks renewing.

  HOPE views the change with fond delight;
    Vows from CONTENT she ne'er will sever;
  Controls each wild impassion'd flight,
    And points where mercy beams forever.

  What more could Providence bestow
    To yield CONTENT an added blessing?
  Each hour her heart's pure offerings flow,
    To Heaven its gratitude addressing.

  And ever since, CONTENT has dwelt
    From the gay crowd, in vale secluded:--
  Their joyless strife she once has felt,
    And cannot be again deluded.

  Oft have I seen the humble roof,
    Where, with PEACE, LOVE and HOPE uniting,
  She dwells, from worldly cares aloof,
    Even while her story I am writing.




The following beautiful reply to the stanzas of Mr. Wilde, published
in the first number of the Messenger, is attributed to Mrs. Buckley,
the wife of a distinguished physician of Baltimore, a lady whose fine
taste and poetic capacity are most happily displayed in these touching
lines. The answer is a very perfect counterpart of Mr. Wilde's
stanzas, and if we were called on to decide upon their relative
merits, we do not know which of the two would most demand our
admiration.


ANSWER

  To "_My Life is Like the Summer Rose_."


  The dews of night may fall from Heaven,
    Upon the wither'd _rose's_ bed,
  And tears of fond regret be given,
    To mourn the virtues of the dead:
  Yet morning's sun the dews will dry,
  And tears will fade from sorrow's eye,
  Affection's pangs be lull'd to sleep,
  And even love forget to _weep_.

  The _tree_ may mourn its fallen _leaf_,
    And autumn winds bewail its bloom,
  And friends may heave the sigh of grief,
    O'er those who sleep within the tomb:
  Yet soon will spring renew the flowers,
  And time will bring more smiling hours;
  In friendship's heart all grief will die,
  And even love forget to _sigh_.

  The _sea_ may on the desert _shore_
    Lament each _trace_ it bears away;
  The lonely heart its grief may pour
    O'er cherish'd friendship's fast decay:
  Yet when all trace is lost and gone,
  The waves dance bright and gaily on;
  Thus soon affection's bonds are torn,
  And even love forgets to _mourn_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ----


  We parted--not as lovers part--
    No tear was in thine eye;
  No mantling blush was on thy cheek,
    Thy bosom heaved no sigh;
  Yet there was something in thine air
    That seemed to all unmoved,--
  Something that told my bursting heart,
    Dearest, that I was loved.

  For, when I took thy gentle hand
    To bid a short adieu,
  Methought within my trembling clasp,
    That white hand trembled too;
  And when too, from my faltering tongue
    The parting accents fell,
  Thou didst not, dearest--can it be
    Thou couldst not say farewell!

  Forgive, if I have boldly erred--
    If fancy 'twere alone,
  That check'd thy voice, and lent thy hand
    The tremors of my own.
  Forgive, forgive the daring thought--
    Forgive the hopes--the love--
  That bids me seek thee soon again,
    My bliss or wo to prove.

T. H. T.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHAT I LOVE.


  I love to stray at early morn,
    'Mid flowers along the verdant dale,
  Inhale the fragrance of the thorn,
    And hear the Dove's low plaintive wail.

  I love within some forest deep,
    At sultry noon reclined to lie,
  And watch the fleecy clouds that creep,
    With quiet pace along the sky.

  I love at quiet eve to go,
    Far from the noisy crowd, and dream
  Of all the glorious hopes which throw
    Their sunshine o'er life's gloomy stream.

  But more than all, at silent night,
    I love with one fair form to rove,
  Beneath the pale moon's pensive light,
    And whisper burning words of love.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ---- ----

  Let not your heart be troubled.--_John_ 14: 1.


  Let Ocean swell with angry spite,
    And yawn and lash the heedless shore;
  And billows rage with mount'nous height,
    As if they'd be at peace no more.
  Let storm 'gainst storm their fury hurl,
    And loudly roar with fearful might,
  Till sea and land--yea, all the world--
    May seem to grope in trouble's night.

  But let _thy heart_ thy Saviour know,
    Whose word once calmed the troubled deep,
  Who spake to winds that dared to blow,
    And _hushed_ them in the lap of sleep.
  Tis He can quell each rising sigh,
    And calm thy heart from cruel fears,
  As when the storms in silence lie,
    And not a wave the Ocean mars.

SIWEL.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AN ITALIAN EXTRAVAGANZA.

  Addressed to a beautiful lady.


  Se tutti gli alberi del mondo
      Fossero penne--
      Il cielo fosse carta,
      Il mare, inchiostro--
  Non basterebbero a descrivere
  La minima parte della vostra perfexione!


AN ATTEMPT AT TRANSLATION.


  Could we the sky's unbounded range,
      To paper all convert--
  And had we power, miraculous, to change,
      To _pens_, the _trees_,
      To _ink_, the _seas_--
  These would not all suffice to paint, in part,
  The rich perfections of thy mind and heart--
      Thy _graces_--thy _desert_!

ELLA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHERE IS MY HEART?

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.


          Where is my heart?
  Its place of rest is not within this aching breast;--
          Where does it dwell?
      It is not in the glittering hall,
      Where sunbright glances gaily fall
          'Neath pleasure's spell.

          Where is my heart?
  Not in the crowd 'mid mirth and wine and revel loud;--
          It is not there.
      Nor is it where the summer's sky
      Gives birth to flowers of brightest dye
          And balmy air.

          Where is my heart?
  Upon the sea, where dwell the joyous and the free,
          It has not gone.
      My withered heart, it has not flown
      Where love or hope or joy is known,
          Or pleasures dawn.

          Where is my heart?
  To the cold grave, where yew and cypress darkly wave,
          My heart has fled.
      Yes, where the form it worshipped sleeps,
      My blighted heart its vigil keeps,
          Beside the dead.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

INVOCATION.


  Come my love--O! come with me,
  We will wander wild and free,--
  Where the pale moon sheds her light,
  And the dew-drops glisten bright;--
  Where is heard the gurgling flow
  Of the streamlet, we will go,
  And our joyous feet shall tread,
  Near the humble violets bed.
  We will breathe the rich perfume,
  Born of fragrant flowers in bloom;
  All that's sweet and all that's fair,
  From green earth or scented air,
  Nature brings in vesture gay,
  Laughing strews around our way.

