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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, MAY 1835.  [NO. 9.

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




PUBLISHER'S NOTICE.


The _Publisher_ has the pleasure of announcing to his friends and
patrons that he has made an arrangement with a gentleman of approved
literary taste and attainments, to whose especial management the
editorial department of the "Messenger" has been confided.--This
arrangement, he confidently believes will increase the attractions of
his pages,--for besides the acknowledged capacity of the gentleman
referred to, his abstraction from other pursuits will enable him to
devote his exclusive attention to the work.

With this ample assurance therefore, that the public patronage will be
met by renewed efforts to give general satisfaction, the publisher
earnestly hopes that his friends will aid him in extending the
circulation of the Messenger. A reasonable enlargement of the
subscription list will afford the means of occasionally embellishing
its pages with handsome drawings and engravings--and especially
sketches of some of those remarkable natural curiosities and
picturesque scenes, with which Virginia, and the Southern country
generally, abounds. In this way the publisher hopes to make his
periodical a repository of not only every thing elegant in literature,
but tasteful in the arts; and his generous and intelligent supporters
may rest assured, that whilst a moderate reward for his own labors is
indispensable--his principal aim is to multiply the sources of
intellectual pleasure, and increase the facilities for improvement.

It is due to the gentleman who has acted as editor up to the present
period, that the publisher should, in parting with him, express that
deep feeling of gratitude which his disinterested friendship could not
fail to inspire. At the commencement of the Messenger, when the
prospect of its success was doubtful, and when many judicious friends
augured unfavorably of the enterprise, the late editor volunteered his
aid to pilot the frail bark if possible into safe anchorage--nor did
he desert it until all doubt of success had ceased. The efforts of
that gentleman are the more prized, because they were made at a
considerable sacrifice of ease and leisure, in the midst too of
avocations sufficiently arduous to occupy the entire attention of most
men,--and because they were rendered without hope or expectation of
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success of the Messenger has been greatly owing to the judicious
management of the editorial department by that gentleman. For services
of so much value, rendered with no other object than a desire to
promote the establishment of a literary periodical in Virginia, the
publisher is deeply indebted to him--and the readers of the work will,
we doubt not, long remember his efforts in their behalf. To him
belongs the merit of having given his disinterested aid in the season
of its early feebleness. His successor has but to follow in the path
which has thus been marked out by a hardy and skilful literary
pioneer.

T. W. WHITE, _Publisher and Proprietor_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

And Present Condition of Tripoli, with some accounts of the other
Barbary States.

No. VI.


In the last number of these sketches, it was stated that Hamet "went
to Derne in 1809, where he passed the remainder of his life in quiet,
as Bey of the two Eastern Provinces." This has been since discovered
to be incorrect; within two years afterwards, he was again expelled by
the Pasha, for some cause or pretence, and obliged to fly with his
family to Egypt, where he died. In October, 1832, a man appeared at
the American Consulate in Alexandria, who declared himself to be
Mahommed Bey, eldest son of Hamet Caramalli; he stated that his
father's family were living in great indigence at Cairo, and his
object was to ascertain whether any relief could be expected for them
from the United States.

The conduct of the Bey of Tunis during the early part of the war
between Tripoli and the United States, has been already exposed. He
continued to observe the subsequent occurrences with great
attention,--manifesting the utmost anxiety with regard to the result.
He saw with dismay the increase of the American forces in the
Mediterranean, and the distressed condition to which Yusuf was reduced
by the determined manner in which they had been employed; and he
rightly conceived that by thus unveiling the weakness of one of the
Barbary States, the system which they were all interested in
preserving, was placed in jeopardy. With a view to avert the
apprehended danger, he made frequent offers of mediation, which having
been declined, he determined if possible to force a conclusion
favorable to his interests, by a display of hostile intentions against
the United States.

For this he soon found an excuse in the blockade of Tripoli. We have
seen that he at first refused to acknowledge this blockade, on the
just grounds that it was not maintained by a competent force; when
that force was increased so as effectually to close the port, he
insisted, that being at peace with the United States, his vessels had
the right of proceeding to any place without interruption by them, and
that the passport granted by the American Consul ought always to
afford them protection from the armed forces of his nation. The
passports granted by the Consuls of Christian powers in the Barbary
states, are merely certificates that the vessel is owned in the
country where the Consul resides, with a statement of her class, her
name and that of her captain, and other particulars requisite to
identify her; it protects the vessel from detention or capture by the
armed ships of the nation in whose name it is issued, for one year
after its date. The Consul in vain represented this to the Bey, and
endeavored to explain the principles of blockade; shewing that an
attempt to enter Tripoli would be a hostile act on the part of the
vessel making it, but on her part only, and should not necessarily
create any unfriendly feelings between the two governments; and that
the vessels of several Christian nations had been taken by the
American squadron, while they were thus endeavoring to force the
blockade, and condemned without any complaints having been made by
their governments.--To these representations, the Bey refused to
listen, contending that Christian laws and usages were not applicable
to affairs in which Oriental States were concerned; and declaring that
the capture of a Tunisian vessel by the Americans would be followed by
a declaration of war against them.

The question was at length brought to a direct issue. On the 24th of
May, an armed vessel under Tunisian colors, with two prizes, attempted
to enter the port of Tripoli, and were taken by the frigate
Constitution. On examination, it appeared that the cruiser
corresponded in no point with the description in the passport
exhibited by her captain, which must therefore have been improperly
obtained; and other circumstances led to the belief, that she was
Tripoline property and manned by Tripolines, although commanded by a
Tunisian subject. She was of course condemned, and sent with her
prizes to the United States.

The rage of the Bey on being informed of this seizure was violent and
unrestrained; he insisted that the Consul should cause the vessels to
be immediately restored, and ample satisfaction to be made for the
injury and insult committed against him and his subjects. Mr. Davis
replied, that having no power himself, he could only state the demand
to the Commodore, but he had no expectation that it would be complied
with. The Bey, according to the usual policy of the Barbary Princes,
would not admit of this reference to an authority over which he could
have no control or influence; and endeavored by threats of war and of
personal violence, to extort from the Consul a promise that the
vessels should be restored, in order that he might afterwards allege
such promise, as the solemn act of the American government. Davis
however remained firm, and transmitted a statement of the whole affair
to Mr. Lear, which reached him off Tripoli, immediately after the
conclusion of the peace with Yusuf.

In consequence of this communication, the Commodore wrote a letter to
Hamouda, declaring his demands inadmissible, and despatched a frigate
and a brig to watch his movements. This letter increased the rage of
the Bey; he told the Consul that negotiation was impossible; that he
would be forced into a war by the conduct of the Americans, who had
been the first to capture one of his cruisers in time of peace; and
that if hostilities should commence, they would not end while he had a
soldier to fire a gun. After such indications of his disposition,
Rodgers considered that no time was to be lost, he accordingly sailed
for Tunis, and arrived in the gulf on the 1st of August; his force
then amounted to five frigates, two brigs, a sloop of war, two
schooners, and several gun-boats.

A letter was immediately despatched to the Bey, requiring an
explanation of his intentions, and stating that unless he declared
them to be friendly within thirty-six hours, hostilities would be
commenced against him. To this demand Hamouda evaded giving a direct
answer; he informed the Consul that he had no wish to make war, until
he had heard from the President of the United States respecting his
vessels which had been captured; but that in the meantime, any attempt
on the part of the Americans to stop his cruisers, or to interrupt his
commerce, would be considered by him as a commencement of hostilities.
The Commodore knew too well the worthlesness of such verbal
assurances; and determined to have some stronger guaranty for their
performance. He therefore despatched Captain Stephen Decatur, who then
commanded the frigate Congress, to Tunis, with a letter requiring of
the Bey a written declaration of his pacific intentions, to be
witnessed by the English and French Consuls. Hamouda refused to see
Decatur, and showed so little disposition to come to terms, that the
Consul retired with his family on board the squadron.

Shortly after this, a Tunisian vessel attempting to put to sea, was
fired on by the Americans, and forced to return into port. This
circumstance created great consternation in Tunis; business was
suspended, the people became dissatisfied, and the Bey discovered that
he must yield. He in consequence wrote a letter to Rodgers, disavowing
his threats, declaring his willingness to remain at peace, and
inviting Mr. Lear, with whom he had hitherto refused to communicate,
to come on shore and treat with him on the subject of the existing
difficulties. Mr. Lear complied with this invitation, and several
conferences were held, in which the African Prince sustained his
character for shrewdness, exhibiting however a degree of suavity and
apparent frankness, which excited the admiration of the American
Commissioner. Supported by the oaths and attestations of his worthy
minister the Sapatapa, Hamouda gravely and solemnly denied having ever
uttered threats of hostilities against the United States, or of
violence towards their Consul, or of having made any unreasonable
demands; insisting that all the difficulties had been occasioned by
Mr. Davis, whom he indeed believed to be a good man, incapable of any
wilful misrepresentation, but who had most strangely interpreted some
of his expressions in a sense totally different from that intended,
and forgotten others. He had indeed asked for a frigate from the
United States; but that was a request such as one friend might make of
another, and the refusal of which should give rise to no difference
between them. The subject of blockades he could not understand; his
vessels had been taken in time of peace, and he would send an
Ambassador to the United States to demand their restitution, although
he would prefer having that business settled on the spot; in the
meantime, he was ready to give the strongest guaranties of his pacific
intentions. Nothing more could be demanded. A new Consul was presented
in place of Mr. Davis, who refused to return; and the frigate Congress
having been sent to the United States, to convey the Ambassador Sidi
Soliman Melle-Melle, the rest of the squadron quitted the Gulf of
Tunis about the 1st of September.

The Tunisian Ambassador arrived with his retinue at Washington, where
he excited great curiosity and attention.[1] He soon made a formal
demand, in his master's name, for the restoration of the vessels, or
their value, which was complied with from a desire to conciliate the
Bey; but this compliance encouraged the Ambassador to require a supply
of naval stores, as the price of peace for the succeeding three years,
which having been positively refused, he quitted the United States
without retracting the demand. His master however was at that time
engaged in a war with Algiers, and did not think proper to proceed
farther in his exactions; and although attempts were afterwards made
by him and his successor to force the Americans to pay tribute, they
proved always unsuccessful, and no actual interruption of peace
between the United States and Tunis has occurred since the termination
of the difference above stated.

[Footnote 1: Melle-Melle is still remembered in Washington, where his
dresses, his presents, his prayers, his Arabian horses, his refusing
to eat from sunrise to sunset during a particular time of the year,
(the Ramadan or Mahometan Lent,) and other of his Oriental customs and
peculiarities, form the subjects of many anecdotes. Among his
attendants was a passionate fellow named Hadji Mohammed, who having
had a quarrel with a barber in the city, threatened to kill him. The
barber complained to Mr. Madison, then Secretary of State, who sent
Mr. B----, a highly respected gentleman of his Department, to call on
Melle-Melle, and request him to curb the impetuosity of his follower.
The Ambassador received Mr. B---- with the usual Oriental forms of
politeness, and having heard the complaint, said a few words in Arabic
to one of his attendants, who went out, and presently re-appeared with
poor Hadji Mohammed, guarded by four men with drawn swords. This
apparition somewhat astounded Mr. B----, who is the most mild and
amiable of men; and he was still more shocked when Melle-Melle, in the
most courteous manner expressing his desire to do all in his power to
please the American government, offered to have the culprit's head
taken off immediately, and sent to the Secretary of State, unless he
or the President might prefer seeing it done themselves. Mr. B---- of
course declined such a demonstration of the Ambassador's good feeling
toward the United States, and hastened to assure him that no such mode
of reparation was demanded; it being only necessary to enjoin upon his
attendant to refrain from any acts of violence. This fact was related
to the writer by Mr. B---- himself.]

From Tunis the American squadron proceeded to Algiers, where Mr. Lear
landed, and was received with great respect by the government. At this
time it would doubtless have been easy to have relieved the United
States from the annual tribute of naval stores and munitions to the
value of twenty-one thousand dollars, which they were bound to pay to
that Regency by the treaty of 1795; but the Algerines had not
committed any notable infraction of the terms of that treaty, and
there was no cause of quarrel. In 1807 the government of the United
States, in anticipation of an immediate war with Great Britain,
recalled its naval forces from the Mediterranean, which sea was not
again visited by an American armed vessel until 1815. The peace with
Tripoli and Tunis has, however, continued without any absolute
interruption to this time; with Algiers it was broken in 1812, when
the Dey, emboldened by the absence of the American ships of war, and
instigated, as we shall show, by the British government, thought
proper to commence hostilities against the United States, for which a
signal retribution was exacted in 1815.

The occurrences of the war between Tunis and Algiers would be devoid
of interest, however faithfully related. Algiers had long maintained a
degree of arrogant influence over Tunis, which was very galling to the
sovereigns of the latter country. This was effected partly by
superiority in military and naval forces, partly by the aid of the
Ottoman Porte, which very naturally sided with Algiers against a state
scarcely acknowledging its dependance on the Sultan, but principally
by bribes to the high officers of the Tunisian government. To free his
kingdom from this nightmare had been the incessant endeavor of
Hamouda, and was the object of the war; its results were favorable to
the Tunisians, both at sea and on land; peace was made in September,
1808, and the influence of Algiers appears never since to have been
felt in the councils of Tunis.

From 1807 to 1815, the Mediterranean was navigated by few vessels
except those of Great Britain, which were forbidden fruit to the
Barbary cruisers; almost their only prey being the miserable
inhabitants of Sicily, Sardinia, and even of the Greek Islands,
although the latter were subject to the Sultan. One circumstance here
shows that the government of Great Britain still cherished the system
of encouraging piracy in the Mediterranean, as a means of excluding
other nations from its commerce. Sicily remained during the whole of
the period above mentioned, absolutely in possession of the British,
the authority of the king being nearly nominal. Yet, although its
vessels were daily attacked, and its inhabitants carried off from the
coasts to slavery in Africa, a truce negotiated with Algiers in 1810,
and an occasional remonstrance to the other two powers, which was
never attended to, were the only measures adopted to remedy the evil,
by those who styled themselves the protectors of the island. To the
honor of the Americans, it can be said with truth, that in their
Consuls the unhappy captives found friends, and that through the
active intercession of these agents, many of them were restored to
their homes.

The Pasha of Tripoli, as soon as he was relieved from the presence of
the American forces, began with great industry to restore tranquillity
in his dominions, and to repair his finances which had been exhausted
by the war. As he was almost shut out from the sea, he resolved to
establish and extend his authority on land. The fixed population of
this regency is small, and almost entirely confined to the few fertile
spots on the coast; the interior being principally desert or
mountainous, is inhabited by Arabs, who wander with their flocks from
pasture to pasture, or are engaged in the transportation of
merchandize, or live by plundering their more industrious neighbors.
The allegiance of these wanderers is always doubtful; the revenue
derived from taxing them is small, and is never obtained without
considerable difficulty. Whenever the Pasha is known to be in trouble
at home, they become refractory, refuse to pay their tribute, and
attack the caravans or towns on the coast; seldom indeed does a year
pass in which the sovereign of Tripoli is not engaged in war with some
of their tribes. Of these tribes, one called the Waled Suleiman had
long been formidable for its numbers and its rebellious disposition;
under a daring and sagacious chief the Sheik Safanissa, it had set at
defiance the power of the Pasha, and had frequently pushed its inroads
to the gates of the capital. Safanissa at length died; although his
descendants were brave and trained to war, and his tribe continued to
be powerful and influential, yet the magic of his presence was
wanting, to maintain that supremacy which it had so long boasted.
Yusuf saw this, and determined if possible to exterminate these
insolent foes. He began by gaining over to his side another powerful
tribe called the Waled Magarra, the hereditary rivals and enemies of
the Suleimans; and when he had sufficiently secured their fidelity, he
struck a blow which proved perfectly successful, and by which he
gained another object long considered important by the sovereigns of
Tripoli.

In the Desert south of this regency, is a large tract of habitable
country called Fezzan. The greater part of its surface is indeed a
sterile waste of sand, but there are many small spots containing clay
enough to render them capable of producing dates and some other
articles for the support of men and beasts. The labor of cultivation
is however very great, as it seldom or never rains, and there being
neither springs nor rivers, the water necessary for moistening the
earth can only be procured from wells. Almost the only articles of
export are dates and salt, which latter is procured in great
quantities from the borders of stagnant pools, and carried to the
coast of the Mediterranean, and to the negro countries south of the
desert. It is inhabited principally by a black race, differing in
feature however from the negroes; there are also many Arabs and some
Moors, making in all perhaps seventy thousand of the poorest and most
miserable of the human species. The sovereignty had long been
hereditary in a family originally from Morocco, which acknowledged its
dependance on Tripoli; but the Sultan of Fezzan, like the Arabs,
seldom paid his tribute when he could avoid it; and the expense of
collecting, had indeed of late years, amounted to more than the sum
obtained. Such a territory and such inhabitants would scarcely seem to
offer any inducements to conquest; but the position of Fezzan renders
it important to Tripoli, as through it passes the principal route from
the coast to the interior of the continent; and Yusuf was well assured
that the Sultan obtained a large revenue by exactions from his
subjects, and from the numerous caravans which traversed his
dominions. He was therefore anxious to have his share, and was the
more enraged at the insolence of this Prince in withholding it, as he
was supported and encouraged in so doing by an alliance with the Waled
Suleiman. At length in 1811, Yusuf seized a moment when the Suleimans
were absent on a foray in the Egyptian territory, and sent an army of
Tripolines and Magarra Arabs to Fezzan, under one of his most attached
and experienced generals, named Mahomet el Mukni, who was well
acquainted with the country, from having visited it several times to
receive the tribute. These troops rapidly passed the Gharian
mountains, which separate Tripoli from Fezzan, and appeared
unexpectedly before Morzouk, the capital of the latter kingdom; this
town, built of mud, and defended only by a wall and castle of the same
material, was easily taken, the Sultan and his family, with many of
the principal inhabitants, were put to death, the rest submitted to
the invaders, and the whole country was soon in their possession. The
neighboring Arabs overawed by this success, flocked to Mukni's
standard, and having received a reinforcement of Tripoline troops, he
marched to intercept the Waled Suleimans on their return from Egypt;
they were met, defeated, and almost exterminated. Abdi Zaleel, one of
the grandsons of Safanissa, was made prisoner, and retained for some
time by the Pasha as a hostage for the fidelity of the few whose lives
were spared. As a reward for the generalship displayed by Mukni, Yusuf
appointed him Governor of Fezzan, with the title of Sultan while in
that territory; he was required however, to transmit a large amount of
tribute, and also to make an annual inroad into the negro countries
lying south of the Desert, for the purpose of bringing away slaves,
who were afterwards sent to Tripoli, and thence to the markets of
Smyrna and Constantinople.

By these means the power of the Pasha was much strengthened, and his
revenues increased; but his sons grew up to manhood, and he began to
receive from them the same ungrateful treatment which he had displayed
towards his own father. His eldest, Mohammed, who as heir to the
crown, bore the title of Bey, and commanded the troops, is universally
represented as one of the most complete monsters which even Africa has
produced. He first excited the jealousy of his father in 1816, by the
purchase of a large number of muskets, which were probably intended
for the purpose of arming his followers and dethroning the Pasha; for
this he was ordered to go to Bengazi, and there take the command of
some troops destined to act against a tribe of refractory Arabs. In
this expedition he was entirely successful; that is to say, he
exterminated the rebellious tribes, laid waste the country which they
had infested, and sent a number of heads, of both friends and enemies,
to adorn the gates of his father's castle. On his return to Tripoli,
he probably considered these eminent services as entitling him to the
immediate possession of the throne, and with that view he made an
attempt on Yusuf's life; it failed, and he was again sent to the
Eastern Provinces, to act against another tribe who had refused to pay
tribute. Mohammed however, immediately on his arrival, joined the
rebels, and plundered the country which he was ordered to defend.
Yusuf was therefore obliged to send an army against him under his
second son Ahmed, who dispersed his brother's forces and drove him
into Egypt. The instances of treachery and cruelty practised on each
side during this war, are too shocking to be related. The principal
inhabitants of whole towns were murdered; hostages were beheaded at
the moment stipulated for their return; promises of pardon confirmed
by appeals to the common faith of both parties were shamelessly
broken, and those who trusted to them sacrificed in cold blood. The
result of the whole was the promotion of Ahmed to the situation of
Bey, and the establishment of the rebellious Mohammed as Governor of
Derne.

Notwithstanding these proofs of Yusuf's perfidy and ferocity, he
became popular with Europeans; and those who were introduced to him,
generally came away favorably impressed with regard to his character,
and were inclined to attribute his excesses more to his situation than
to his disposition. He spoke Italian fluently, and seemed to be well
acquainted with what was going on in the world: his court was
splendid; his apartments furnished with elegance and taste; he drank
the best champaigne which France produced, and his manners are said to
have been such as to entitle him to be considered a gentleman any
where. The celebrated Portuguese, Badia Castilho, whose travels and
adventures under the name of Ali Bey, are so well known, seems to have
been charmed by the frankness and amenity of the Pasha of Tripoli.
Captain Beechy, who was sent by the British Admiralty in 1822, to
survey the shores of the great Syrtis, speaks with gratitude of the
readiness with which facilities were afforded him for the prosecution
of the work. Lyon, Denham and Clapperton, although they all
experienced many vexations in their journey through the Tripoline
dominions, yet seemed to ascribe them rather to the malignity and
knavery of the officers of the government, than to any ill intentions
on the part of the chief. To those who were not his subjects, the
"good old-gentlemanly vice" of avarice seems to have been his
principal failing. His own habits were expensive, and his sons, by
their prodigality, kept his coffers always empty.

To the American officers and Consuls, he has been most scrupulously
attentive, and has several times shewn his anxiety to prevent any
difficulties from arising with the government of the United States. On
all public occasions, there has been a struggle for precedence between
the British and French Consuls; those of other European nations not
venturing to advance any claims for themselves. The United States have
been fortunately represented in Tripoli by determined men, who, while
they ridiculed the etiquette in the abstract, determined to admit no
inferiority in a country where it was considered as essentially
important; they have therefore uniformly maintained their rights, the
Pasha shewing a disposition to aid them as far as he could.

A serious affair, however, occurred in September, 1818, which was very
near producing a rupture between Tripoli and the United States. Mr. R.
B. Jones, the American Consul, while on a shooting excursion in the
vicinity of the city, was attacked by two negroes, and beaten. The
negroes were discovered to be the slaves of Morat Rais the Admiral,
and there was reason to believe that they had been set on by the
Scotch renegade, who always remained the bitter enemy of the United
States. Investigations were made, by the results of which this
suspicion was confirmed, and Morat finding himself in danger, sought
an asylum in the British Consulate. Mr. Jones demanded the public
punishment of the slaves, and the banishment of the Admiral from the
Regency, during the pleasure of the President of the United States.
Yusuf made every endeavor to evade the latter, offering instead to
bastinado the slaves as long as Mr. Jones might please, or to strike
off their heads if that were required. He urged that the British
Consul was entitled to protect all fugitives, by the immemorial custom
of the place, and that to drag him from his asylum would be to involve
Tripoli in a war with Great Britain. The British Consul, on his part,
insisted that Morat was a subject of Great Britain, and as such,
liable only to be tried by him. Mr. Jones refused to listen to any of
these representations, and was preparing to leave the place with his
family, when Yusuf yielded. The slaves were publicly bastinadoed, and
their master banished from Tripoli for life. Three years after,
however, Mr. Jones was induced by the representations of the Pasha, to
request that the President would permit him to return, which was in
consequence granted.

Many changes had in the mean time taken place in Tunis. In the month
of September, 1813, Hamouda Bey, while taking a cup of coffee, after a
long day's fast in the Ramadan, fell down and expired. It has been
already stated, that he was not the rightful heir to the throne,
according to the European laws of succession, for Mahmoud and Ismael,
the sons of Mahmed an elder brother of his father, were still alive,
retained as state prisoners in the palace. On the death of Hamouda,
his brother Othman assumed the crown, and held it for nearly two
years; but he had a powerful enemy in the Sapatapa Sidi Yusuf, who was
anxious to govern himself, and considered that the aged Mahmoud would
be a more convenient representative of royalty. The troops were
accordingly corrupted, and on the 19th of January, 1815, Othman was
murdered by the hand of Mahmoud himself, who, having also despatched
Othman's two sons, assumed the title and power of Bey, without
opposition. The Sapatapa, the contriver of this last revolution, soon
received the just reward of his villainy: he was anxious to enjoy the
title, as well as the power of a sovereign of Tunis, and prepared to
dispose of Mahmoud and his family. His plans were, however, revealed,
and on the night on which they were to have been executed, he was
himself murdered as he was retiring to his apartment in the palace of
Bardo, after having spent the evening in business with the Bey, and in
playing chess with his eldest son Hassan. His immense property was
confiscated, and his body was dragged by the infuriated populace
through the streets, with every mark of indignity. Mahmoud held the
throne without any serious difficulty until his death, in 1824. His
brother Ismael had no children, and was not a person likely to give
him any apprehension. He is represented as having been a merry
inoffensive old gentleman, fond of punning, a great lover and judge of
wine which he called vinegar, out of respect for the Koran, and an
inveterate newspaper politician. It is difficult to imagine an African
Prince of this character. On the death of Mahmoud, his eldest son,
Hassan, succeeded, who is the present Bey.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MARGUERITE.


  Where is my friend? I languish here--
    Where is my own sweet friend?
  With all those looks of love so dear,
    Where grace and beauty blend!

  I miss those social _winter_ hours
    With her I used to spend,
  Now cheerless are my _summer bowers_--
    Where is my own lov'd friend?

  Our sweetest joys, like flowers may rise,
    And all their fragrance lend,
  Yet my sick heart within me dies--
    Where is my own sweet friend?

  The winding brooks, like distant lute,
    Their murmuring whispers send;
  The echoes of my soul are mute--
    Where is my own dear _friend_?

M.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ANN.


  I will not cross thy path again
    While Earth shall stand or Ocean roll,
  For thou hast rent the bond in twain
    That fetter'd long my struggling soul.

  For me the world no more can bring
    A smile to love, a frown to fear;
  The bird that soars on wildest wing,
    Hath stronger ties to chain him here.

  To-morrow's sun shall sink to me
    Beneath lone ocean's caverns deep--
  To-morrow's sun shall glide from thee,
    Behind yon forest's waving sweep.

  And thou shalt mark his farewell beams
    O'er lov'd familiar objects play;
  But will they rouse the fairy dreams
    That once endear'd the close of day?

  I shall not heed, in climes afar,
    Thy name--'twill be a sound unheard,
  And time and distance doubly mar
    The fitful dream that thou hast stirr'd.

  I shall not long remember thee,
    Mid' prouder schemes and objects strange;
  Thy scorn hath set the captive free,
    And boundless now shall be his range.

  And while a sunder'd path shall own
    My bosom now, as cold as thine,
  To me thy doom shall rest unknown,
    As thou shalt nothing know of mine.

  If o'er thee pale disease should creep
    And mark thee for an early grave,--
  No mourning voice shall cross the deep,
    No tear shall swell the eastern wave.

  If long and blest thy life should be,
    And fall like leaves when frost is come,--
  Unconscious all, the sullen sea
    Will bear no echo from thy tomb.

  Unknown must be thy smiles or tears:
    Yet sometimes, at the farewell hour,
  The book of fate unclasp'd appears,
    And half imparts a prophet's power.

  Try to forget! The time may be
    When Fancy shall withhold her sway,
  And blissful dreams no more for thee
    Shall sport in sunset's golden ray.

  Try to forget! Thy calm of pride
    May sink to waveless, waste despair,
  Like her whose homeward glance descried
    Heaven's shower of flame descending there.

  Try to forget! Thy peace of mind
    May change to passion's blasting storm;
  When spirits of the past unbind
    The shroud from Pleasure's faded form.

  Pray to forget! When chill disdain
    Shall haply tell that love is fled,
  And thou shalt gaze, but gaze in vain,
    On eyes where Passion's light is dead;

  Then turn thee not to former days--
    Remember not this hour of pride
  That banish'd one, who but to raise,
    To shield, to bless thee, would have died.

  The shaft that flies from Sorrow's bow
    When Fate would sternest wrath employ,
  Is far less steel'd with present woe
    Than poison'd with remember'd joy.

_Norfolk, September 13, 1834_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY NATIVE LAND.

BY LUCY T. JOHNSON.


  I return'd to my own native land,
    And I sought for the spot I had loved,
  Where the rose and the lily had bloom'd 'neath my hand,
    And my footsteps in childhood had roved.

  I saw--but I wept at the change
    Long years had thrown over the scene;--
  It was there--but the desert's wild, desolate range
    Was mark'd "where the garden had been."

  I look'd for the cottage of white,
    As it stood half conceal'd, half disclosed,
  By the rose tree and vine which encircled it quite,
    Near the sod where my fathers reposed.

  It was gone--but the chimney was there,
    The sad relic of long vanish'd years;
  And the thorn and the brier now embraced, or were near,
    Where my kindred had buried their cares.

  I look'd for the valley and stream,
    Where the bower and grove intertwined;
  Where the wild hunter boy oft indulged in his dream
    Of delights he was never to find.

  The valley and stream--they were there,
    But the shade of the green wood had pass'd;
  The stream was a wild where the serpent might _lair_,
    In that vale's ever shadowless waste.

  I look'd for the mountain and hill,
    Where the hunter delighted to stray,
  And where at the twilight, the lone whippoorwill
    Had pour'd forth his anchorite lay.

  They were there--but the hunter was gone,
    And the sound of his bugle was hush'd;
  And the torrent was there--but the light-footed fawn
    Drank not at its fount as it rush'd.

  I look'd for the friends I lov'd best;
    The friends of my earliest choice;
  They had gone to that bourne where the dead are at rest,
    Or cold was each care-stricken voice.

  The living were there--but were chill'd
    By the imprint of age and its cares;
  They met me--just met me--and heartlessly smiled,
    For their friendship had fled with their years.

  Adieu to thee--"land of the leal,"
    Fair land of the blue-vaulted sky;
  Tho' I go--yet the heart thus inspired to feel,
    Shall remember thee oft with a sigh.

_Elfin Moor, Va. January 14, 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MY CHILD.

BY PERTINAX PLACID.


    Why gazest thou, my eldest born, my best beloved boy,
  Upon thy father's clouded brow, as if it marr'd thy joy--
  As If it chill'd thy little heart, such sadden'd looks to see,
  And gave a mournful presage of thy own dark destiny?--
  Why dost thou stop thy frolic play, and with inquiring eye,
  Looking up into my thoughtful face, breathe something like a sigh?
  Thy little hand upon my knee, thy neck thrown gently back,
  And thine offer'd kiss, to tempt my tho'ts from their dark and
        dreary track.
    Yes, that childish kiss can win me back to momentary peace,
  And thy soft embrace can bid awhile my bosom's sadness cease--
  For in my spirit's wanderings, when the past with pain I tread,
  Or pry into the future with mingled hope and dread,
  Still thou, my child, in all my tho'ts, sad tho' they be, hast part,
  And of thy after-life I muse, with a father's anxious heart.
  Even now thou smilest winningly, to bid me smile again,
  And thy looks of joy and innocence revive the heart, as rain
  Revives the drooping, wither'd flower, in Autumn's chilly day,
  When winds and storms its summer leaves, one by one have rent away.
  Oh many a sad and heavy hour my heart has felt for thee,
  And many a prayer my lips have breath'd that heaven thy guide may
        be,
  Throughout the giddy maze of life, and from sorrow keep thee free.
  Not from those griefs that all must feel, who tread this path of
        care,
  And that weigh on every bosom doom'd the fate of man to bear--
  But from the deep regret I feel for many a wasted hour,
  And from the gnawing of remorse, unbridled passion's dower:
  That thou may'st early learn to check thy fancy's treacherous glow,
  Nor paint too fair the face of things, the dark reverse to know--
  Nor, fed by Hope, too long believed, when she has taken wing,
  Look round thee on the human face as on a hated thing.
  Oh never may'st thou deem the world what it has seem'd to me,
  The field of strife where Virtue falls 'neath fraud and treachery:
  And may'st thou by no sad reverse, man's darker passions know,
  Nor prove, when fortunes change, that _friends_ can deal the
        heaviest blow,
  That he who shared thy inmost soul, may prove thy deadliest foe.
    Even now, upon thy gentle face, too plainly I behold
  The impress of thy future life--thy destiny foretold.
  That noble brow, so fearless, that eye so bold and free,
  Bespeak a soul undim'd by aught of wrong or perfidy--
  The dreaming pauses 'midst thy play, as if of sudden thought,
  The speaking glances of thine eye, when with hope and gladness
        fraught--
  These tell a tale of after times, when I no more shall guide
  The wand'rings of thy youthful feet, or lead thee by my side--
  When the fondness of a father's love thou never more canst know,
  And I shall in an early grave sleep tranquilly and low.
  That eager glance, that buoyant step, that shout so full of glee,
  Tell me that thou in manhood's throngs wilt bear thee manfully--
  That thou wilt trust to those who swear, in love or friendship,
        truth,
  And mourn, like me, the illusion o'er, the errors of thy youth.
    Then be it so--speed on thy race, thro' sunshine and thro' shade:
  Fair be thy young imaginings--for ah, they all must fade--
  And may'st thou, when the visions pass, that o'er thy slumbers bend,
  When life grows dark, and hearts grow cold, find thou hast still a
        friend,
  Whose faith the terrors cannot shake of life's most stormy hour,
  True to the last, be fortune thine, or when misfortune lower.
  But still, should keen adversity, rend every human tie,
  Bear thy proud soul above the wreck, the tempest's rage defy.
    Look on my face again, fair boy, the clouds have passed away--
  I trust thee to that _better guide_, who checks us when we stray.
  And if the thorn must wound us still, whene'er we pluck the rose,
  His wisdom, which inflicts, can teach to bear life's many woes.
  Come then, and kiss thy father, boy,--his brow no more is dark;
  Smile once again, pursue thy play, and carol like the lark.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ----.