  We will seek the shady grove,
  Through its mazes we will rove,
  Sit upon the moss-grown seat,
  And our youthful vows repeat.
  Years have passed since we were there,
  Still thy cheeks are fresh and fair,
  Not a single care-worn line,
  Mars that lovely brow of thine.
  Many gay and gladsome hours,
  We have spent in sunny bowers;
  Not one cloud of care or strife,
  E'er has dimmed our path thro' life,--
  And our pilgrimage doth seem
  As one long and happy dream.

  Come my love the Moon's on high,
  Sailing o'er the summer sky,
  And the stars are twinkling through
  Boundless fields of azure-blue--
  Faintly from the leafy trees,
  Sighs the balmy southern breeze.
  Down the valley we will stray,
  Where the night-flowers scent the way;
  Arm in arm we'll wander o'er
  Many a scene beloved of yore;
  Tell the oft repeated tale,
  By the fountain in the vale,--
  Talk of deep, confiding love,
  And of hearts that never rove.

ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

_Aldie, Va._




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AUTUMN.


  Come to the forests, while the leaves are falling
    In rustling showers from every yielding bough--
  Seek the wild haunts, where, save some lone bird calling
    Its mate departed, all is silence now.

  Leave the bright hearth, where love and peace are smiling,
    To dream awhile 'midst Autumn's falling leaves,
  To watch her power the Summer's charms despoiling
    As time of early joys the heart bereaves.

  There, as the year's bright glories fade around thee
    Bring home the lesson to thy saddened heart;
  Muse on the loves and friendships that have bound thee,
    Which thou hast seen like autumn leaves depart.

  Or if the Past yield no sad recollection,
    Upon the Future let thy thoughts be cast;
  Nor check the current of the sad reflection
    That whispers, human life is fleeting fast.

  Then bow to Him, in meek and low contrition,
    Whose Wisdom, full of Mercy, doth ordain
  To man a second spring in realms elysian,
    Where the bright hues of Summer ever reign.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

NAPOLEON.


  Aye! there he lies,--the mighty one!
    Death's hand is on him now;
  And fearfully he puts his seal
    Upon that haughty brow.

  What boots it that his own proud name
    In foreign lands has rung?
  That orators his fame have spoke,
    That bards his deeds have sung?

  What boots it that the hills of Spain
    Shook 'neath his lordly tread--
  That with the blood of her best sons,
    Her vallies' streams ran red?

  That over Moscow's battlements,
    His flag-folds he shook out--
  That e'en the lofty pyramids
    Rang with his charging shout?

  He who subdu'd so many lands,
    Must now from England crave
  (Although she is his deadliest foe)
    What man last wants--a grave!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.


MR. WHITE,--You have published at page 199 of your January number,
four outlandish-looking lines, with a hope that some one of your
numerous readers may not only be able to inform your correspondent who
furnished them, in what language they are written, but let him still
further into the secret by giving their meaning. Happening to know a
little of the Gaelic, I have no hesitation in saying that that is the
tongue in which they are written; and further, I think I have
succeeded, after a good deal of trouble, in discovering to a certainty
that they are a translation of the first stanza of Sappho's celebrated
Ode addressed "_To the Beloved Pair_," and commented upon at some
length by Longinus, in the tenth section of his De Sublimitate. The
stanza in question runs thus:

[For want of proper type we cannot give it in the Greek.--_Ed._]

  Videtur mihi ille æqualis Diis
  Esse Vir, qui oppositus tibi
  Sedet, et prope te dulce loquentem audit
  Et rides amabiliter.

  Blest as the immortal Gods is he
  The youth who fondly sits by thee,
  And hears and sees thee all the while
  Softly speak and sweetly smile.

An interesting critique upon the Ode, with the whole of Ambrose
Philips' spirited translation of it, is to be met with in the two
hundred and twenty-ninth number of the Spectator. Yours, &c.

UDOCH.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

No. II.

          ----If the painter saw
  Naught but the prose of things, and dared but draw
  The literal, aged, uninspiring truth,
  And saw not nature in her winged youth
  Her rainbow aspect, when she stands array'd
  In floods of sunshine and in nights of shade,
  What would he gain?--_Barry Cornwall_.


In my last number, I undertook to show, that "uncultivated taste, is
incapable of estimating excellence in art" and that, "the beautiful in
nature, like philosophy and science, can only be comprehended by those
who study it profoundly and observe it habitually." But those who
think nature an unveiled beauty to be gazed upon by every wanton eye,
or that the arts aspire no higher than the "prose of things;" those
who are resolved to admire what they like, rather than learn to like
that which is admirable, may spare themselves the trouble of reading
this article,--as my object is, to instruct the teachable, to ramble
with the lover of nature amidst the shades of rural life, and converse
with the amateur of art, about all that is excellent in ancient or
modern works.

Before we can perceive what is beautiful in art, we must comprehend
what is beautiful in nature; and without entering into the abstruse
question of _beauty_, which has so much divided the erudite in all
ages, we may say, that every thing from the hand of the Creator is
beautiful in its _proper place_: and it is precisely this, that is
beautiful in art. But to know the place where beauteous nature lurks,
and to trace the harmony and fitness of every object to the part it
supplies in the picturesque of scenery, requires a mind

  "----by nature's charms impress'd,
  An ardor ever burning in the breast,
  A zeal for truth, a power of thought intense;
  A fancy, flowering on the stems of sense;
  A mem'ry as the grave retentive, vast
  That holds to rise again, the imprison'd past."