  Thou _arch_ magician! [emphasise the arch!
    I would not--for an office--have it said
  That I apostrophized another]--march
    Where'er I will, thy strategy has spread
  For me, alas! such ambuscades and toils,
  I fear thou seek'st to add me to thy "spoils."

  'Tis, by my holidame! no more a jest
    To cope with thee, than him, whose subtle schemes
  Cheat an enlightened people's greatest, best--
    While thou art tickling in their downy dreams,
  Some half score maidens, putting them in mind
  To play the devil--just as they're inclined.

       *       *       *       *       *

  With woman's eyes thou hast my heart assailed,
    Yet I withstood them. Lips and teeth in vain
  Coral and pearls outshone--form, features failed
    To bind me captive in thy treacherous chain;
  I know not why, but fancy some bright shield
  Hath saved me scathless from the well fought field!

       *       *       *       *       *

  Perhaps it was her eyes--their flashing light
    Must have reminded me of quenchless fire:
  It may have been her teeth--their dazzling white
    Might hint Tartaric snows than Andes higher,
  Where shriek the damned from every frozen clime,
  Warning poor tempted souls to flee from crime.[1]

  Perhaps her lips foretokened coals as red--
    Perhaps her faultlessness of form might tell
  Of ruined Arch-angelic beauties, led
    By Love or Pride's seduction, down to hell--
  But how 'twas possible I can't divine,
  To look upon her foot and think of thine!

[Footnote 1: A _hot_ region has no terrors for the Laplanders. None
but a very _cold_ place of punishment is adapted to their
imagination.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written in an Album, on pages between which several leaves had been
cut out.


  What leaves were these so rudely torn away?
    Whose immortality thus roughly foiled?
  What aphoristic dogs have had their day,
    And of their hopes been suddenly despoiled?

  Whose leaf was this? and what the bay-wreath'd name
    Which here its glowing fancies did rehearse?
  What was the subject which it doomed to Fame?
    Whose knife or scissors did that doom reverse?

  Here gallant knights, imagining the wings
    Of the famed Pegasus sustained them, soaring,
  Fiddled, thou false one! on their own heartstrings,
    Whilst thou thy soul in laughter wert outpouring!

  A score of petty minstrels might have lain,
    And, like the Abbey Sleepers, found good lying
  In this brief space--but none, alas! remain,
    Thou'st sent their ashes to the four winds flying!

  Behold my Muse, Colossus like, bestride
    The fallen honors of each beau and lover--
  Ghosts of departed songs, that here have died,
    How many of ye now do o'er me hover?

  Methought I heard ye then, as first ye threw
    Your soft imaginings in dreamy numbers,
  And o'er my soul the sweet enchantment flew
    Like music faintly heard in midnight slumbers.

       *       *       *       *       *

  When whim, or chance, or spite, _my_ leaf shall tear,
    Grant me in turn, ye fates! some gentle poet--
  One who shall lie with such a grace, you'd swear
    That if indeed he lied, he did'nt know it!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A PRODIGIOUS NOSE.


MR. WHITE: Your facetious correspondent PERTINAX PLACID, seems so
deeply versed in what may be called _nasal music_, that I am very sure
he would have recorded, in his late communication, and in far better
style than mine, the history of a NOSE. Permit me, therefore, to
furnish him with a few "memorabilia," of this extraordinary
protuberance, (_nose_ it could not properly be called,) against his
next narrative of a nasal concert.

It was the property of a Virginia gentleman, long since dead, who had
attained, at a very early age, the enormous weight of some seven or
eight and twenty stone. It had no resemblance to that of
Slawkenbergius--as delineated by Sterne--nor to Dan Jackson's, so
frequently and fondly described by Swift--nor to that of the sensual
Bardolph, so famous in dramatic annals, for the phosphorescent quality
of shining in the dark, ascribed to it by his friend Falstaff. In
short, such was its unique conformation, that it would have defied the
skill of Dr. Taliacotius himself, even with the choice of any part of
the human body, to manufacture any thing at all like it. Although it
approached more the bulbous kind of nose, than any other, and in
shape, strongly resembled the nose of the Hippopotamus, or river
horse, it was so disproportionately small, when contrasted with the
two tumuli of flesh between which it was deeply imbedded, that it was
quite invisible to any person taking a profile view of the face, which
seemed to be literally noseless. Add to this, the projection of an
upper lip of double the usual thickness, which so nearly closed the
two apertures through which the proprietor breathed, as to render it
perfectly manifest to all beholders, that to sleep in any other way
but with his mouth at least half open, was utterly impracticable. This
accordingly, was his invariable habit; and the consequences can be
much more easily imagined, (difficult as it was,) than described. To
relate every tale that I have heard of his snoring achievements, would
certainly bring into some suspicion the veracity of those from whom I
heard them. In tender regard, therefore, for their character, I will
repeat only two; but by these alone, both you and your readers may
judge pretty well of the rest.

The first was, that on a memorable occasion, when his crater was in
full blast, his nasal explosions actually burst open a bran new door,
although the bolt of the lock was turned. At another time, it is
related of him, that arriving late at night at his favorite tavern in
Alexandria, he was conducted into a room, furnished with two beds, in
one of which was a little Frenchman, fast asleep, who had gone to rest
without any expectation of receiving a fellow lodger. Into the empty
bed the fat gentleman soon entered; and being a precious sleeper, he
remained but a few minutes awake. Much, however, and most startling
work was always to be done, before sound sleep ensued; for a prelude
was to be performed, which might aptly be compared to the fearful
sounds of a man in the agonies of death by strangulation, from the
rupture of a blood vessel. This being almost enough to awaken the
dead, we may readily suppose that the little Frenchman was instantly
aroused,--aroused too, in the utmost extremity of such terror as would
probably be caused in any one, at the idea of a murder being committed
in his room. This conviction flashed upon his mind, with all its
accompanying horror, at the moment he awoke. In the twinkling of an
eye, he sprang out of bed--not exactly "in puris naturalibus," but
certainly in a dress very unsuitable for company, and rushed headlong
down three flights of stairs, crying out at the top of his voice,
"murder! mon dieu! murder! murder!" As may well be imagined, this
produced a general rush of the lodgers from their apartments, and in
costume similar to his own.--The females were screaming in their
highest key--the men, in their far harsher tones, were roaring out,
"what's the matter? what's the matter?" while the little Frenchman
reiterated still more loudly his piteous cries of "murder! mon dieu!
murder! murder!" A scene of such indescribable confusion ensued, that
some time elapsed before the equally terrified tavern keeper, who had
joined the throng, had the least chance of unravelling the mystery. At
last, however, sufficient quiet was restored to enable him to
understand from the little Frenchman, why he had fled from his room
with such precipitation. An irrepressible burst of laughter had nearly
suffocated the poor landlord, before he could gain sufficient breath
to explain to his guests, that the whole cause of their dreadful
alarm, was nothing more than the fat gentleman's tuning and preluding
upon his nasal instrument, as was his invariable custom, preliminary
to the much deeper sleep that always followed; and which was indicated
by a combination of such unearthly sounds, that they might reasonably
thank their stars that the preparation they had received was no worse.

DEMOCRITUS, JR.




SWIMMING.


Some of our readers will doubtless remember an allusion in the tale of
"The Doom" to an individual who performed the feat of swimming across
the James, at the falls above this city. A valuable correspondent, who
was the bold swimmer alluded to, writes us as follows:

"I noticed the allusion in the Doom. The writer seems to compare my
swim with that of Lord Byron, whereas there can be no comparison
between them. Any swimmer 'in the falls' in my days, would have swum
the Hellespont, and thought nothing of the matter. I swam from
Ludlam's wharf to Warwick, (six miles,) in a hot June sun, against one
of the strongest tides ever known in the river. It would have been a
feat comparatively easy to swim twenty miles in still water. I would
not think much of attempting to swim the British Channel from Dover to
Calais."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

"THE GRAVE OF FORGOTTEN GENIUS."

BY AN UNDERGRADUATE.

    Anxious thought that wished
  To go, yet whither knew not well to go,
  Possessed his soul and held it still awhile:
  He listened and heard from far the voice of fame,
  Heard and was charmed, and deep and sudden vow
  Of resolution made to be renowned,
  And deeper vowed to keep his vow.--_Pollock_.


The summer of 18--, was the fourth which I had spent at C---- College,
and with it, ended my collegiate life. The scenes, which my long
residence there had made sacred to the memory, were now becoming still
more sacred as the time of my departure drew near. Every object, which
was at all associated with meeting-scenes and parting-adieus, had
become a magician's wand,--recalling the absent and the dead--towering
hopes, now buried in the tomb, and anguish, which, thus recalled, is
but the bliss which the dreamer enjoys, when he wakes and feels
himself secure from the precipice, from whose edge a moment before he
was plunging into a gulph below. No scene was to me so sacred as the
student's grave-yard; for in it, I often mourned over the woes and
ills of life, and almost unconsciously wished for a fate like the
young men's who slept in its repose. There were then only four
graves--three were side by side, having tomb-stones, epitaphed to the
memory of those whose ashes reposed beneath them. The fourth stood
alone--over it was a rude stone, on which was visible no tribute to
him, whose remains were there. His was a destiny which often made me
look upon the unlettered stone with the deepest sympathy. One only
thing seemed to be known of this grave--one tribute only did time pay
to his memory--for to the pilgrim who passed by and hastily inquired
"who sleeps there?" naught was ever replied but the simple, yet
eloquent elegy, "that is the '_Grave of the Forgotten Genius_.'" In
this unconscious elegy, there was that which made me look upon it,
almost as the grave of a brother.

It was here that I often retired during the last days of my stay at
C---- College. Here I could enjoy an uninterrupted revery, and call
before me the spirits of the dead and weep o'er the destiny of
forgotten genius; yet, even then, I sometimes thought their fate the
happiest which could fall to the lot of man. Perhaps they have prayed
for the gift of oblivion. Perhaps they have wished not to be
remembered. Their last desire may have been,

     "Silent let me sink to earth
  With no officious mourners near:
  I would not mar one hour of mirth
  Nor startle friendship with a tear."

A few days before my departure from the college, I was walking
thoughtfully through the grove, which surrounded this little
grave-yard, when suddenly I beheld a stately figure, standing near the
unepitaphed grave. He stood for a moment--then approached the
gravestone--seemed to take something from it, and pressing his hand to
his forehead for a moment, look fixedly at the stone. He
arose--hastily left the grave and directed his course towards a little
village below. Here was a mystery! Is this a relative--a brother of
the "forgotten genius," who has at last come to pay a tribute to his
long neglected memory? I ran to the grave. Behold! the name of him who
had so long been forgotten! The mysterious stranger had discovered the
name of the being who was buried there, which had been almost covered
by the moss that had collected upon the stone, and which till then I
had never observed.

At twilight I was again in the grove, and again saw the same figure
approach the grave. He stood over it, and I distinctly heard these
words, "hapless being! Would that I had been here to ease thy dying
agony. Yet 'tis well! I grieve not! Thy spirit is at rest."

I did not hesitate, but immediately approached the stranger, who
seemed a little surprised, but by no means disconcerted.

"Stranger," I said, "thou grievest not alone! Pardon me for intruding
upon thy grief. I wish only to add my sympathy to your anguish."

"Thou'rt welcome!" said the stranger, "I thank thee for thy sympathy:
but tell me? Is the tale of him, who sleeps in that grave still
known?"

"It is only known that he was once a student of C---- College, and
that his tomb has long been called the 'Grave of the Forgotten
Genius'" I replied. But the stranger seemed not to hear me--made no
answer and approached again to the grave, and by the light of the moon
which now shone brightly, read the name "Walter ----," exclaiming,
"yes 'tis my younger brother, who died fifteen years ago." "And were
none of his friends" I inquired, "at his side during his last
illness?"

"Alas" said he, "his spirit was gone, ere the news reached them, that
he was sick!" and then after a short silence the stranger continued.
"But come with me to yonder village? I will there give you all the
information you want." I immediately gave my assent, and after the
stranger had again stood silently over the grave seemingly engaged in
supplicating the favor of heaven, we approached the village. We
entered the village inn,--the stranger left me for a moment, but soon
reentered the room in which he had left me, bearing in one hand a
small manuscript, and in the other a purse. "This manuscript" said he,
"will give you the tale of him, who is now known only as the Forgotten
Genius. This purse contains one hundred and fifty crowns, half of
which you must cause to be applied to the erection of a monument over
my brother's grave, and the other half to be deposited in the county
treasury, the interest to be applied to the cultivation of the grove
around the student's grave-yard."

"It is now late" said the stranger, "my duty calls me one hundred
miles hence before to-morrow evening. I must rest a little, and
continue my journey."

I then pressed the stranger's hand. Neither spoke. The tears flowed
down the stranger's cheeks, and I felt that I was parting from a
brother; without the least hope that I should ever see him again, I
retired to my room, but it was only to give vent to the excess of my
feelings. I continued walking through my apartment until dawn, and on
going out, was informed that the stranger had just set out on his
journey. I rushed to my room again, full of doubt and grief--opened
the manuscript which had been given to me by the stranger, and read as
follows:--

       *       *       *       *       *

Walter Dunlap was born in Chestatee Village, which is situated on one
of the tributary streams of the Tennessee river, and surrounded by
those beautiful vallies, so numerous on both sides of the Cumberland
mountains. His father had been the first, and was at his birth the
principal merchant in Chestatee Village. He was not wealthy, yet his
economy had enabled him to afford means for the education of his sons
at one of the first colleges in the east. The procurement of this had
been his whole ambition, and it may well be imagined, that any
evidences of talent and genius in his sons, would please him much. In
his infancy, Walter displayed in his slightest actions, a nobleness, a
generosity, and a dauntlessness which at once won the heart of his
father, and Walter had not been placed under the instruction of a
tutor more than six months, ere he was far in advance of those who had
spent years in the school-room. Already did the fathers and mothers of
Chestatee Village hold up Walter to their children as a model for
their imitation. He had not passed his twelfth year before he was sent
with an elder brother to a college three hundred miles distant from
his paternal home.

We arrived at C---- College full of hope and expectation, for the
writer of this narrative was the next elder brother of Walter. We
looked only for that continual flow of spirits and sprightliness,
which the changing and novel scenes of our journey had excited, and
were therefore illy prepared to meet the rigid confinement and
discipline of a college-life. At first we sat out with ardor, and
Walter especially, seemed delighted with the prospect of pleasure
which lay before him. Yet the most ardent and ambitious, are not
always the most successful students. A sudden prospect of an
adventure, full of romance and chivalry, seldom fails to bewitch their
imagination, and those who before were first and most ardent in the
pursuit of knowledge, are often, by a single incident of mirth and
pleasure converted into ring-leaders of insubordination, unwilling to
reap the advantages of a liberal education, and constantly contriving
means of interrupting the peace of those around them. There were such
at C---- College, and it was not long ere Walter was ranked among the
most ungovernable members of the institution. Six months had not
elapsed, ere he was represented to his father, as one who was no
longer fit for the station he occupied, and was thus privately
dismissed. These were the circumstances: Walter and myself were placed
under the guardianship of a distant relative who was connected with
the institution, and he was to supply us with whatever money we
needed. The frequent applications which Walter had made to his
guardian at last caused a prompt refusal, which greatly displeased
Walter. He went to the apartment occupied by his guardian, and took
the sum for which he had applied. This act he did not attempt to
conceal, for he was not yet able to distinguish between right and
wrong,--so that it could not have entered into his mind that he was
then committing a crime, which was subject to the severest punishment.
His guardian, offended at the indignity which he thought had been
offered him, reported the child who was placed under his peculiar
protection, to the president of the college, for _theft_. Thus was the
thoughtless, the generous and noble Walter, beloved by all his
companions, implicated and deemed guilty of an act, among the basest
in the catalogue of crimes. This news might well astonish the too
confiding father of Walter. He was scarcely able to think, or to
speak, when he received the request which the faculty had made. It was
a journey of several days, yet this did not stop the weeping father,
who hastened to the college to examine in person the nature of the
offence. On his arrival, he too was convinced of the guilt of his son.
In vain did his youthful eloquence attempt to make a distinction
between taking that which was his own, and that which was another's.
His father's rigid justice could not comprehend the distinction, which
though incorrect, was perfectly natural. Well do I remember the sad
and woe-worn countenance of our parent. Never have I seen, during a
lapse of almost twenty year's observation, a father lament so bitterly
over the fate of his son.

"My son," said he to me, as he was about to set out with Walter, to
leave me to solitude and tears, "act honorably for my sake," and as we
shook hands, tears came to relieve the agony which oppressed us.
Walter, too, who till now had been firm and unmoved, boldly informing
his companions of his situation and defending his actions, embraced me
tenderly, and then more than at any other time during my life, when my
feelings were only suggested by nature, did my heart respond to the
thrilling lines

   "The word that bids us sever,
    It sounds not yet, no, no, no!"

We parted! Months passed on and not a word from Walter. At last a
letter came from my father. It breathed still the same feelings and
anguish which he felt at our separation. "Walter," said he, "still
remains inexorable! He is ruined, and I am not able to control him.
You, my son, you alone can cheer my heart and recal me from the woe
which Waller has caused me." At the end of one year from the time I
had separated from my father, he informed me that he had just sent
Walter to live with an uncle, who resided on the Elk--a river whose
banks were then but thinly settled, where he hoped the retirement of
his situation and the good counsel of his uncle, would work a
reformation in the feelings and principles of Walter.

"If this fail," he concluded, "I am at an end--my last hope is
destroyed and my heart is broken." More than two years had elapsed
since my departure for the college, and for the first time was I
summoned to my paternal home. I returned, and oh, how changed was the
scene! I had left my father's a house of constant happiness, but now
scarcely a smile was familiar to the face of a person in the family.
My father was absent in mind, and talked of forsaking business. I
remained two months, and used all my endeavors to recal his thoughts
to the objects around him, and in some measure succeeded. I again
returned to C---- College--where I remained two years longer, not
forgetting to write often to my father in such a style as to make him
forget that subject which weighed so heavily upon his spirits; nor did
I forget Walter, to whom I often wrote, although my letters were never
answered, and had reason to hope that they were not only agreeable to
him, but gladly received. The last year of my collegiate life ended! I
flew to my home, in obedience to the urgent request of my father, who
still spoke of the disgrace and ruin of Walter, who had just returned.
I was greeted with the sincerest joy--and Walter, as my father
informed me, wept for the first time since our separation four years
before, and I felt, that I had been restored to a long lost brother.
He, indeed, seemed to be suddenly wrested from the gloom which had so
long surrounded him, and we rambled over the hills, sacred to the
memory of school-boy sports, again mingled together in the society of
youthful friends, and were again as happy and as joyous, as we were,
ere we experienced the pestilential influence of a college.

Immediately after my return home, my father entreated me to use every
means for the reformation of Walter, at the same time, evincing all
the bitterness of grief and despair. My whole object was now to gain
an ascendancy over the mind of Walter. We read together--talked and
laughed together--and indulged together those anticipations of the
future, so bright and enchanting to the minds of the young. Often did
his eye brighten at the suggestion of his future glory and greatness.
Thus, by slow but certain progress, did he allow himself to be dragged
from the despair and gloom by which he was surrounded. He read the
tales of the great and renowned, and again was fired with ambition
which prompted him to look for a name equal to theirs. Long had he
been accustomed to look upon himself as an offcast from society--as
one scorned and shunned by the good and the generous: for none had
encouraged him to hope even that the disgrace which had come so soon
to snatch him from the light of joy, and sink him to the depths of
despair could ever be forgotten. How many noble, ardent and ambitious
youths, have thus been driven to the night of woe and mental
desolation? How many have been urged to the extremity of human
depravity by the too rigid decree of a father's or a guardian's
justice? How many like Walter, have been driven before the gale of
prosperity, then suddenly abandoned, left scorched and desolate, as
the proud vessel which is cast upon the barren shore, and left to
moulder in the "winds and rains of heaven!" Yet there was one thing
which seemed to afford some ground for the hope that all was not lost.
For when we participated in the amusements of youth together, and he
again received such evidences of respect from those around him, that
he could not believe them insincere, and when he had forgotten his
hopeless destiny, there came over his spirit lucid intervals, in which
he explored the sublime philosophy of Locke and Paley, and became
master of all the descriptions and sentiments of Addison. As we
rambled one day in a solitary grove, Walter suddenly stopped, and
after a moment's silence, said in a firm but melancholy tone, "my
brother, the last four years of my life have been desolate, dreary
like--a solitary waste. Yet this was not my fault! I have been an
outcast--no human being sympathized with me--none trusted me--none
esteemed me--none would receive my company but the profligate and
abandoned, with whom I was taught to class myself ere I distinguished
between error and truth? Thou alone hast remained faithful, and I now
thank you for all your kindness and advice. I was exiled from my
paternal home, I returned heart-stricken and miserable, yet I received
no sympathy, until you came like an angel of mercy, to recal me to
light. May heaven----." Here his voice faltered, and a flood of tears
came to his relief. After a few moments he continued: "I have resolved
to return to C---- College and there retrieve the happiness, the honor
and character, which a youthful folly has taken from me. I thank you
for your tears of sympathy. You can participate in my feelings and do
justice to my motives." It was thus, in one of the most intensely
interesting conversations which I ever held, that Walter disclosed to
me the very purpose which I had prayed in all the fervor of
supplication he might resolve upon. I soon after made known his
feelings to his father, and soon, almost instantaneously, he again
left his paternal home to return to C---- College. He left us agitated
with doubt and the deepest anxiety for his success. He left us, warmed
with the admiration which his noble purpose could not fail to inspire,
but racked with that awful feeling of dread, which the uncertainty of
hope always occasions. Walter did not weep--he did not seem moved, and
yet there was that in his countenance which spoke eloquently of
feeling. And yet there were tears to hallow the memory of our
separation. A little brother, scarce able to realize the scene around
him, shed tears of childish sorrow--a sister, enthusiastic in her
affection for her brother shed tears--and a father too, whose locks
were whitened with grief, showed youthful sympathy at his son's
adieu--and I too, was not unmoved.

Walter Dunlap is again at C---- College! The farewell scene, which had
convinced him how deeply the happiness of his relatives could be
affected by his success--the powerful sympathy which such an occasion
had displayed, at once establish him in his purpose. Fame, honor, and
usefulness, were the beacon-lights which illumined his path, and the
eternal gratitude of a sister--a brother--a heart-broken father, the
ministering spirits which cheered him amid the storms of passion and
misery, incident to the human heart. Kirke White was the model which
he set before his mind--because there was a sympathy to his mind
between their destinies, although White had never received a moral
blight, yet it was enough that they had both been pursued by the rigor
of fate.

From the moment he entered the walls of the college, he began a rigid
discipline of the mind. What elevated Milton, he would ask, to an
equality with the gods? What gave to Newton a comprehension of the
mysteries of the universe, and to Franklin a power over the elements?
and then triumphantly answer, study--unceasing study. "If Socrates had
contented himself with only wishing and sighing to enter the field of
philosophical truth--if he had prayed, however fervently, could that
have sufficed to make him the Prince of Philosophers? Naught but the
deepest, unbroken thought could have made him sport familiarly with
the subtleties of philosophy, clothed as they then were, in all the
gloom of ancient mythology." So thought Walter Dunlap. Night after
night did he wear himself away by the intensity of his study and the
depth of his thought. A year had not passed, ere he had run through
much of the whole collegiate course--made himself master of the
ancient languages, and gained a prize in astronomical calculations.
Mind cannot conceive the joy which he felt at this success. The image
of a father, smiling with tenderness and approbation, blessing him
with the unbounded gratitude which a father only can feel, was ever
present to his mind. Who can measure the depth of his joy? Who can
count the sighs of anguish which these moments of joy now repayed?
Well might he say, in reference to his own life,

  "One moment may, with bliss repay
   Unnumbered hours of pain."

Yet he did not esteem his work yet ended--his purpose yet realized.
Innumerable difficulties, calling for energy to brave the prospect of
years of application, presented themselves. He resolved to banish from
his heart every image of despair, and if the attainment of glory and
usefulness required it,

      "To drink even to the very dregs
  The bitterest cup that time could measure out,
  And having done, look up and ask for more."

He received no joy but in the action of mind--in converse with the
proudest philosophers of the world. If he was but allowed to walk with
Plato and Aristotle, in the grove of Academus, and listen to their
discourses he was content. And yet, philosopher as he was, he did not
wish to die unlamented, with no epitaph to his memory. How could he
remain in the world, and leave it, without having made one discovery
in science--established one truth which might benefit mankind--done
aught that could endear his name to posterity--caused one heart's
gratitude to follow him to the tomb? Such a thought was
sad--unutterable! It was thus he was hurried on in his mental
application, till at last it became far too incessant for the safety
of his life. He saw the consequence, yet could not stay the impetuous
workings of his own mind--now beyond his control. His last letter to
me, thus concluded, "since I cannot expect a long residence on this
earth, my only wish is, that I may have at least one kind friend who
will candidly inscribe upon my tomb, this simple epitaph,

  "Here lies a heart, that beat for fame."

Soon after the reception of this letter, we were informed by the
president of C---- College, that Walter Dunlap had died suddenly, from
an inflammation of the lungs occasioned by an exposure to the air for
several hours, while observing the corruscations of the _Aurora
borealis_.

Thus died Walter Dunlap--a child of sorrow--a being of the strongest
aspirations--possessing a genius which would have elevated him to a
rank with the profoundest philosophers--and wept by his companions
whose tears form his only funeral eulogy.

His life may show the danger of exposing a child too early to the
contagion of a college--the folly of dealing too harshly with youthful
errors--the force of sympathy on the heart, and the elevation at which
a mind may instantly arrive. Farewell.

       *       *       *       *       *

I will only add that the "student's grave yard" now contains a
monument over the tomb of the Forgotten Genius, and that in compliance
with my promise, I caused to be inscribed to the memory of Walter
Dunlap, the eloquent epitaph contained in his last letter to his
brother, so justly due to the actions of his short life.

_West Point, 18th April, 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE HOUSE MOUNTAIN IN VIRGINIA.


This double mountain forms a conspicuous object in the romantic county
of Rockbridge. It stands seven miles west of Lexington, from whose
inhabitants it hides the setting sun, and not unfrequently turns the
summer showers. Being separated from the neighboring ridge of the
North mountain, and more lofty, it presents its huge body and sharp
angles full to the western winds. Clouds are often driven against it,
cloven asunder, and carried streaming on to the right and left with a
space of clear sky between, similar in form to the evening shadow of
the mountain.

Sometimes however, a division of the cloud after passing the town,
will come bounding back in a current of air, reflected from another
mountain. It is not uncommon to see a cloud move across the great
valley in Rockbridge, shedding its contents by the way--strike the
Blue Ridge on the south eastern side, wheel about and pursue a
different course until it is exhausted. The traveller, after the
shower is over, and the clear sunshine has induced him to put off his
cloak and umbrella, is surprised by the sudden return of the rain from
the same quarter towards which he had just seen it pass away.

What is called the House Mountain, consists in fact, of two oblong
parallel mountains, connected at the base, and rising about 1500 feet
above the common level of the valley. The summits which are about a
mile and a half long, resemble the roof of a house; the ends terminate
in abrupt precipices; and round the base, huge buttresses taper up
against the sides, as if designed to prop the mighty structure. The
students of Washington College make a party every summer to visit this
mountain for the sake of the prospect. They set out in clear weather
and spend the night on the mountain in order to enjoy the morning
beauties of the scene, which are by far the most interesting. Having
twice been of such a party, the writer gives the following
description, from a memory so deeply impressed by what he saw, that
years have scarcely abated the vividness of its ideas.

The first time, we were disappointed by the cloudiness of the
atmosphere, and should have made an unprofitable trip, had not an
unexpected scene afforded us a partial reward for the toils of the
ascent. We lodged like Indian hunters not far from the summit, where a
little spring trickles from the foot of the precipice. After we had
slept awhile, one of the company startled us with the cry of _fire!_
He saw with astonishment in the direction of the Blue Ridge, a
conflagration that cast a lurid glare through the hazy atmosphere. The
flame rose and spread, every moment tapering upwards to a point, and
bending before the night breeze. We first imagined that a large barn
was on fire, and then as the flame grew, that the beautiful village of
Lexington was a prey to the devouring element. While we gazed with
fearful anxiety, the fiery object in rising yet higher, seemed to grow
less at the lower extremity, until it stood forth to our joyful
surprise, the MOON half full, reddened and magnified by the misty air
beyond what we had ever seen. Its light afforded an obscure perception
of the most prominent objects of the landscape. Shadowy masses of
mountains darkened the sight in various directions, and spots less
dark in the country below, gave indications of fields and houses. We
perceived just enough to make us eager for a more distinct and general
view of the scene. In the morning, every thing was hidden by the
cloudy confusion of the atmosphere.

The next time, our party lodged on the aerial summit of the mountain,
by a fire of logs, which might have served the country for a beacon.
The weather proved favorable, and we rose before the dawn to enjoy the
opening scene. The sky was perfectly serene, but all the world below
was enveloped in darkness and fog. Our fire had sunk to embers. The
gloom, the desolation, the deathlike stillness of our situation,
filled every mind with silent awe, and prepared us for solemn
contemplation. We spoke little, and felt disposed to solitary musing.
I retired alone to a naked rock which raised its head over a
precipice, turned my face to the east, and waited for the rising sun,
if not with the idolatrous devotion, yet with the deep solemnity of
the Persian Magii. Presently the dawn began to show the dim outline of
the Blue Ridge along the eastern horizon, at the distance of twelve or
fifteen miles. When the morning light opened the prospect more
distinctly, the level surface of the mist which covered the valley
became apparent; and the mountain tops in almost every direction,
looked like islands in a white, placid, and silent ocean. I gazed with
delighted imagination over this novel and fairy scene; so full of
sublimity in itself, and from the sober twilight in which it appeared,
so much like the work of fancy in visions of a dream. The trees and
rocks of the nearest islands soon became visible; more distant islands
were disclosed to view, but all were wild and desolate. I felt as if
placed in a vast solitude, with lands and seas around me hitherto
undiscovered by man.