Beauty is not confined to the waving line of Hogarth, or to objects
smooth and soft, as Mr. Burke thought, but is multiform in nature, and
therefore admits of a diversity of tastes; yet it is not an arbitrary
principle subject to the fancy of every individual, but like harmony
in music, it vibrates on the imagination and affections of a
cultivated mind, as doth the octave in a well tuned instrument;--the
tutored ear perceives the slightest discordance in sounds, and the
cultivated eye detects with equal facility the want of harmony in art
or nature. It has been said "that the peasant youth, would require
more red in the cheek of his beauty, than would be agreeable to a man
of cultivated taste," and the inference was, "that the delicate is
more beautiful than the florid," but in fact, they are each beautiful
in their _place_. In rustic life, amidst the scenes of the vintage, in
the hay field, or milking the cow--how beauteous is the flush and
healthful bloom of the cottage maiden! The ruby lip and liquid
laughing eye bespeak the joyous heart, pleased with its vocation.
Here, the delicate and courtly dame of polished life would appear
unequal to the task; would be incongruous to the scene, and as much
out of place as epic verse in pastoral poetry;--yet in her proper
sphere

  "----those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet
  Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul,
  Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd
  Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart,"

she moves the attractive star of cultivated taste.

The choice of these subjects, constitutes the difference between the
Dutch and the Italian schools of art. The former painted pastoral
scenery with a fidelity incomparably superior to the Italians, yet
greatly inferior in the higher excellencies of art. They are justly
admired for their attention to detail, to exact finish, and all the
results of "mere mechanic pains," but are void of classical taste, of
moral instruction, and the poetry of the imagination, that highest
effort of genius. Their works may therefore be beautiful, but never
sublime, and their attempts at historic painting degrade it to
something worse than caricature. I remember to have seen in the
Louvre, a little painting of this school, designed for "Peter denying
his Lord in Pilate's house." The interior was a _Holland kitchen_;
boors _were smoking_ before a _chimney_ place, or _playing at cards_
on a tub reversed; a coarse looking woman held Peter by his collar,
and chanticleer sat perched on a beam of the house. The costume and
furniture were equally out of keeping, but executed with the most
harmonious tone and finest touch of the pencil. Now the same subject
in the schools of Italy would represent a hall becoming the governor
of Judea, soldiers in Roman costume would be grouped around an antique
vase of embers, placed upon a tripod, and Peter would quail under the
pert recognition of a beautiful damsel; the grey dawn would appear
through the intercolumniations of the portico, and the warning clarion
of the cock would be expressed on the brow of the conscience-stricken
Apostle.

This may not be considered a fair comparison, but rather the
antithesis of the two schools. What then shall we take as the highest
effort of Dutch genius? The Bull of Paul Potter![1] As well might we
compare a wax figure of Tecumseh with the Apollo Belvidere, or the
Sleeping Beauty with the Venus de Medicis. But, if indeed, it be the
highest effort of genius to produce an _exact representation_ of
things, the modeller in wax, is superior to the sculptor in marble,
and the Bull at the Hague, to the Transfiguration in the Vatican. As
no one of any pretension to taste will ever assent to this conclusion,
I must again insist, that art aspires to a higher attainment than the
mere portraiture of nature, and claims poetic honors; it is the poetry
of form and color: it selects the agreeable from the discordant parts
of the great prototype--combines and disposes them--and without
changing the features, elevates and ennobles them; it seizes upon
incidental effects to cast a shadow over the asperities of objects,
and throws a broad and brilliant light on the more beautiful parts.
When Dominichino was asked what obscured a part of his picture, "_una
neblia si passa_," was his reply; and by thus imagining a passing
cloud, he was enabled to preserve that breadth of light and shade so
remarkable in the English school at present. The Italians however, did
not often seek after _effect_; they did not address themselves so much
to the eye, as to the judgment; and their distinguishing excellence is
_correctness_ of _design_ and _dignity of character_. It was this that
acquired for them the praise of a "grand gusto," or sublimity of
style, superior to all other artists.

[Footnote 1: This is esteemed the greatest of the Dutch school.]

G. C.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ETYMOLOGY.

----The inventor of a new word must never flatter himself that he has
secured the public adoption, for he must lie in the grave before he
can enter the Dictionary.--_D'Israeli_.


_Mr. White_:--I am an odd old fellow, and fond of etymology, and
frequently amuse myself with tracing to their roots, words in familiar
use. Having been confoundedly puzzled of late by the term CAUCUS,
which is in every body's mouth, and not being able to satisfy myself
as to its origin, I have determined to have recourse to you, and will
be infinitely obliged to you or any of your readers for a solution of
the difficulty. If it be true as D'Israeli says, that the inventor of
a new word cannot be secure of its adoption by the public, for he must
lie in the grave before he can enter the Dictionary--the man who made
the aforesaid word must be still living, though at a very advanced
age. I rather suppose however that D'Israeli is mistaken, and that the
inventor has been dead a long time, and lived to see the general
adoption of his word, notwithstanding it has as yet no place in any
Dictionary that I have seen. Supposing it to be an English word, I
consulted Walker, and was mortified to find that he took no notice of
it. I then made sundry combinations of other terms, but could light
upon none that seemed at all plausible, except the words _calk us_,
which, united into caucus, may produce a kind of _onomatopoeia_,
descriptive of the assemblage in question; for to calk, is, according
to the abovementioned lexicographer, "to stop the leak of a vessel;"
and inasmuch as a caucus is urged by the admirers of Mr. Van Buren, to
be the means of stopping all leaks in our political vessel, there
seems to be some show of reason in this derivation. Upon further
reflection, however, I concluded that the word must be Greek, and
having recourse to Schrevelius, found the paronymous term _kakos_,
malus. This I presently rejected, though apparently descriptive of the
pernicious tendency of a caucus, because the institutors of that
pestilent oligarchy would hardly have selected so barefaced an
epitheton, such a cacophony, if I may so speak. On further search,
upon meeting with _kaukis_, I was so much delighted with the near
resemblance of sound, as to jump up and cry out _eureka_; but
moderated my rapture on discovering that "_genus calceamenti_," the
explanatory terms in Latin, could not be tortured to any manner of
application, unless indeed it was intended to indicate that the
members of a caucus would be willing to stand in the _people's shoes_,
upon the occasion of electing a President of the United States; or
unless we observe further the _aliter baukos, jucundus_; for it is
literally a very pleasant and right merry way of getting rid of the
difficulty of a choice by the people. So far the Greek. As for the
Latin, I have consulted every Dictionary in my possession, from
Ainsworth and Young, up to _old Thoma Thomasius_, printed _Coventriæ
Septimo Idus, Februarii 1630_, and can find nothing resembling our
Caucus, but the three headed robber _Cacus_, who by paronomasia, might
be considered as the grand prototype of that modern monster, which has
stolen, if not the _cattle_, at least the property of the great
American Hercules, and will keep it, unless he rise in his might, and
crushing the political thief, resumes his original rights. Now, Mr.
White, I am disposed to rest here; though not quite so well satisfied
as Jonathan Oldbuck was about the locality Of Agricola's camp, from
those mysterious initials which the mischievous Edie Ochiltree so
wickedly interpreted to mean "_Ailie Davy's lang ladle_," and not
"_Agricola dicavit libens lubens_," as _Monkbarns_ would have it;--but
do observe, sir, the singular coincidences between Cacus and Caucus;
the one a three headed rogue--the other a sort of political Cerberus;
the first slily taking away the cattle of another--the second
insidiously cajoling the people of their rights; the former hiding
them in a cave, where they were discovered by their bellowing--the
latter betrayed by a bellowing from Maine to Georgia; and finally
Cacus demolished by Hercules, and Caucus easily demolished by the
Herculean force of public sentiment.