Whilst I gazed with increasing admiration over the twilight scene, and
endeavored to stretch my vision into the dusky regions far away, my
attention was suddenly arrested by sparks of dazzling brilliancy which
shot through the pines on the Blue Ridge. In the olden time, when
Jupiter's thunderbolts were manufactured in the caverns of Ætna, never
did such glittering scintillations fly from under the forge hammers of
Cyclops. It was the sun darting his topmost rays over the mountain,
and dispersing their sparkling threads in the bright and cloudless
atmosphere. Very soon the fancied islands around me caught the
splendid hue of the luminary, and shone like burnished gold on their
eastern sides. In the west, where they were most thickly strown over
the white sea of mist, and where their sides alone appeared, I could
imagine them to be the islands of the blessed (so famous in ancient
poetry,) where light and peace reigned perpetually. But the pleasing
illusion was soon dissipated. The surface of the mist hitherto lying
still, became agitated like a boiling caldron. Every where light
clouds arose from it and melted away. Presently the lower hills of the
country began to show their tops as if they were emerging from this
troubled sea. When the sun displayed his full orb of living fire, the
vapory commotion increased, the features of the low country began to
be unveiled, and the first audible sound of the morning, the barking
of a farmer's dog, rose from a deep vale beneath, and completely broke
the enchantment of the twilight scene. When the sun was an hour high,
the fog only marked the deep and curvilinear beds of the waters. Nor
was I less delighted with the realities of the prospect before me.

The country lay beneath and around me to the utmost extent of vision.
Along the uneven surface of the great valley, a thousand farms in
every variety of situation were distinctly visible, some in low vales,
some on the upland slopes, and here and there a few on the elevated
sides of the mountains.

On the northeast, the less hilly county of Augusta was seen in dim
perspective, like a large level of blueish green. Stretching along the
eastern horizon for many a league, the Blue Ridge shewed a hundred of
its lofty pinnacles among which the Peaks of Otter toward the south,
rose pre-eminently conspicuous. The valley in a southwestern direction
was partly concealed by the isolated line of the Short Hill: but
beyond that appeared at intervals the vales of James river, from the
gap where the stream has burst through the Blue Ridge, up to the place
where it has cloven the North mountain, and thence round by the west,
to the remarkable rent which it has made in the solid rock of the
Jackson mountain, a distance altogether of some forty miles.

On the western side, the view is of a different character. Here it
seemed as if all the mountains of Virginia had assembled to display
their magnificence and to exhibit with proud emulation, their
loftiness and their length. Line upon line, ridge behind ridge,
perched over one another, crossed the landscape in various directions,
here swelling into round knobs, and there stretching off in long
masses far and wide; until they faded away in the blue of the
atmosphere, and distinction of form and color was lost in the
distance.

When I was able to withdraw my eyes from the collective whole of this
sublime prospect, and to examine the particular objects that appeared
around me, I was struck with the long narrow vales on the western
side. The cultivated low grounds and streams of water, all converging
towards the wider stream and valley of the James river, presented a
beautiful contrast with the rude grandeur of the mountains among which
they lay. When I looked down upon the country in the immediate
vicinity of the House Mountain, I admired the beauties of the scene.
The woody hillocks and shady dells had lost every rough and
disagreeable feature: the surface of the woods was uniformly smooth
and green, like a meadow, and wound before the elevated eye with the
most graceful curves imaginable. The little homesteads about the foot
of the mountain, the large farms and country seats further away in the
valley, and the bright group of buildings in the village of Lexington,
formed a gentle scene of beauty, which relieved the mind from the
almost painful sublimity of the distant prospect, and prepared us,
after hours of delightful contemplation, to descend from our aerial
height, and to return with gratified feelings to our college and
studies again.

_Lexington, Virginia_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS,

_During the Summer of 1834_.

NO. I.


On the morning of a bright and beautiful day early in July, I resumed
my seat in the mail coach at Lexington, with the prospect of soon
reaching the Virginia Springs. The line having been recently
established was as yet little known, and on this occasion I was the
only passenger. Ample opportunity was afforded for viewing the
charming scenery which surrounds this village; and, certainly, the
world can scarcely present a more lovely landscape than that which lay
before us as we entered upon the turnpike which leads to the Springs.

At the foot of the hill which we were descending, "Woods's Creek" was
stealing along through the shaded retreats and the velvet green which
lines its banks; the adjoining hills were crowned with waving fields,
now ripening for the harvest; the chimnies of the "Mulberry Hill"
residence could just be seen, peering above the groves and the foliage
which throw their charms around its retirement; the ruins of the "Old
Academy"--where Alexander, Baxter, Matthews, Rice, and others of the
first men in the Presbyterian Church were educated,--with its
mouldering, ivy-covered walls, stood in melancholy solitude on the
borders of the neighboring forest. Beyond, was the rolling country in
its variety of scenery; and in the back ground, the House, Jump and
North Mountains marking their clear outline, against the deep azure of
a cloudless sky.

After winding among the hills for a few hours, we came in view of the
long, unbroken range of mountains, over which we were to pass; and
though still some miles from the base, the road could be distinctly
traced, running in straight, and then in zigzag directions along the
precipitous ascent. Soon after, we commenced our slow progress up the
mountain, which might have been tedious had it not been that every
successive moment which increased our elevation, revealed new
beauties. The road itself is one of the curiosities of this region; it
would scarcely seem possible for the ingenuity and energy of man to
construct so safe and so delightful a passage over these rough and
almost perpendicular ridges. At one point you may look from your
carriage window upon the traveller some fifty feet below, parallel
with yourself, and, paradoxical as it may appear, proceeding in the
same direction, although he is bound for the opposite end of the road.
So great are the angles necessary to be made in order to overcome the
obstacles which nature had interposed. The declivity of the turnpike,
however, is now so slight as to admit of travelling at almost any
speed.

On reaching the summit, the view was inexpressibly grand. One of the
loveliest sections of the Valley of Virginia spread its beauties below
us. On one hand the "House Mountain" rose in solitary grandeur above
the surrounding hills, and on the other the dark spurs of the
Alleghany projected out into the more cultivated country. On the
southwest, as far as the eye could reach, mountain after mountain
could be seen. Immediately below and before us, were laid out as a
map, the fertile fields, comfortable farm-houses and county roads of
Rockbridge; the numerous streams reflected in silvery sheets, as they
wound through the broken country and hurried along to pour their
waters into the bosom of the James. Across the "Valley" at the
distance of perhaps twenty miles, the great "Blue Ridge" stretched
away towards the north and south, until it was lost in the deeper
azure of the evening sky, or hid by the dark and heavy clouds which
bear the summer's storm.

We were now upon the boundary which separates the "Valley" from
Western Virginia. After gazing in admiration on the beauties of the
country through which we had just travelled, I turned to enjoy similar
scenes on the opposite side. But nothing except successive piles of
mountains met the view. The deep vales and sun-tinged peaks, seemed to
be still slumbering in their original wildness, and had it not been
for the traces of art exhibited by our turnpike, and the sight of an
iron foundry in the valley below, I should have been almost forced to
the conclusion, that we were disturbing the silence of those forests
which had never before echoed but to the cry of the panther, or the
war-whoop of the wandering Indian.

Having halted a few minutes, the driver "shod" our coach, and rolling
away with the sound of thunder down the mountain, we reached the inn
where the stage stopped for the night, just as the sun was sinking
behind the western hills. Our landlord and his better half were
themselves Dutch, and had raised up a stout rosy-looking family, who
attended to the domestic concerns of the establishment without the aid
of servants. The house was situated on a level lawn between two lofty
ridges of the Alleghany, part of which was neatly enclosed, and
clothed with the richest green. The domicil itself was one story in
height, with a piazza in front; and the peculiar national taste of the
proprietor could be seen in the free use of red and black paint with
which the establishment was ornamented. But the interior presented an
aspect rather more inviting, after the fatigue of the day's ride. The
snow-white table cloth, and the clean and plain, yet delightful fare,
with which the table was bountifully supplied, gave evidence of the
existence of _taste_ in the culinary department, which amply
compensated for the want of it in matters of less substantial
importance. A handsome coach and four had driven up just as we
arrived. After tea the guests assembled in the piazza, and we passed
away in cheerful conversation the hours of a lovely summer's evening,
in this wild valley among the mountains.

We reached _Covington_, a village on Jackson's river, to breakfast the
next morning, and by ten o'clock had arrived at Callaghens, a
comfortable country tavern, where we intersected the line from
Staunton. On the arrival of that stage, I changed conveyances, and
with it the light and rapid travelling of the former coach, for the
slow and heavy motion of one loaded down with passengers and baggage.
I found as my new companions, a very agreeable gentleman from
Philadelphia, with his wife and son, an intelligent young South
American, a huge and awkward Mississippian, an _incog._ gentleman with
a good countenance and a white hat of the first magnitude, a youth of
about seventeen, whose emaciated countenance, hectic flush and
distressing cough, told that consumption had marked him as its victim,
together with one or two others not peculiarly interesting. We were
now but fifteen miles from the White Sulphur; and the impatience of
our passengers seemed to increase almost in the duplicate ratio as the
distance diminished. Every few moments the interrogatory, "How far are
we now?" was heard from some one of the company. At length the number
of handsome vehicles, persons on horseback and on foot, which were
passing and repassing us, shewed that we were in the vicinity of the
Springs. In a few moments the enclosure came in view, and immediately
after we drove up in front of the hotel at the White Sulphur. Groups
of gentlemen were collected about the lawn and in the long piazza of
the hotel. All eyes were eagerly turned towards our coach, and many
came crowding round, in hopes of espying the face of an acquaintance
among the new arrivals. The first physiognomy which greeted our vision
was that of the manager of the establishment, who has no very enviable
notoriety among the visitors. According to his usual system, he had
our baggage deposited for the remainder of the day at the foot of the
tree where we landed, whilst we were left to wander about the
premises, without even a domicil in which to change our dusty
travelling garb for one more in unison with our personal comfort, and
the general appearance of those who were to constitute our temporary
associates.

There is something in the first view of the White Sulphur, very
prepossessing and almost enchanting. After rolling along among the
mountains and dense forests, the wild and uncultivated scenery is at
once exchanged for the neatness and elegance of refined society, and
the bustle and parade of the fashionable world. Almost every state in
the Union, and some of the nations of Europe may find their
representatives at the White Sulphur, during the months of July and
August. The last season was honored with an uncommon assemblage of
interesting personages. We had Messrs. Clay and Poindexter of the
United States Senate; McDuffie and others from the House of
Representatives; Commodores Chauncey, Biddle and Rogers of the Navy;
Judges Carr, Brooke and Cabell of the Court of Appeals; Col.
Aspinwall, American Consul at London; the Hon. Mr. Sergeant of
Philadelphia, and a host of dignitaries of somewhat lower
degree,--also from the religious community, Rev. Doctors Johns and
Keith of the Episcopal Church, and Rev. Messrs. Chester, Styles, (of
Georgia) and others of the Presbyterian. Mr. Clay was just recovering
from an injury he had received from the upsetting of the stage, but he
moved about with the lightness and activity of a boy of 15. Indeed we
almost thought that he descended from his dignity by his frivolous and
careless air. He was affable and accessible to all. Mr. McDuffie, on
the contrary, with his hard and forbidding countenance, was morose and
distant, and the very reverse of the orator of Kentucky. Perhaps,
however, due allowance should be made in favor of the former, on
account of the infirm state of his health.

But the White Sulphur itself must not pass unnoticed. Its charms are
worthy of being celebrated. The buildings, which are situated on a
gradual acclivity, are arranged in the form of a hollow square.
Adjoining the Kanawha turnpike, which passes the springs and parallel
with it, are two large white hotels. One of these contains the dining
and drawing rooms, and in the other there is a spacious saloon for
music, dancing, &c. This is also used on the Sabbath as a chapel. In a
line with these, and running in each direction, is a row of cottages
one story in height, for the use of visitors. With this at the eastern
extremity unites a continued range of beautiful white cottages, with
venitians and long piazzas, forming another side of the quadrangle. At
the distance of several hundred paces from the hotels, and parallel
with them on the hill side, is the third range, which is built
entirely of brick and extends for several hundred yards, until its
lower termination is concealed amongst the trees which form a thick
grove on the brow of the hill. On the western extremity of the area
are the bathing houses, and above all, that which constitutes the
great attraction--the spring. The reservoir in which the spring rises,
is an octagon of about five feet in diameter, from which a constant
and copious stream flows off, supplying the bathing houses. A few
steps lead up from this reservoir, to a platform some twenty-five feet
in diameter, furnished with seats and surrounded by a neat railing.
The whole is protected by a beautiful temple, composed of lofty white
pillars surmounted by a dome. From the interior of this dome is
suspended a chandelier, by which the temple is lighted up in the
evenings. A lawn of the richest green, tastefully laid out with
gravelled walks, and shaded by an abundance of oaks and locusts,
extends over the area of the quadrangle. At the distance of a few feet
from the cottages is a light railing, along which, as also along the
walks, are lamp-posts, from which the area is brilliantly illuminated
in the evening.

We know of no scene more romantic and picturesque than that presented
to a spectator from one of the cottages on the hill, after the lamps
have been lighted for the night. The floods of light, streaming among
the trees, and from every window; the throngs of the gay and
fashionable, crowding the walks for the evening's promenade, and the
thrilling melody of the rich music from a fine German band, throws
quite a fairy-like influence around this pleasant retreat among the
mountains.

On the Sabbath, the saloon usually occupied as a dancing room, was
consecrated to more hallowed purposes. At the call of the bell, a
large and very respectable congregation assembled, and listened to a
solemn and eloquent discourse from the Rev. Doct. Johns of Baltimore.
It seemed peculiarly appropriate, that while resorting to these waters
for healing the diseases of the body, we should also have recourse to
the wells of salvation which have been opened in the house of David
for the diseases of the soul. The grace and elegance with which the
speaker on this occasion presented the truths connected with his
office, was calculated to render them interesting, as well as to
convey a sense of their importance even to the most indifferent.

It would be perhaps superfluous to speak of the healing efficacy of
this celebrated spring; its renovating effects are annually exhibited,
and have been for years. It has been, however, a matter of regret,
that so little has been certainly known, as to the peculiar properties
of this as well as the other mineral springs of Virginia, and of their
application to different diseases. It is a lamentable fact that
invalids, by resorting to one of the springs which was not at all
suited to their case, have only aggravated their diseases, and hurried
themselves more rapidly to the grave. No impression is perhaps more
common and none more erroneous, than that if the use of a particular
spring is efficacious in one complaint, it will be equally beneficial
in others, no matter how different their nature, and that at all
events if no good is gained, no positive injury is received. The very
opposite of this is the fact. Unless there is a clear understanding of
the pathology of the disease, and of the properties of the water, as
well as the adaptation of its constituents to remove the malady in
view, we are for the most part groping in the dark, and playing at
best but a hazardous game. The want of a mineral water suited to the
case of invalids, need however deter no one from visiting the Virginia
Springs. Providence has supplied in this region a variety sufficient
to answer the necessities of almost any case. The only difficulty is,
to ascertain which of these watering places is adapted to the
particular disease.

Doctors Bell and Horner have given to the public the results of some
investigations in reference to these waters, but the former had never
visited the springs, and the latter only for a few weeks of one
season, without either proper apparatus to perfect a complete
analysis, or sufficient opportunity for witnessing their practical
effects. The consequence is, that both of these gentlemen, though
eminent in their professions, have given their authority to statements
which are in many respects erroneous. Difficulties from this source
however will soon be remedied. Professor Rogers of William and Mary
College, a gentleman eminently qualified for the purpose, visited the
springs last summer with complete analyzing apparatus, and it is to be
hoped that the cause of humanity will speedily realize the benefit of
his valuable investigations. Dr. Tindall, who has made the White
Sulphur his place of residence for several seasons, has devoted his
attention to ascertaining the practical effects of the waters, and
intended issuing a volume on the subject before the commencement of
the next summer.

The efficacy of the White Sulphur is principally confined to
affections of the liver, and derangements of the sanguiferous and
biliary systems. Where there is any tendency to pulmonary disease, the
use of this water should by all means be avoided. Its exciting effects
are exceedingly prejudicial to such constitutions. A continued use of
the water will occasion a rapid progress of the disease. Individuals
of a consumptive habit have been known to hasten their end by a
residence at the White Sulphur. One case at least has come within my
own observation.