I acknowledge, however, that I am not entirely satisfied,
notwithstanding this "_confirmation strong_," and hope you will
speedily relieve the perplexity of

Your most obedient,

NUGATOR.

P.S. A friend facetiously suggests that Caucus is nothing more than a
corruption,--Caucus, quasi cork us; that is, shut close the doors that
nobody may hear us.


REMARK.

We will do all in our power to assist our esteemed friend Nugator in
his etymological researches.--We remember to have read in a work of a
New England author, some years since, an elaborate inquiry into the
origin of the word which so much puzzles our correspondent. If our
memory serve us faithfully, that writer fixes the nativity of the term
in the city of Boston, and the date of its birth previous to the
revolution. The circumstances out of which it sprang he asserts to be
these. In that stormy period, when every class of citizens was
agitated by the sentiments which exploded shortly afterwards in the
thunders of revolution, public meetings were frequently held by the
different trades and professions. For reasons which we now forget,
particular attention was attracted to one called by the _Calkers_, a
large body of citizens in so commercial a town. Their proceedings
being peculiar, (perhaps in exclusiveness or secrecy,) caused this
assemblage to be much talked of; and every subsequent meeting
characterized by similar peculiarities in its formation or
proceedings, was called a "_Calker's Meeting_." Gradually, in the
lapse of time, although the term continued to be used, its origin was
forgotten; and a knowledge of its etymological parentage no longer
preserving it from corruption, an erroneous pronunciation, and
consequently an erroneous manner of spelling it, gave to it the form
and shape which it now wears--a change not at all surprising in regard
to a word which was probably _unwritten_ during the first thirty years
of its existence. We give this derivation from memory alone; we cannot
even recall the work in which we saw it. If it be the true one, our
friend will perceive that in one of his surmises he is not far wrong.
It is high time that the birth, parentage and early condition of a
particle of our language, which has of late become a word of power,
equal in its magic influence to the fabled spells of ancient
necromancers, should be settled beyond dispute. Seeing what Caucus now
means, it is natural that we should desire to know from what
beginnings it has arisen to its present stupendous importance in the
ranks of our modern political vocabulary.




CRITICAL NOTICES.


THE CRAYON MISCELLANY. By the author of the Sketch Book. No. 1.
Containing a Tour on the Prairies. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea &
Blanchard. 1835.

A book from the pen of Washington Irving, is a _morceau_, which will
always be eagerly sought after by literary epicures. He is decidedly
one of the most popular writers in this country: his sketches of
character and scenery, are always true to the life, full of freshness
and vigor; and there is usually a clear stream of thought pervading
his pages, in fine contrast with the crude and indistinct conceptions
of ordinary writers. The volume before us cannot be said indeed to
rival some of its predecessors from the same pen, but the cause is not
so much in the author as in his subject. In spite of an agreeable and
highly descriptive style, the mind becomes wearied with the monotony
of a journey through the solitudes of the Western Prairies, and after
we have once formed a tolerably distinct idea of a buffalo hunt, and
the lasoing of the wild horse, we become tired of the repetition of
adventures, which possess so little variety. Considering his
materials, however, Mr. Irving has contrived to sustain his narrative
with his usual ability. It is true, that most readers will somewhat
regret that he did not present more finished portraits of some of the
personages who accompanied the expedition. We have quite satisfactory
sketches of that "swarthy, meager, braggart" Tonish, and of the
"sullen saturnine" half breed Beatte, but we desire to know something
more of the wild young Swiss Count, of his travelling companion and
mentor, the virtuoso, and of the hardy old hunter, Ryan, a true member
of the leather-stocking family.

Notwithstanding the famed perspicuity and purity of Mr. Irving's
style, he occasionally adopts a form of expression which creates some
surprise. We will give one instance, in particular, because the
inaccuracy, if we may so term it, is repeated several times in the
volume before us:--"The horse, which was fearless as his owner, and
like him, had a considerable spice of devil in his composition, and
who beside, had been familiar with the game, no sooner came in sight
and scent of the buffalo, than he set off _like mad_, bearing the
involuntary hunter," &c. &c. &c. (Page 232.)

We should have supposed the expression, "_like mad_," a typographical
error, if it had not been frequently used.

We copy for the reader's amusement, a short chapter, containing an
account of "_A Republic of Prairie Dogs_," a kind of quadruped, with
which we, at least, in this portion of North America, are not very
familiar. The harmony, vigilance and energy, with which these little
brutes rally around their rights and their laws, might whisper a sage
lesson even to the wisdom of rational and intellectual beings:--

A REPUBLIC OF PRAIRIE DOGS.

On returning from our expedition in quest of the young Count, I
learned that a burrow, or village, as it is termed, of prairie dogs,
had been discovered on the level summit of a hill, about a mile from
the camp. Having heard much of the habits and peculiarities of these
little animals, I determined to pay a visit to the community. The
prairie dog is, in fact, one of the curiosities of the far West, about
which travellers delight to tell marvellous tales, endowing him at
times with something of the politic and social habits of a rational
being, and giving him systems of civil government and domestic
economy, almost equal to what they used to bestow upon the beaver.

The prairie dog is an animal of the coney kind, and about the size of
a rabbit. He is of a sprightly mercurial nature; quick, sensitive, and
somewhat petulant. He is very gregarious, living in large communities,
sometimes of several acres in extent, where innumerable little heaps
of earth show the entrances to the subterranean cells of the
inhabitants, and the well beaten tracks, like lanes and streets, show
their mobility and restlessness. According to the accounts given of
them, they would seem to be continually full of sport, business and
public affairs; whisking about hither and thither, as if on gossiping
visits to each other's houses, or congregating in the cool of the
evening, or after a shower, and gambolling together in the open air.
Sometimes, especially when the moon shines, they pass half the night
in revelry, barking or yelping with short, quick, yet weak tones, like
those of very young puppies. While in the height of their playfulness
and clamor, however, should there be the least alarm, they all vanish
into their cells in an instant, and the village remains blank and
silent. In case they are hard pressed by their pursuers, without any
hope of escape, they will assume a pugnacious air, and a most
whimsical look of impotent wrath and defiance.

The prairie dogs are not permitted to remain sole and undisturbed
inhabitants of their own homes. Owls and rattlesnakes are said to take
up their abodes with them; but whether as invited guests or unwelcome
intruders, is a matter of controversy. The owls are of a peculiar
kind, and would seem to partake of the character of the hawk; for they
are taller and more erect on their legs, more alert in their looks and
rapid in their flight than ordinary owls, and do not confine their
excursions to the night, but sally forth in broad day.

Some say that they only inhabit cells which the prairie dogs have
deserted, and suffered to go to ruin, in consequence of the death in
them of some relative; for they would make out this little animal to
be endowed with keen sensibilities, that will not permit it to remain
in the dwelling where it has witnessed the death of a friend. Other
fanciful speculators represent the owl as a kind of housekeeper to the
prairie dog; and from having a note very similar, insinuate that it
acts, in a manner, as family preceptor, and teaches the young litter
to bark.

As to the rattlesnake, nothing satisfactory has been ascertained of
the part he plays in this most interesting household; though he is
considered as little better than a sycophant and sharper, that winds
himself into the concerns of the honest, credulous little dog, and
takes him in most sadly. Certain it is, if he acts as toad eater, he
occasionally solaces himself with more than the usual perquisites of
his order; as he is now and then detected with one of the younger
members of the family in his maw.

Such are a few of the particulars that I could gather about the
domestic economy of this little inhabitant of the prairies, who, with
his pigmy republic, appears to be a subject of much whimsical
speculation and burlesque remarks, among the hunters of the far West.

It was towards evening that I set out with a companion, to visit the
village in question. Unluckily, it had been invaded in the course of
the day by some of the rangers, who had shot two or three of its
inhabitants, and thrown the whole sensitive community in confusion. As
we approached, we could perceive numbers of the inhabitants seated at
the entrances of their cells, while sentinels seemed to have been
posted on the outskirts, to keep a look out. At sight of us, the
picket guards scampered in and gave the alarm; whereupon every
inhabitant gave a short yelp, or bark, and dived into his hole, his
heels twinkling in the air as if he had thrown a somerset.

We traversed the whole village, or republic, which covered an area of
about thirty acres; but not a whisker of an inhabitant was to be seen.
We probed their cells as far as the ramrods of our rifles would reach,
but could unearth neither dog, nor owl, nor rattlesnake. Moving
quietly to a little distance, we lay down upon the ground, and watched
for a long time, silent and motionless. By and bye, a cautious old
burgher would slowly put forth the end of his nose, but instantly draw
it in again. Another, at a greater distance, would emerge entirely;
but, catching a glance of us, would throw a somerset, and plunge back
again into his hole. At length, some who resided on the opposite side
of the village, taking courage from the continued stillness, would
steal forth, and hurry off to a distant hole, the residence possibly
of some family connexion, or gossiping friend, about whose safety they
were solicitous, or with whom they wished to compare notes about the
late occurrences.

Others still more bold, assembled in little knots, in the streets and
public places, as if to discuss the recent outrages offered to the
commonwealth, and the atrocious murders of their fellow burghers.

We rose from the ground and moved forward, to take a nearer view of
these public proceedings, when, yelp! yelp! yelp!--there was a shrill
alarm passed from mouth to mouth; the meetings suddenly dispersed;
feet twinkled in the air in every direction; and in an instant all had
vanished into the earth.

The dusk of the evening put an end to our observations, but the train
of whimsical comparisons produced in my brain, by the moral attributes
which I had heard given to these little politic animals, still
continued after my return to camp; and late in the night, as I lay
awake after all the camp was asleep, and heard in the stillness of the
hour, a faint clamor of shrill voices from the distant village, I
could not help picturing to myself the inhabitants gathered together
in noisy assemblage, and windy debate, to devise plans for the public
safety, and to vindicate the invaded rights and insulted dignity of
the republic.

       *       *       *       *       *

_North American Review_.--The April number is for the most part
excellent. But we are forcibly reminded by it of a defect in the
Reviews of this country, which it seems to us, might with some little
exertion, be remedied. The fault to which we allude, is their
tardiness in noticing the publications of the day. In this number of
the North American, we find several pages devoted to a review of
_Burkhardt's Travels in Africa_, which have been before the public
_sixteen years_, while the crowd of new works of undoubted merit which
fill our book stores, have not as yet, with but few exceptions,
attracted the attention of the reviewers. In this book-making age, we
are aware that it is impossible for a Quarterly to review the
twentieth part of the productions constantly issuing from the press:
but if, as we suppose, it is the design of these periodicals to direct
the taste of the public in every department of science and literature,
surely they should contain reviews of such works selected from the
mass, as are best worthy attention; and should endeavor to keep pace
with the stream of publication. We can see little value in a review of
a book after every reading man in the community has perused it, and
formed his opinion upon its merits. Thus to lag behind the march of
current literature, deprives the criticisms of the reviewer of much of
their value and weight. In the instance to which we have alluded, it
might well be asked whether the travels of Burkhardt, English reviews
of which we read ten or twelve, or more years ago, could have the same
claim upon the public interest as the newer works of Burnes,
Jacquemont, Bennet and many others, whose books possess the charm of
novelty? We subjoin the contents of the April number: 1. Politics of
Europe: 2. Coleridge: 3. Mineral Springs of Nassau: 4. Life of G. D.
Boardman: 5. National Gallery: 6. Italy: 7. Last Days of Pompeii: 8.
Immigration: 9. Burkhardt's Travels in Africa: 10. Popular Education.