We cannot leave the White Sulphur without a deep feeling of regret,
that the proprietors of this otherwise attractive and delightful
place, should make so little provision for the comfort of visitors.
The buildings, though extensive, are not at all sufficient to
accommodate the numbers which now resort thither. During the last
summer almost every house for miles on the roads leading to the
springs, was thronged with persons who had been turned off at the
hotel. Many of those who could obtain the privilege of remaining upon
the ground, received exceedingly unpleasant accommodations. The table
too, which assumes a prodigious importance after a week's residence
and use of the water, is by no means such as should be afforded at
such an establishment. Every visitor will recollect his dining-room
experience at the White Sulphur. But one of the most unpleasant
features of the whole, is found in the person of the manager, who,
although naturally possessed of an amiable and accommodating
disposition, we must say, in our opinion, is not qualified for the
situation. It is much to be lamented, that this place which possesses
decided advantages over any watering place in the United States and
perhaps in the world--whose climate, scenery and healing properties
are no where surpassed, and to which, notwithstanding the
accommodations, crowds resort, should not be fitted up in a style
suited to its merits.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FINE ARTS.

NO. III.

  --------------- In elegant design,
  Improving nature: in ideas fair,
  Or great, extracted from the fine antique;
  In attitude, expression, airs divine;
  Her sons of Rome and Florence bore the prize.

 _Thomson_.


The sixteenth century was remarkable for the transcendant excellence
of the Italian painters; every city had its school, and each school
preserved a different style, distinguished for expression, grace or
dignity. By schools, we do not mean academies, for there were none
when these great men came forth ennobling nature: they studied in the
"academic groves" of the Arno and the Tiber, and were themselves the
establishers of those schools, that fettered genius with scholastic
rules, and from that day the arts began to decline; each succeeding
generation became imitators of the preceding one, and neglecting the
study of nature and the poetry of art, they fell into a manerism,
growing worse and worse down to their present puerile and meretricious
style. And here permit us to correct a very prevalent error, that
Italy at this day is distinguished far its living artists, when in
fact no country of Europe is so deficient in men eminent in sculpture
and painting; but for the present we will confine our remarks to the
masters of the sixteenth century and their unrivalled works.

For three centuries the palm of excellence has been awarded to Michael
Angelo for originality, to Raphael for correctness of design and
expression, to Titian for color, and Correggio for grace; but that in
which they all agree is sublimity. "This," says Longinus, "elevates
the mind above itself, and fills it with high conceptions and a noble
pride." The sources of the sublime he makes to consist of "boldness or
grandeur in thought, pathos, expression, and harmony of structure,"
and these characterize the works of the Italian masters, and place
them amongst the epics of the pencil. It is not, as pretended
connoisseurs assert, in the high relief, the wonderful foreshortening,
the boldness of the touch or fine finish, or even harmony of coloring,
that these works claim superior merit, for in all these the Dutch as a
school surpass them, but it is "in the grandeur of the thought, in the
pathos, expression and harmony of the whole."

Michael Angelo's originality and creative powers surpassed those of
all men, and his knowledge of the human figure constituted his praise
and his reproach, for in the desire to display his anatomical
learning, he overstepped the modesty of nature and exhibited his
figures with a muscular developement, disproportioned to the strength
required. In the Sistine Chapel, a little child holding the Cybeline
book, is represented with the arms of an infant Hercules; and in his
holy family at Florence, naked men are seen in the back ground at
gymnastic exercises, having no connection with, or reference to the
modesty of the subject; the execution of this picture is hard and the
color opaque. Well might he exclaim after finishing it, "Oil painting
is unworthy of men, I leave it to boys." Raphael was the boy against
whom this sarcasm was hurled, whose works in oil will long survive
_his_ frescos, and who freed from envy--that passion of little
minds--"thanked his maker that he had lived in the days of Michael
Angelo." But the _Last Judgment_ is the work on which M. Angelo's
reputation rests as a painter; it was the last he ever executed, and
is strongly impressed with the peculiar character of its author,
originality and vigor of thought, with incongruity of persons and
place. The son of man appears in wrath to take vengeance on his
enemies, and with an uplifted hand and frowning brows, seems to say
"depart, ye cursed into everlasting punishment," and they are tumbling
headlong down in every conceivable attitude; on the other hand the
righteous are rising to eternal life, in groups of a masterly design,
executed with such strength and simplicity as to convey the most
sublime ideas of the subject; but the improper mixture of mythological
fable and Christian faith detract much from its merit, and we are
scarcely less disgusted with Charon ferrying his boat in hell, than
with the angels playing with the cross in heaven; they are equally out
of keeping, and the whole scene is deficient in drapery--even the
blessed being stands exposed in the nudity of this frail tenement.

The work most justly to be brought in comparison with this, is the
_Transfiguration_ by Raphael. The subject is equally sublime, and
composed with equal simplicity. The whole scene rises before you with
such propriety of expression in every countenance, that it requires no
interpreter to know them; no trifling ornament diverts the attention
from the subject, and no idle levity detracts from the solemnity of
the occasion. Human infirmity is brought in strong contrast with
omnipotent power, and the mind is led by a natural gradation from our
dependance up to his goodness. An epileptic boy of interesting age is
supported in the arms of his father, and surrounded with friends and
relations, who bring him to the disciples to be healed, and the
imploring mother, the beautiful countenance of the sister, the anxious
parent and suffering boy, excite our sympathy, and we look to the
apostles for their miraculous power of healing, but their faith had
failed them; sweet charity remained, and

  "Hope the comforter lingered yet below,"

as they point to the mount "from whence their help cometh." Following
the direction we behold the prostrate three, Peter, James and John,
veiling their faces in the ineffable presence; above, self-poised in
mid air and bright in the radiance of supernatural light, the "son of
man" is seen between Moses and Elias. It has been objected that there
are two subjects here in one picture, but they are so closely allied
in the history of the event, and simultaneous in time, that to
separate them would be to destroy the effect and interest of both;
nothing could be omitted without detracting from its merit, and
nothing added without impairing its grandeur; with the exception of
two men ascending the mount in sacerdotal robes, doubtless introduced
against the wish of the artist, to gratify some officious patron.

These two paintings may represent the schools of Rome and Florence,
and are justly esteemed the sublimest style of art. The former in
fresco, the latter in oil, and both unattractive by the beauty of
coloring or the magic of effect, but sublime in thought, expression
and design. In presenting these to the admiration of the amateur and
the study of the artist, we would not limit excellence to any one
manner, but on the contrary, reprehend those who see no beauty save in
a smoked antique, or in a modern English portrait, in the boldness of
Salvator Rosa or the finish of Carlo Dolci. These may be all beautiful
in their kind and have equal claims to admiration, though inferior in
sublimity of design.

The Venetian school revelled in the luxury of colors and feasted the
eye with the most harmonious arrangement of the brightest tints and
broadest light and shade; and some have supposed could these have been
added to the Roman school, it would have been the perfection of art,
but Sir Joshua Reynolds thought them incompatible, and it is not
without probability that a gayer dress would have detracted from the
simplicity and greatness of the Roman paintings, as would pearls in
the ears of a fine statue. If the Venetians therefore, were not so
sublime, they were more beautiful:

  "To those of Venice. She the magic art
   Of colors melting into colors gave.
   Theirs too it was by one embracing mass
   Of light and shade, that settles round the whole,
   Or varies, tremulous, from part to part,
   O'er all a binding harmony to throw,
   To raise the picture and repose the sight."

Of these, Titian stands pre-eminent in the truth of nature and the
choice of the beautiful; a refinement is impressed on every product of
his pencil, and from the portrait of Charles the 5th to the assumption
of the Madonna at Venice, (his greatest work) there is a nobleness of
air, an elevation of thought above common men or common things; it was
this, not less than the truth of his coloring, that employed his
pencil upon so many crowned and noble heads; his carnations glowed
with the freshness of life, neither erring with too much of the
blossom of the rose or the yellow of the marigold, and it is probable
from his works, Fresnoy drew that admirable precept:

  "He that would color well, must color bright,
   Hope not that praise to gain by sickly white."

Correggio comes next in the scale of excellence, who with less truth
of color than the Venetians, or greatness of design than the Romans,
surpassed them all in _grace_, that indescribable "_je ne sais quoi_,"
so delightful in the movements of some persons, and equally opposed to
the rules of polished society and clownish rusticity. His figures
repose with a nature unstudied, and his children play with an infant's
artless innocence--though frequently homely in feature and badly
drawn, they irresistibly charm the learned and the simple, and command
at once the highest admiration and the highest price.[1] His finest
work is probably the St. Jerome at Parma, so called from this saint's
forming one figure in the group, with the infant Saviour, his mother,
and Mary Magdalene. The anachronism of thus introducing persons who
lived at different eras, did not affect the minds of good Catholics
three centuries since, more than the same discrepancy does the modern
reader of Anacharsis.

[Footnote 1: A Holy Family, only 9½ by 13 inches in the national
gallery in England, was purchased for 3000 guineas.]

G. C.




For the Southern Literary Messenger.

RECENT AMERICAN NOVELS.


The year '35, rich as may be its promise of social and political good,
has so far done little for the cause of letters. The seductions of
political distinction, or the more substantial attractions of the
lucrative professions, have turned from the paths of literature all
whom genius and education have fitted to attain a high degree of
intellectual rank; while in the peculiar department of romance, the
master spirits, those who ruled the realms of fiction with undisputed
sway, have retired from the scenes of their glory, and left their
neglected wands to be played with by the puny arms of dwarfish
successors. COOPER[1] has sheltered himself from the furious storm,
which an injudicious and silly political pamphlet raised about his
head, in some quiet nook in his own native state; while IRVING, the
elegant, but over-nice, the gentle but languid IRVING, has abandoned
romance for reality, to favor the world with sketches of Indian
manners and scenery. PAULDING and Miss SEDGEWICK have ceased for a
time, to inflict their stories of humor and love, upon the proprietors
of circulating libraries, and provincial book-sellers. But the press
has not ceased: others have been found to succeed to, if not to fill
the places of those, whose genius the sanction of the world had
approved, and whose names ranked high in our infant literature. Who
are the new comers? Do they write as men having authority--the
authority of heaven-stamped genius, to claim to be heard for
themselves, and their cause?--or are they but raw, brawling braggarts,
who have broken into the sacred circle, rioting like buffoons,
disgracing what they could not honor? Are they menials of the mind,
underlings of the intellect, who have filled the rich banqueting hall
just abandoned by their superiors, sitting in squalid rags on the
splendid seats of genius, and gulping down the dregs of the deserted
wine, and the scraps of the half consumed feast--boors rioting in the
sumptuous apartments of their lords? Are they men, who, by a vigorous
and educated intellect, and the patient study of the works of the
great writers of romance, have fitted themselves to pour forth words
of burning eloquence, of bitter satire, of side-shaking humor, and
irresistible pathos? Are they artists, who, by the curious and
intricate construction of their fable, know how to excite and sustain
the deepest interest, ever urging upon the heart some tender
affection, some exalted feeling of honor and chivalry?

[Footnote 1: Since this sentence was penned, we have noticed the
advertisement of a new (satirical?) novel, (The Mannikins,) from the
pen of this gentleman, to be published during the summer.]

At a period when the crowd of novels issued almost daily from the
press, threatens serious injury to the literature of the age, not only
by withdrawing men of high natural capacities from the arduous study
of graver and more important subjects, but by throwing before the
public such a mass of matter, that unless they be neglected, (which
from their seductive character is not likely to be the case,) nothing
else can be read, it is of the highest importance, that an elevated
standard should be fixed by which to measure these productions. The
popular objection so often urged against this species of literature,
is not without some foundation in truth; and the only mistake made by
those who have brought it forward, consists in applying to the
species, that which is true only in individual cases. The influence of
these fictitious histories, from the rude form of the early romance,
down to the brilliant productions of the best writers of the present
century, has been, however, on the whole, advantageous to general
literature, and of the most humanizing effect upon society. Nothing
could betray more silly ignorance, than to contrast this class of
authors with those who have chosen higher and more essentially
important subjects; and because law, and philosophy, and mathematics,
may be in themselves, of a deeper interest and more universal value,
to regret the time and talent devoted to this elegant and refining
department of letters, as so much labor and opportunity thrown away.
So far from being wasted, we question, if even the most brilliant
discoveries in science, have contributed as much to the comfort and
enjoyment of society. It would be difficult to calculate the actual
amount of moral good, that may have been effected by the constant
holding up to the young and ardent, but plastic mind, the bright and
winning examples of female loveliness and manly virtue, that abound in
these popular and ever attractive volumes. And those who underrate
their powerful influence, know little of the actual workings of the
human heart--of the secret influences that direct, for good or for
evil, the wayward thoughtfulness of the young. The whole class of
romances, then, viewed as a means of forming individual character,
must assume in the eyes of the moralist and statesman, an importance
far beyond their intrinsic value, as literary works; and it is the
forgetting of the ulterior and vastly more interesting purpose which
they serve, in the general economy of society, that has misled many
virtuous and even able men, to undervalue and despise the whole
species as frivolous and worthless. A proper regard to their
influence, exerted in this way, must lie at the bottom of all sound
criticism, or the labors of the reviewer degenerate at once far below
the flippancy of the most trashy of the works he reads but to condemn.
The novel is only valuable as illustrating some peculiarities,
defects, or excellencies of character--passages of historical
interest, or the manners and customs of a class; and its success must
depend on the ability with which it is adapted to the end desired to
be accomplished. It is only the more unthinking class of writers, who
mistaking the means for the end, have lost sight of all _object_ in
the composition of their tales. Don Quixotte was not written as a mere
record of amusing absurdities; its purpose was to put down the
injurious and ridiculous follies, which the wit of Cervantes happily
lashed out of Spain. And it will be found that no work has obtained an
extensive and lasting popularity, that did not recommend itself by
something beyond the mere detail of the story, and the humor of the
dialogue. But to return from this long digression.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE INSURGENTS. We commence with these volumes as decidedly superior,
in point of ability and interest, to other works on our table, from
the pens of American writers. They are the production of one who has
written before, who knows his own strength, and has fallen, (if we may
use the expression,) into the regular gait of authorship--he is broken
to the press. An outline of the plot, will the better enable those who
may not have perused the work itself, to comprehend the justice of the
scenes, and to understand the excellencies or defects of the various
characters that figure on the stage. The story is laid in
Massachusetts, at the period of the insurrectionary movements, among
the inhabitants of some of the interior counties, during the
administration of Governor Bowdoin, and immediately after the close of
the revolutionary war. _Col. Eustace_, an officer of the revolutionary
army, a generous but careless manager of his own affairs, has after
several years of arduous service, and in consequence of ill health,
retired to an estate fast falling to ruin, under the thriftless
conduct of the open-handed thoughtless veteran. _Henry Eustace_, his
eldest son, had served for two years as an adjutant to his father, and
returned after the close of the war, full of ardent aspirations, and
without any regular profession, to his paternal home. _Elizabeth
Eustace_, is the only daughter of the old Colonel, and as the
propriety of the novel requires, a lovely and interesting girl. _Tom
Eustace_, a younger brother, plays a subaltern part in the
developement of the story. _Frank Talbot_, an officer but a few years
the senior of Henry Eustace, succeeds to the Colonelcy, vacant by the
retirement of the elder Eustace; and after the disbanding of the army,
returns to his residence in the village, near the estate of Col.
Eustace, and is soon deeply immersed in professional business as a
lawyer, and in the political duties of a representative of his native
town, in the General Court, the title by which the Legislature of
Massachusetts was then distinguished. Frank too, has a sister, _Mary_,
somewhat the senior of Elizabeth, and distinguished from her by a
reserved manner and studious habit, but little characteristic of her
age and sex. The concluding portion of the second chapter, discovers
the secret attachment, which Elizabeth Eustace already bore the young
legislator, and drops the reader a hint of what the after pages of the
work more fully disclose.

The great sacrifices of property, incident to a war of seven years,
and the heavy imposts which the necessities of the state government
impelled it to levy on those who were already deeply involved, stirred
up among that class of the people, a spirit of sullen discontent; and
the legislature was already the arena on which the relief, or popular
party on the one hand, and the creditors on the other, had arrayed
themselves in fierce opposition. Talbot, who is represented as
"devoured by an ambition for political power and distinction," with an
active restless spirit, determined to disregard all principle,
whenever a more conscientious course might interfere with the
gratification of his political aspirations, embraced the side of the
malcontents, and was now on a visit to his constituents, for the
purpose of rousing them up to more active remonstrance against the
measures of the creditors' or government party, already supposed to
have secured a majority in the lower house of the State Legislature.
Henry Eustace, at this time, visits his friend, and consults with him
on the choice of a profession. Medicine, to which he at first
inclined, is soon abandoned, for the more attractive employment of
politics; and fascinated by the popular eloquence of Talbot, whose
enthusiasm had already enflamed the ardent blood of Henry, he becomes
one of the most violent of the partizans of the party to which Talbot
was then attached. While on this visit to the neighborhood, Talbot
engages himself to Elizabeth Eustace. His talents and influence had
already attracted the attention of the friends of the government, and
they resolve to tempt him to desertion from his present associates, by
the offer of electing him, by their support, to the Senate, to which
he already aspired, but with little hope of success, from the votes of
his own party. Having espoused the popular cause, from motives of
personal interest, he as readily abandons it, when more seductive
offers are held out by the opposite party. The baseness of Talbot, who
seizes the first opportunity to betray the cause he had formerly
supported, is an unexpected blow to Eustace, and severs the friendship
that before existed between them. The latter assumes the secret
command of the conspirators, while Talbot devotes all his energy and
abilities to the service of his new friends of the government; and
every day widens the difference between them. A large portion of the
two volumes is taken up with descriptions of the various marchings and
counter-marchings of the insurgents and the militia, in the course of
which Talbot and Eustace engage in single combat; the latter strikes
the sword from his adversary's hand, and spares him his life. The
story then goes on, without any thing of importance occurring, until
the conflict between the two parties in the Legislature, is decided in
favor of the government, by the passage of a law for the suspension of
the _habeas corpus_ act. The hatred between Talbot and Eustace had
already become of the most rancorous and malignant character, and the
arrest of the latter, who had been once saved by the sister of Talbot,
is now effected by her brother at the head of a party of soldiers.
Thus deprived of their chief support, in the person of Eustace, the
insurgents are soon dispersed, not however without a skirmish, in
which they are put to flight, in a way at once ludicrous and
conclusive. The first fire disperses them, never to recover. Elizabeth
Eustace and Mary Talbot, in the mean time, manage to bring about a
reconciliation between the two hostile brothers, to whom they had been
respectively engaged, and a double marriage consummates the happiness
of this quartette, and concludes the second and last volume of the
"Insurgents." So much for the story, which though simple enough in the
detail, is liable to the serious objection, that must ever lie against
that division of interest, the necessary consequence of introducing a
double set of characters into a plot, that should be single and
simple. The unities of the drama are not more essential to the
perfection of pieces designed for theatrical representation, than is
the preservation of an individual and prominent interest in the hero
of a novel. The narrow compass of a couple of duodecimos, is not more
than sufficient for the painting of one chief character, with the
sketches of the minor _personæ_, necessary to sustain the interest of
a plot. An attempt at double teaming a novel, with two sets of heroes,
invariably results in destroying that prominence of interest, which a
closer adherence to the legitimate form of the fable, naturally and
necessarily insures; and no more striking illustration of our position
could be found, than in the volumes before us. The characters of
Eustace and Talbot, neither contrast with effect, nor harmonize in the
general management of the plot; and the awkward and unnatural
reconciliation, which is finally brought about, to say nothing of the
perplexities into which the cross-loves of the four, plunge the
writer, is the best evidence that this double-plotting has injured the
effect of the story, by rendering it necessary to force a conclusion.

As the fidelity to nature, in the character of the principal actors,
must always be one of the highest sources of interest to a critical
reader, we shall notice very briefly, the manner in which the author
of the "Insurgents" has succeeded in the _personnel_ of his
descriptions. The old Colonel, the father of Henry Eustace, is exactly
such a personage as every reader may have met with--brave, generous,
careless, and ignorant, he is, perhaps, a very correct picture of the
better part of the _ancien regime_ of our colonial and revolutionary
times. Without any striking peculiarities of character, and playing
but a subaltern part in the story, he only appears as a piece of the
family furniture, brought into play, by the casual location of the
scene. The reader has no cause to regret the slightness of the
acquaintance. The Colonel's second son, Tom, is but an appendage to
the story. Henry, one of the heroes, begins in the army, a mischief
loving, rule breaking, but active and gallant youth; and in the
progress of the story, becomes an eloquent, restless, rebellious
demagogue--stirring up insurrection among the people--defending in the
Legislature, with consummate ability, their pretended wrongs and
actual treason; and upon one occasion, displaying in the field, the
chivalrous courage of his hot and impatient years. He is, however,
always honorable and sincere. His treason is infatuation, and his
_demagogueism_ (if we may coin a much wanted word,) the frenzy of
passion and thoughtlessness. Talbot, on the contrary, is bold and
eloquent; a brave soldier, and an accomplished advocate; but a cunning
and unprincipled politician, who, in the beginning of his career,
espouses the cause of the malcontents, as the only means of securing
the representation of his native village in the Legislature, and as
quickly abandons it, when a higher office is promised him by the
friends of the government, as the price of his desertion. Dr. Talbot,
a country physician "of long practice and high repute," is an abrupt,
rough, but good natured disciple of Esculapius, and seems to have been
intended for no other purpose, than to enable the author to discharge
his wit at the expense of some of the ill mannered admirers of the
surly blackguardism of the Abernethy school of medical gentility. Of
the two heroines, Mary Talbot is a thoughtful, reserved, bright eyed
_blue_; Elizabeth Eustace is younger, and prettier, but more entirely
the child of nature. Neither of them, however, say or act any thing
that can distinguish them from the common _materiel_ of all
novel-women, and serve rather the necessities of the plot, than the
illustration of any of the more touching or exalted beauties of female
character. Of the _Dii minorum gentium_--the lower order of character,
Zeek Morehouse, a worthless understrapper about the old Colonel's
domestic establishment--Hezekiah Brindle, another domestic, who, when
fortune had abandoned the standard of the Insurgents, with the most
simple hearted treachery, "'lists for a private" in the adverse
army--Deacon Hopkins, a thin visaged, flint hearted knave, the usurer
of the parish--Captain Moses Bliss, the inn keeper, one of those pert,
low rogues, so often found in village taverns--Captain Shays, the
leader of the insurgents, and the very impersonation of the spirit of
the militia service--Mrs. Appleton and Mrs. Shattuck, specimens of the
virago, are all rather amusing examples of Yankee low life, and afford
occasion for much characteristic, if not very interesting dialogue.
The other characters brought out in the developement of the story,
scarcely deserve to be noticed, serving as they only do, like soldiers
drafted from the cobbler's stalls and tailors benches, for the use of
the stage, to help the author through the necessities of his plot.

The conduct of the story, is in some respects extremely, and very
often unnecessarily, faulty. The introduction of Zeek Morehouse, in
the second chapter, is a bungling expedient to beat out the author's
_materiel_, over a larger surface for the publisher: and the whole
scene in the kitchen, and afterwards in the presence of the Colonel's
family, is low and dull. The Doctor (Talbot,) is always an unnecessary
personage, and we hardly think there is any thing about him, to
compensate the delay in the story which his presence occasions. The
affair of "Mary Gibbs's misfortune," is awkwardly brought in, and
unsatisfactorily disposed of. We are sorry for the misconduct of
Eustace, and rather vexed at the facile forgiveness with which his
mistress overlooks it; while the silence of the novelist gives a
venial character to one of the most crying offences against individual
happiness and social order. Osborne, and his adventures, from the
commencement, through his trial and mock punishment, down to the
period of the marriage with Miss Warren, form an episode that only
swells the volume, without helping on the story, or affording the
author any opportunity (that he had not before,) for remark, or the
illustration of character. He is nothing but the shadow of Eustace, in
point of character; and Miss Warren, as a sketch of a flirting
fashionable, is not worth the pains taken to introduce her to the
reader. The capital defect of the plot, however, is in the conclusion.
The bitter contempt which Eustace must have felt, (and which he seizes
every opportunity to express,) for the baseness of Talbot, in
betraying the cause of the popular party, and the rancorous hatred
which his subsequent violent persecution of him, had engendered in the
breast of Eustace, (see vol. 2, p. 266-7,) to say nothing of the
cordial detestation with which Talbot returned his ill will, (see vol.
2, p. 268,) renders the reconciliation, effected without any sort of
explanation, apology, or clearing up of the guilt of either, unnatural
and disgusting. Eustace _knew_ the baseness of Talbot, and the latter
(a bearded man, and a soldier,) had just declared that he would sooner
follow his sister to the grave, than see her united to his enemy; and
yet, presto! the author having finished out his second volume, the
traitor and his bitter foe, shake hands, and enter at once into an
exchange of sisters by a double marriage! In this particular, the
story is contrived with great want of skill.

The author seems to have been aware of the propriety and good taste of
preserving historical correctness in a novel, founded on scenes in
real life; but he does not comprehend, to its full extent, the spirit
of that sound canon. So far as the progress of the story, in the
movements of the insurgents, is concerned, the _events_ are in strict
keeping with Bradford's account of the insurrections in Massachusetts.
But this was but a small part of the duty of the novelist; and he has
violated all the rest. The open rebellion of the greater part of the
population of several counties, threatened the most serious and
alarming evil; perhaps the total overthrow of the government of the
state; and the spirit of the people had become sullen and gloomy. In
the "Insurgents," however, the whole affair is treated with ridicule,
and the reader of the novel is left with an impression that the
insurrection was of a character, compared with which, the adventures
of Don Quixotte and his squire, were serious and important! Shays, who
was the head of the malcontents, and commander in chief of the
disorderly forces that were arranged against the government, is
painted in the novel, as a despicably ignorant and silly creature.
Now, such would not have been the character of a man, elected to head
a band of desperate insurgents, upon the point of engagement with the
forces of a powerful commonwealth! We may add, that the whole body of
the relief party, with the exception of Eustace, and his friend
Osborne, are described as frivolous gasconading clowns. In this
respect, then, there has been a gross falsification of history, and
the extremely literal adherence of the author, to historical
correctness in _events_, renders this striking variation the more
apparent, and the more to be lamented.

The moral of the "Insurgents," is defective. The treachery of Talbot,
and the indignant virtue of Eustace, are rewarded with the same final
happiness; and the unfortunate Mary Gibbs does not even suggest to the
author a word of censure, upon her guilty seducer. We should have been
glad to have made such extracts from the work, as would have enabled
our readers to judge for themselves of its merit; but there are few,
if any passages, in either volume, of very striking interest, and any
partial quotation would rather have misled, than corrected their
judgment.




Men of humor are always, in some degree, men of genius; wits are
rarely so, although a man of genius may, amongst other gifts, possess
wit, as Shakspeare.

_Coleridge's Table Talk_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS ON THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

By a young Scotchman now no more.


_Boston, 1832_.

DEAR HENRY,--You have requested me to give you some information
concerning the science and literature of the United States, which have
been so often the subjects of ridicule and derision in the critical
reviews and other literary journals of our country. I take great
pleasure in complying with this request, as far as my limited
opportunities have enabled me to judge of their condition. I have read
almost every American work of any merit I could obtain, and mingled
with some of their men of science and letters, for the purpose of
being directed in my researches, and of acquiring from personal
observation, a better knowledge of their living authors.

In science, perhaps, for so young and growing a nation, its progress
has been as steady and rapid as could reasonably have been expected.
In the exact and physical sciences, there are some who, though they
have not greatly enlarged their circle, are nevertheless profoundly
versed in them, and who would not be ranked below the best in Europe.
In chemistry, mineralogy, and botany, several have acquired great
distinction, and these sciences are becoming daily more popular and
more generally cultivated. Many of the young of both sexes attend
occasional and regular lectures on each, but especially on the first
and last, and it is not rare to meet with females conversant to a
certain degree with both. In the northern cities, public lectures are
delivered on various branches of science, which are attended by both
sexes. There are at present several scientific journals published in
the United States, which are said to be pretty generally patronized,
and two or three scientific associations, whose transactions have been
given to the public. Of the former, the most meritorious
are--Silliman's Journal of Science, the Franklin Quarterly Journal,
Chapman's and some other medical journals, and two or three law
journals. Of the philosophical transactions I can say but little. I
have merely glanced over those of the American Philosophical Society,
the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, and the Literary and
Philosophical Society of New York, but that glance has not impressed
me very favorably with the genius or learning of their members. Some
few papers are indeed valuable, and exhibit considerable research and
erudition, but they appear to be deficient in originality, depth and
lucidness. I have, however, never been very partial to these
associations. The amount of their contributions to science or
literature has never been so great as to render their formation
desirable in my eye, and certainly they are not to be compared with
the individual labors of those great luminaries who have shed such
radiance over the paths of science. Scientific men here have published
from time to time the result of their labors in the different physical
sciences, to the cultivation of which they have devoted a large
portion of their lives. The botanical works of Bigelow, Nutall,
Barton, Eaton and Elliott, the works on American birds by Wilson,
Bonaparte and Audubon, that on mineralogy by Cleveland--on entomology
by Say, and on natural history by Goodman, are highly creditable to
the country in which they were produced. Law and medical lectures are
frequently published, and law reports are numerous. I believe every
State has its reporter, and every year brings forth a volume or two of
decisions. Jurisprudence appears to be in this country a more
complicated science than in Europe. The student has not only to make
himself acquainted with the elements and principles of English law,
maritime, civil and criminal, but he has to acquire a knowledge of the
laws of the particular state in which he practices, and to know what
the courts of the different states have decided, where he does not
practice. Law is a favorite science, if indeed it can be called a
science, among the Americans. There is scarcely a youth who has
received the most ordinary education, that does not undertake to study
and practice, or attempt to practice it. In a government of laws like
this, law will be a desirable object of attainment, and hence almost
every citizen is more or less conversant with the laws by which he is
governed. The medical science too, is very extensively cultivated, and
this profession has produced several distinguished men, of whom the
nation has reason to feel proud. But metaphysical science is almost
entirely neglected, which is a matter of surprise when we consider the
very inquisitive and refining character of the American mind. Men
here, however, have no time for mere abstract speculation; and though
many of them refine and subtilize, and split hairs on constitutional
questions, they are not very anxious to analyze or investigate mere
abstractions, or to attempt to elicit light from the darkness of
metaphysical obscurity.--One of the most extensively informed
scientific men this country has produced, was Dr. Samuel L. Mitchell
of New York, who died during the summer of 1831. He had devoted his
life to the cultivation of science, especially the physical sciences,
in all of which he was well skilled; but, in consequence of that
vanity which sometimes accompanies great attainments, he often became
an object of ridicule to his countrymen, who seemed more inclined to
depreciate than to exalt his real merits.

Of the literature of America you are almost as well informed as
myself. I have looked into most of the native productions of this
country with an impartial eye, and am sorry to say that its literature
does not rank so high as one might be led to suppose from the
intelligence of its people and the nature of its political
institutions. Literature does not receive that encouragement and
patronage under this Republic, which are calculated to give it a
vigorous growth or a permanent and healthy existence. There is not
much individual wealth, and few can afford, if they had the
inclination, to purchase the productions of native authors. There is,
however, another cause which operates to the disadvantage of American
literature, and will continue to do so, until some measure be adopted
to remedy the evil; it is the cheapness and facility with which the
productions of the British press can be republished is this country.
The American author has to struggle against many disadvantages,
especially when young, unknown and inexperienced. British works of
established reputation can be obtained at little or no expense, and
reprinted in this country, while the native writer is often obliged to
publish the productions of his mind at his own cost, or give them to
any one that will undertake to put them to the press. Few can afford
to write for mere fame, and no great inducement is offered to write
for any thing else. Hence there are but few, if any, professional
authors in the United States. For a long time too, the people of this
country were disposed to underrate their own literary powers, and many
believed that none but the works of the British press were worthy of
perusal or patronage. This prejudice is, however, now beginning to
wear away, especially since the critics of our country have been
forced to acknowledge the genius and literary excellence of some of
the native writers of America. But still when the extent, population,
age, and comparative refinement of the United States are considered,
it must be a matter of surprise that so few authors of distinction are
to be found within its widely extended limits. May not this very
extent be prejudicial to the cause of American letters? The expense of
transportation from one portion of the Union to the other is so
considerable, that the publisher finds it safer and more profitable to
confine his sales to a limited and convenient range, than to spread
his books over an almost boundless surface, from which but few
satisfactory returns are ever made. The Americans, though not a nation
of shop-keepers, as ours has been denominated, are nevertheless a
money making and thrifty people, and almost all are engaged in some
lucrative kind of business or occupation, which affords them but
little leisure for either literary pursuits, or the cultivation of a
taste for the fine arts; and though most of them are readers, their
reading is generally confined to newspapers, and the political
productions of the day. In the latter I do not think they have made
any very great progress since the period of the revolution. In force
and perspicuity of style, felicity of illustration and logical power,
the authors of the Federalist have not since been surpassed. This is a
work written in periodical numbers by Hamilton, Madison and Jay,
recommending and enforcing with great ability and eloquence, the
adoption of the constitution which now exists. It is a work which
every man should read who wishes to understand the principles of this
great charter of American liberty, and the motives, feelings and views
of its framers and supporters.