The first article contains a spirited review of the political events
in France since the revolution of 1830, and of the foreign and
internal policy of Louis Philippe. The progress of the _juste milieu_
system is well delineated, and a forcible picture is drawn of the
present posture of the French government. We do not entirely coincide
with the writer's ideas of the onward course of the cause of liberty,
(or perhaps more correctly, of revolution) in France; but consider the
article generally correct and instructive. That on Coleridge is
admirable: and we heartily rejoice that in a work so much looked up to
in England as is the North American, for the expression of our
literary opinions, justice so ample should have been done to that
extraordinary mind. A Baltimore newspaper, in allusion to the article
in question, speaks of "the pitiful shifts to which the reviewer is
driven to account for a fact which he admits, viz.--that there is but
here and there an individual who understands him," [Coleridge.] "What
stronger proof do we want," says the journalist, "of that confusion of
thought and mysticism with which he has been charged?" We think _far_
stronger proofs are necessary to support the accusation. That but few
comprehend the metaphysical treatises of Coleridge, is owing to the
simple fact, that few are so thoroughly versed in psychological
knowledge as to maintain a position in the van of the science, the
post universally acceded to Coleridge by the learned in ethics. It is
for this class of men that he has written, and in whose applauses he
has received a plentiful reward. These, at least, will not hesitate to
say that so far from being justly charged with confusion of thought,
and its consequence confusion of expression, no man who ever lived
thought _more distinctly even when thinking wrong_, or more intimately
felt and comprehended the power of _the niceties of words_. That his
philosophical disquisitions are abstruse, is the fault of the
subjects, and not of the language in which he has treated them, than
which none can be more lucid or appropriate.

The article on Italy is interesting--also that on the National
Gallery. In the notice of the _Last Days of Pompeii_, justice is by no
means done to that most noble of modern novels.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _London Quarterly Review for February_, American Edition, No. 1.
Vol. 2. is printed on good paper, with excellent type. It contains, 1.
Wanderings in New South Wales, by George Bennet, Esq. F. L. S. Fellow
of the Royal College of Surgeons: 2. Correspondence of Victor de
Jacquemont: 3. Population of Great Britain and Ireland: 4. Coleridge's
Table Talk: 5. Egypt and Thebes: 6. Rush on the Prophecies: 7. The
Church and the Voluntary System: 8. Recent German Belles Lettres: 9.
England, France, Russia and Turkey: 10. Sir Robert Peel's Address. The
eighth article contains much information on a subject with which
Americans are, for the most part, indifferently conversant.
Coleridge's Table Talk is highly interesting, as every authentic
fragment of his sentiments and opinions must be. The work reviewed in
this article, is published by Mr. Henry Coleridge, a near relative of
the departed philosopher and poet, and is made up from notes of
numerous conversations, taken down by the publisher immediately after
their occurrence. They bear the impress of Coleridge's mind, will be
read with interest by all classes, and probably do more to make the
general reader acquainted with him and his opinions, than all else
that has been written.--We take this opportunity of noticing the
excellent American Edition of the London, Edinburg, Foreign and
Westminster Reviews, combined. It does much honor to Mr. Foster of New
York, the publisher; and the compression of matter is such, without
being printed too fine, as to give to subscribers for the sum of eight
dollars, these four periodicals for which upwards of twenty dollars
was formerly paid. The paper, type, and execution, are good.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Life of Samuel Drew_, the shoemaker and philosopher of Cornwall,
by his son, is published by Harper & Brothers, and consists of 360
pages. Drew was an extraordinary man, whose works, especially his
theological ones, have gained him no little celebrity. It now appears
that he had much to do with the writings attributed to Dr. Coke.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Life of the Emperor Napoleon, Vol. 1, by H. Lee. New York,
Charles De Behr._ This work has great merits and remarkable faults.
Published ostensibly as a corrector of the numerous errors of other
biographers of Napoleon, and especially those of Sir Walter Scott and
Lockhart, it cannot but be read with interest. The errors detected and
set right, are numerous and important. In most instances Mr. Lee
clearly makes out his charges--in some we are sorry to see that he
seems to be governed by a spirit of captiousness: And we cannot but
object to the tone of his strictures upon Sir Walter Scott. Milder
language would better have graced his cause. We have prepared a review
of this work, which we are compelled to postpone to the next number of
the Messenger.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Celebrated Trials of all Countries, and remarkable cases of Criminal
Jurisprudence, selected by a Member of the Philadelphia Bar.
Philadelphia, E. L. Carey and A. Hart._ Such a book as this was much
wanted. The records of criminal trials were scattered through the
newspapers or buried in some huge tomes of antique law reports, almost
inaccessible to the ordinary reader. And this book seems fitted to
supply the deficiency to a considerable extent. It is a large octavo,
and contains a selection of criminal trials from the early period of
1588, down to the present day, among them some of the most celebrated
cases on record, such as that of Sir Walter Raleigh in 1602, of the
Earl of Strafford in 1643, of Alexis Petrowitz Czarowitz in 1815, of
the rebels, Kilmarnock, Cromartie, Balmerino, &c. in 1745, and others
of equal interest--the judicial proceedings in relation to which,
belong to history. The contents of the work are highly interesting,
but we cannot withhold our censure of their arrangement. The trials
are huddled together without the slightest attention to chronological
order; and it would seem that the gentleman of the Philadelphia Bar,
who is made responsible for the compilation of the work, could merely
have selected the several cases leaving the printer to arrange them as
he pleased. The consequence is, that the reader finds himself shifting
backward and forward, from century to century, in a complete medley of
dates. This is to be lamented, because the history of criminal
jurisprudence is a history of the progress of civil liberty, and of
the expansion of the human mind. And the interest which we find in
tracing the progress of just and equitable rules in the trials of
malefactors, is marred by this defect of arrangement. As future
volumes of this work are partly promised, it is to be hoped that in
them this fault will be amended.

       *       *       *       *       *

_No Fiction_. _A Narrative founded on recent and interesting facts, by
the Rev. Andrew Reed, D.D._ has been republished by the Harpers. With
a plot of great simplicity, and with diction equally simple, this work
has attained much celebrity. It is indeed thrillingly interesting.
_Martha_, a more recent effort by the same writer, is however, in
every respect a book of greater merit.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Memoirs of Celebrated Women of all Countries. By Madame Junot.
Philadelphia, Carey, Lea and Blanchard._ These memoirs are amusing,
and so far we can recommend them highly, but no farther. Their
morality is questionable indeed; and they bear upon their face, in a
certain pervading air of romance, sufficient evidence of their own
inauthenticity. There is a sad mistake too in the title of the work.
These are not memoirs of celebrated women in _all_ countries: they are
merely Madame Junot's celebrated women in a few particular regions.
The greater part of them have no pretensions to celebrity. It has been
remarked that the sketch of Marina Minszech will afford a fair sample
of the Duchess's biographical style. In this opinion we concur, and as
it is a pretty fable, we advise all to read it who have no inclination
for the book entire.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Influence, a Moral Tale, by the author of Miriam. Philadelphia, Key
and Biddle._ There is an air of modest tranquillity about this book
which we admire. It is a pleasing tale addressed to the young, to
serious parents, and to friends--and it pretends to be nothing more.
Its style too is unobjectionable. If the work developes in the author
no extraordinary capabilities, it is, we think, because there was no
intention of developing them.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Lives of the English Pirates, Highwaymen and Robbers, by Whitehead.
Philadelphia, Carey and Hart._ These lines will be read in spite of
all that a too fastidious taste may say to the contrary. We see no
very good reason why they should not be.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Confessions of a Poet, 2 vols. Carey, Lea and Blanchard._ The most
remarkable feature in this production is the bad paper on which it is
printed, and the typographical ingenuity with which matter barely
enough for one volume has been spread over the pages of two. The
author has very few claims to the sacred name he has thought proper to
assume. And indeed his own idea on this subject seem not to satisfy
himself. He is in doubt, poor man, of his own qualifications, and
having proclaimed himself a poet in the title page, commences his book
by disavowing all pretensions to the character. We can enlighten him
on this head. There is nothing of the _vates_ about him. He is no
poet--and most positively he is no prophet. He is a writer of notes.
He is fond of annotations; and composes one upon another, putting
Pelion upon Ossa. Here is an example: "_Ce n'est pas par affectation
que j'aie mis en Francais ces remarques, mais pour les detourner de la
connoissance du vulgaire._" Now we are very sure that none but _le
vulgaire_, to speak poetically, will ever think of getting through
with the confessions: thus there the matter stands. Lest his book
should _not_ be understood he illustrates it by notes, and then lest
the notes _should_ be understood, why he writes them in French. All
this is very clear, and very clever to say no more. There is however
some merit in this book, and not a little satisfaction. The author
avers upon his word of honor that in commencing this work he loads a
pistol, and places it upon the table. He farther states that, upon
coming to a conclusion, it is his intention to blow out what he
supposes to be his brains. Now this is excellent. But, even with so
rapid a writer as the poet must undoubtedly be, there would be some
little difficulty in completing the book under thirty days or
thereabouts. The best of powder is apt to sustain injury by lying so
long "in the load." We sincerely hope the gentleman took the
precaution to examine his priming before attempting the rash act. A
flash in the pan--and in such a case--were a thing to be lamented.
Indeed there would be no answering for the consequences. We might even
have a second series of the Confessions.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Language of Flowers, embellished with fine colored engravings.
Philadelphia, Carey, Hart and Co._ This is a book which will find
favor in the eyes of the ladies, and thus, _par consequence_ in the
eyes of the gentlemen. Its motto is pretty and apposite:

  By all those token-flowers that tell
  What words can never speak so well.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Mr. and Miss Edgeworth's Practical Education_ has been republished by
the Harpers. Its character is well established.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Highland Smugglers. By the author of Adventures of a Kussilbush,
&c. 3 vols. Carey, Hart and Co._ This book is very much praised and we
think justly. It is full of exquisite descriptions of that region of
romance the Scottish Highlands, and has _a manner of its own_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Lockhart's excellent novel _Valerius_ is republished by the
Harpers. The scene is in the time of Trajan, and the subject is
managed in that masterly style which we look for in Lockhart. We have
heard objections urged to the antique nature of his tale--ill-mannered
sneers, and by men who should know better, at travelling back to Roman
history for interest which could as well be found at home. _Procul--O
procul este profani!_ Valerius is a book _to live_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_An Account of Col. Crockett's Tour to the North and Down East,
written by himself. Carey, Hart and Co._ We see no reason why Col.
Crockett should not be permitted to expose himself if he pleases, and
to be as much laughed at as he thinks proper--but works of this kind
have had their day, and have fortunately lost their attractions. We
think this work especially censurable for the frequent vulgarity of
its language.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Illorax de Courcy, an auto-biographical novel, by Josiah Templeton,
Esq., 2 vols. Baltimore, William and Joseph Neal._ We have looked at
this book attentively--for we confess it was impossible to read it. A
glance over one or two pages will be sufficient to convince any
reasonable person that it is a mere jumble of absurdities. The
gentleman should not have thrust his name (if it be not a _nom de
guerre_,) into the title page.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A Winter in the West, by a New Yorker. New York, Harper and
Brothers._ This is a work of great sprightliness, and is replete with
instruction and amusement. The writer evinces much talent in producing
an interesting narrative of a journey performed in the most
unpropitious period of the year. His observations on life in the
backwoods are sensible, and we should imagine correct, and his details
in relation to Michigan particularly interest us. The adventures of
the road are told with great vivacity, and although there are no
thrilling scenes or surprising incidents in the book, it cannot be
read with indifference. The traits of Indian character scattered
through its pages are vivid and striking, and the reflections on the
condition of that fast failing race mark the philanthropic spirit of
the author. Mr. Hoffman, formerly connected with the New York
American, and now Editor of a Monthly Magazine, is the reputed author
of this spirited work.

       *       *       *       *       *

Note: The journal of Mrs. Frances Ann Butler, better known as Miss
Fanny Kemble, has, after a long delay, made its appearance; but at so
late a period that we are unable to present our readers with our
opinions at large of its merits, which we regret the more, as the work
has created much excitement in the literary and fashionable world.
Numerous extracts from its pages have been published in the
newspapers, and the daring authoress has received but little mercy
from any quarter. It will be reviewed in our next.




EDITORIAL REMARKS.


We recommend the contents of our present number with entire
confidence, to our readers.

The article on the "_Influence of Free Governments on the Mind_," is
from the same gifted and exuberant pen which produced the
"_Impediments to Literature_," republished in our fifth number, from
the Western Monthly Magazine.

The selection from Mr. Mitchell's Manuscripts, or the story of the
"_White Antelope_," will, we doubt not, be read with zest enough to
create a strong desire for future contributions from the same source.
The peculiarities of those wild sons of the forest who have never been
_corrupted by civilization_, (we hope the solecism will be pardoned,)
cannot fail to attract the curious. The story we publish is truly
_unique_ and excellent of its kind.

Chapter I. on "_English Poetry_," tracing as it does the rude and
early dawnings of that divine art in our own venerable vernacular,
will deeply interest by its antique spirit, and by the accurate and
profound investigation which its author has evinced. We shall look for
the remaining chapters with much eagerness.

We hope that no one will be deterred, by the length of Professor
George Tucker's discourse on the "_Progress of Philosophy_," from
reading it attentively. We acknowledge the value our pages derive from
its insertion, and we earnestly desire that all should share in the
pleasure and improvement which it will undoubtedly impart. Besides
that some of its views possess all the freshness of originality, the
whole address is couched in that felicitous diction for which its
author has been already justly distinguished, ennobling the subject,
while it familiarizes it to readers of all classes.

The 5th "_Letter from New England_" is full of thought, and deserves
the serious consideration of every man who claims to be a patriot.
When will the disastrous conflicts of party strife so far subside, as
to authorise a thorough, if not exclusive devotion to our own state
institutions and concerns? There are many things in our own internal
policy which might be judiciously reformed: The allusions of the
letter writer to the system of fixing the age by law at which judges
shall leave the bench, are expressed in his best style, and forcibly
remind us of the veneration and respect due to the "gigantic Coryphæus
of the United States' Judiciary."

Our excellent and able friend who writes the article on "_The Waltz
and Gallopade_," is mistaken if he supposes that we have favored those
outlandish innovations upon Virginian simplicity. We are advocates for
new inventions, only when they contribute to human happiness and
virtue; and we heartily join with him in censuring those of the
votaries of fashion who would corrupt the purity of our manners and
the innocence of our amusements, by introducing among us practices of
even doubtful effect upon the morals of the rising generation.

In "_Christian Education_," much wholesome admonition will be found,
directly addressed to the consideration of parents. The writer shows
in this article, that the spirit of a christian renders the much
neglected exhibition of childish intellect worthy the attention of an
accomplished and masculine mind.

The "_Extract from a Mexican Journal_," contains much valuable
information in relation to a country but little known.

The Tales, of which we publish several in the present number, comprise
a variety of talent. "_A Tale of the West_," written as we are
assured, by a novice in composition, certainly displays much ability,
although a little more experience would have taught the writer the
value of compression. But amplification is generally the fault of
youth and inexperience, and in this case it does not conceal the
talent unequivocally displayed by the writer.

"_Morella_" will unquestionably prove that Mr. Poe has great powers of
imagination, and a command of language seldom surpassed. Yet we cannot
but lament that he has drank so deep at some enchanted fountain, which
seems to blend in his fancy the shadows of the tomb with the clouds
and sunshine of life. We doubt however, if any thing in the same style
can be cited, which contains more terrific beauty than this tale.

The favors and contributions of our friend Pertinax Placid, Esquire,
are particularly welcome; and we hereby give him due notice that we
adopt him as a member of our literary family. In the "_Tale of a
Nose_," he has illustrated with admirable humor the curious philosophy
of dreaming; and in "_Content's Mishap_," he has clothed a fine moral
in the charms of flowing verse.

No. II. on the _Fine Arts_ will be read with more than ordinary
pleasure, by all who can estimate glowing descriptions of beauty and
grace, and the enthusiasm of an artist. The style of the article is
most captivating.

We are pleased to welcome again to our columns, our old and much
respected friend "_Nugator_," and equally so to learn that he is
convalescent from a severe illness which has kept his pen idle for
some time. His letter contains some allusions to politics, which in
general we deem an unsuitable subject for a journal on the plan of the
Messenger. But his remarks are expressed in so good humored a manner,
that we are convinced they can afford no offence. The detail of his
researches is highly amusing, and given in his usual agreeable style.

The selected article, a "_Scene in Real Life_," is characterized by
deep and impressive pathos. We are happy to say that its author will
probably become a contributor to our columns.

It would be uncourteous and in violation of our feelings, to omit
noticing the poetical contributions to this number. We particularly
recommend to our readers the "_Apostrophe of an Æolian Harp_," a
strain of harmony and sentiment struck by a master hand from the
chords of a truly poetic lyre.--"_The Last Gift_" is also the product
of a fertile and glowing spirit. It comes to us wrapt in the mists of
the anonymous; but if, as we trust, Corydon has not wept himself to
stone, we should gladly receive his further favors. "_Nature and Art_"
is from a feminine hand, which has before awakened strains of rich
music and sentiment in our pages. "_The Last Indian_" by our valued
friend Larry Lyle, is a magnificent description of a somewhat
extravagant dream. It exhibits even a greater degree of _power_ than
his former contributions. The "_Winter Scenes at Williamsburg_," give
a pleasing and vivid description of the gaiety which reigned at that
interesting place during the past season. There are also several minor
pieces in which we doubt not our readers will perceive much merit.