In the walks of romance the most distinguished writers of this country
are the late Charles B. Brown of Philadelphia, and J. Fenimore Cooper
of New York, both men of unquestionable genius. The novels or romances
of the former having been recently republished in England, you have no
doubt seen them, and those of the latter, but few who read at all have
not read. Miss Sedgewick has also written some popular novels and
ranks deservedly high among the few literati of her country; and Mr.
Paulding has lately published some tales which have been well received
and possess a good deal of merit. I can scarcely class Washington
Irving among the romance writers of this country. Most of his tales
were written abroad, and I do not think that novel writing is his
forte. He has excelled in the other walks of literature so greatly
that he need not covet the fame of a writer of fictitious history.
Brown unfortunately belonged to the _satanic_ school of our countryman
Godwin, and all his _dramatis personæ_, plots, incidents and pictures
partake of the gloom and ferocity of that school; but Brown was
unquestionably a man of genius, and capable of giving lustre to the
literary reputation of his country. Godwin was his model, as Scott
seems to be that of Cooper. Brown's picture of the yellow fever in
Philadelphia cannot be surpassed in accuracy of coloring and intensity
of interest, and it may very justly be classed with the description of
the plague at Athens by Thucydides, and that of the same terrible pest
at Florence by Boccacio. In detached scenes Brown is very powerful,
but he never appears inclined to complete what he begins, or to
present a perfect whole. He sometimes breaks off abruptly, or hastens
too precipitately to a close. He delights in gloom and the more
ferocious and uncontrollable workings of the human passions. His
object is to excite terror and not tenderness--to raise up storms and
tempests, and not to breathe over the scene a quietness and repose
calculated to soothe and tranquillize. His novels like those of his
model, are now but seldom read, and he is rapidly sinking into
oblivion.

The _dramatic_ romance of Scott and Cooper is now preferred to all
others, and has caused Brown's novels to be cast aside. Cooper's rise
to fame was as rapid as it was deserved. He had been for some years an
officer in the American Navy, where he acquired a knowledge of all the
minutiæ of nautical life, which was of great service to him in the
composition of some of his tales. These are justly considered as his
best. They display a perfect intimacy with sea life, and his
characters, incidents and sentiments are such as belong to the
"mountain wave," and are always in admirable keeping. His dialogues,
though sometimes tedious and unnecessarily prolonged are on the whole
dramatic, and serve not only to develope character but to excite the
interest of the reader. His descriptions, though at times graphic and
striking, are rather too minute for effect. The unities of time and
action are well preserved, and his plots, though very simple in their
construction, are usually wrought up with great power, and often
produce the most intense and thrilling interest. Of his female
characters, generally two in number, but little can be said; they are
Siamese twins, but with different dispositions and styles of beauty,
and play the respective parts assigned to them in the drama with
proper decency and effect. His sketches of American scenery and his
delineations of savage life and character are admirable. There is in
the former perhaps too much detail, and in the latter too high
coloring for nature; but they are unequalled, and display the vigor of
Cooper's genius and the strength of his conceptions. His style is
easy, perspicuous and fluent. In short, he is a writer of whom any
country might justly feel proud. Were I to attempt a parallel between
the American Novelist and the "Northern Magician," I should say that
Scott has more varied powers and a finer poetical mind, but in the
management of their plots, intensity of interest, and the description
of natural scenery, they are not very unequal. The Scotch romancer has
greater acquirements and a more minute and intimate acquaintance with
the history, manners and customs of past ages, but in all that
appertains to sea life Cooper is superior, and does not fall short of
his model in the ability with which he works up his incidents and
developes his plots. This, you will think, is saying a great deal for
a Scotchman, but such is my unbiassed opinion and the impression left
upon my mind, after a careful perusal of the productions of both of
these eminent writers of fictitious history.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

OBSERVATIONS

On the National Importance of Mineral Possessions, and the Cultivation
of Geological Inquiry.


The importance of the metallic ores and other mineral substances,
considered as instrumental in the advancement of national prosperity,
is obvious to every one. In announcing that a certain country
possesses extensive and skilfully worked mines, either of coal, of
iron, copper, tin, lead, or other of the numerous ores, we at once
proclaim her wealth in terms that all must understand. They are
readily perceived to be essential to the prosecution of the various
arts and manufactures that flourish in the present age, and to form a
fruitful source of wealth to the country in which they happen to
abound.

The facility, however, with which one nation can procure these from
another, owing to the free intercourse and system of exchange
subsisting between them, which thus enables a country, barren itself
in mineral treasures, to attain a respectable rank among the wealthy
nations of the earth, occasions us to assign to the possession of them
within our own soil, an importance infinitely less than is due. We are
disposed to consider them too much in the light of mere articles of
export, and valuable, chiefly as commodities of exchange: or, if we do
not bestow too much consequence on their exchangeable value, we at
least allow too little to their intrinsic worth. Yet, when we assign
to the products of the mineral kingdom their proper rank in the scale
of national blessings, they take their place beside that of a fertile
soil, or a salubrious climate,--blessings we may still enjoy, though
we adopt the exclusive and selfish policy of ancient Egypt, or of
modern China. In short, we should value these mineral productions, not
as we value one of our great staple commodities, tobacco, on account
of its nominal price, but on their own account--not by the gain
derived from parting with, but that derived from keeping them. Nor
should we confine our solicitude to procuring now, on the easiest
terms, the means of supplying our immediate wants; but with a more
comprehensive view, look forward and provide for the period, when the
growing wants of the unborn millions destined to people our almost
boundless territory, will create a demand for these substances, in
quantities which either foreign nations, with comparatively exhausted
mines, will be unable to supply, or to purchase which, we must
appropriate that produce (the produce of a large portion of the
surface of the soil,) which should be devoted to the more legitimate
purpose of furnishing to its inhabitants the means of subsistence and
employment.

We are apt too to forget, that were it possible, with or without the
intervention of war, for a people to be cut off from all intercourse
with other nations, and to be destitute themselves of mineral
resources, that their very existence, at least as a civilized people,
would be next to impossible. That the different degrees of refinement
attained by the human race in different periods of antiquity, are
marked with a precision sufficiently distinct, by their acquaintance
with the metals, and the uses to which they are susceptible of being
applied: and, that nearer our own times, the aboriginal inhabitants of
our own continent were found existing in a higher or lower stage of
progress towards civilization, in proportion to their knowledge or
their ignorance of these substances.

To trace a little further, the connection of mineral wealth with
national prosperity, we may observe, that the wants of a people may be
said to be mainly supplied, when they are provided with food, clothing
and habitation, and they are better or worse supplied, according to
the nature and abundance of the materials they possess for the
fabrication of these, and the perfection of the instruments they may
have, proper for fashioning them into convenient forms. The nation
which can command for its subsistence, in greatest profusion, the
varied vegetable and animal productions, of whatever clime, that
constitute the necessaries and luxuries of life; whose well stored
magazines of merchandize furnish, for its apparel, the finest fabrics
and the richest stuffs; and which can boast, for its places of
dwelling, the most commodious, splendid and durable edifices, with the
various conveniences that necessarily keep pace with improvements in
these, may be said, physically considered, to have well nigh attained
the pinnacle of prosperity. Let us observe in what manner the mineral
substances to which we have alluded, contribute to accomplish this
end. Let us suppose man rude and barbarous, for the first time, to be
presented with that best of gifts--iron; and for the sake of
proceeding, let us anticipate the slow progress of events, and give it
to him in the form into which he would soon convert it--that of the
simplest implements. Instantly his habits are changed: his wandering
mode of life is abandoned: his abode becomes fixed, and he himself
devoted to labor. In a little time, the rugged face of nature is made
to assume a softened and a brightened aspect, and to smile upon him
with a novel beauty. The ample and ancient forest, his former range,
falls with continued crash, day after day, beneath the repeated stroke
of his axe: on all sides, broad and sunny plains open around him: the
broken soil heaved up to the influence of the atmosphere by his
plough, or stirred with his hoe, begins to yield in abundance the
fruits of the earth; the prostrate timber rent asunder by his wedge,
and hewed, sawed, or chiseled into appropriate shapes, furnishes
materials of building: these, arranged and secured by means of pins or
nails of the same material, rise in orderly succession one above
another, till there is erected for his habitation a comfortable and
commodious dwelling:--while the surrounding fields, now that he has
ample food in store for their support, are overspread with the flocks
he has domesticated, to provide for his use unfailing supplies of
clothing and subsistence. Already he has made himself acquainted with
the rudiments of agriculture, architecture and manufactures, and has
laid the foundation of the useful arts.

Compare his condition now, with that in which he existed before his
acquaintance with the uses of iron: contrast the savage of the forest
with the cultivator of the field--the scanty and precarious sustenance
of the one, with the regular and abundant subsistence of the
other--the covering of skin, with the garment of wool--the hut, with
the commodious dwelling--the hardships attendant on one mode of life,
with the numerous conveniences that follow as a necessary train to the
other; and from this rough-drawn and very imperfect outline, there may
be formed some slight idea of the revolution effected in the condition
of man, even by a limited acquaintance with the simpler uses of this
single, though most important of all the mineral substances.

It is scarcely necessary to direct the reader's attention to the
accession to the comforts, the conveniences, the elegancies of life,
or to the vast acquisitions to the power of man, which, in successive
periods of time, have been gained by a more extended and familiar
acquaintance with the various properties of iron, and the innumerable
purposes to which, with increased advantage, human ingenuity has
discovered it to be applicable. It is sufficient to turn the eye on
some great and populous city--the seat of busy manufactures;--on a
Sheffield, a Manchester, or a Birmingham,--those nurseries of the
arts, and workshops of the world: to view its immense establishments
in active operation, and look on the tens of thousands of the
industrious they maintain and employ. It is sufficient to hear the
eternal din and incessant roar of stupendous machinery, laboring in
the service of man, in obedience to laws and impulses he has given to
it;--to see its multifarious and complicated parts performing each its
allotted movement;--swinging heavily, with measured time, and force,
or shooting to and fro with regulated rapidity; revolving slowly, and
lazily around, or flying with inconceivable velocity, and whirling
smoothly, each in its proper sphere,--moving, all in harmonious
cooperation, to effect some beneficial end, with a precision
unerring--as if impressed with the intelligence and volition of
animated being. It is sufficient, to be convinced of the great
acquisition we have in iron, to witness the wondrous effects of the
steam-engine,--that giant machine, which performs to our hands the
labor of countless hosts; which enables us to penetrate into the
secret recesses of the solid earth, and to master the ocean, and the
very elements themselves. "It rows, it pumps, it excavates, it
carries, it draws, it lifts, it hammers, it spins, it weaves, it
prints;"--that masterpiece of human skill, which, in the language of
the celebrated Doctor Black, is the most valuable present ever made by
philosophy to the arts.

Again, when we behold materials of every known description, in the
rude state in which nature presents them, before they have been
subjected to the first elementary process in their manufacture, and
look upon them, after they have undergone the various mechanical
operations to which they are successively submitted, and are produced
in a finished state, of every form and fashion that can minister to
the wants, or gratify the caprice of man, we almost doubt their
identity, and are at a loss which most to admire, the utility of the
substance by means of which so wonderful a change has been effected,
or the sagacity of him, who moulds and constructs it into complicated
machines, to which he gives motion and almost life, to work out his
own advantage. And, lastly, when there is displayed before us the
endless variety of manufactured goods and wares;---of instruments, and
implements, and utensils;--of machines, and engines, and mechanical
contrivances to abridge human labor; when we gaze on the immense
fleets that wait to receive them, in an hundred ports of some great
manufacturing country, or survey the seas whitened with the sails, and
heaving beneath the burthens of whole navies, busied in transporting
them to distant and expectant nations, and even piloted in their
course, through the wide and trackless waste of waters, with unerring
accuracy, by a property peculiar to iron,--we turn from the
contemplation more fully persuaded of the extent to which we are
indebted to this single metal, to which in truth, if we except the
spontaneous productions of nature, (of little comparative value
unwrought,) we owe every thing we possess.

We are enabled, perhaps, by this review, hasty though it has been, of
the numerous and varied uses of iron, better to estimate its real
worth, and we do not hesitate to assign to it, an importance among the
elements of national prosperity of the highest order, and to consider
it, what truly it is, the most valuable of all acquisitions. We look
upon the country rich in the possession of its ores, with feelings of
rivalry, and are prompted to emulate her in acquiring this true
species of substantial wealth. Our national ambition is excited to
grasp at this mighty instrument of power, and our energies should be
roused into ceaseless activity, until, by untiring assiduity in
surveying and exploring our own tempting regions, guided by the lights
borrowed from geological science, we succeed in enlarging our mineral
domain to at least an equal extent.

Before proceeding to the consideration of any other of the substances
we have proposed to treat of, it may not be improper, here, to annex
(more in the form of notes) a few facts illustrative of the history of
the very interesting mineral which has occupied our attention in the
preceding remarks.

Of all the metals, iron is the most widely and universally
distributed, being confined to no particular formation as its
repository, but discoverable in every class of rocks, from the oldest
granite to the newest alluvial deposit. It is also the most abundant
of the metallic ores: whole mountains composed of it occurring in the
northern parts of the globe. As instances of the great masses in which
it is found, it may be mentioned, that the sparry iron ore found in
the floetz limestone in Stiria, has been worked to an immense extent
and with great profit, for more than twelve hundred years: and, that
the Rio mountain in the island of Elba, five hundred feet in height
and three miles in circumference, known at an early day to the Romans,
(in which mines are still wrought,) is wholly composed of specular
iron ore. Though this metal, as we have stated, exists in every kind
of rock and soil, it has been remarked, that the dark oxides or its
richest ores are confined exclusively to primitive rocks. The ores are
generally, it has also been observed, of a purer quality, and more
abundant in northern regions. What are denominated iron-stones, or the
ores containing a larger proportion of earthy matter, are found in the
secondary strata, and exist commonly in great abundance in those
accompanying coal.

Although iron was known in the remotest ages, and was in use among
some particular nations even at a time anterior to the deluge,
according to Moses, (Gen. iv. 22) we are not to presume it was in
general use:

  "Him Tubal nam'd, the Vulcan of old times
   The sword and falchion their invention claim;
   And the first smith was the first murderer's son."

Nor must we forget, that the useful arts, and among them the art of
working metals, were lost to the generality of mankind, in consequence
of that universal calamity. Gold, silver and copper seem to be the
metals of which the knowledge and uses were earliest recovered after
that period; owing, no doubt, to their being oftener found on the
surface of the earth, or in the beds of streams--to their more
frequent occurrence in the metallic state, and to the greater ease
with which they are separated from their ores. Copper, though greatly
inferior to iron, yet possesses considerable tenacity, and sufficient
hardness to furnish a substitute in the construction of cutting
instruments, and either pure, or alloyed with tin to increase its
hardness, constituted the materials of which were formed the swords,
hatchets, and artist's tools of many ancient nations. The arms and
tools of the American nations were similarly made, and by means of
this awkward substitute, the Mexicans and Peruvians made considerable
advances in manufactures and the arts--greater perhaps than any other
people unacquainted with the use of iron. The inconvenience
experienced by these nations from their ignorance of this metal, and
the awkward expedients to which in consequence they had recourse,
afford an important lesson in teaching us what estimate to make of the
value of a substance, which, its very requisiteness to every common
purpose of life so familiarizes us with, as to cause us daily to pass
by with little or no notice. The evils which we are taught would
inevitably follow its loss, make a deeper impression of its
importance, than all the advantages, manifold though they be, which in
heedless enjoyment, we are continually deriving from its possession.
With no better substitute for iron tools in cutting stone, than the
sharp edged fragments of flint,--without carriages, or machines of any
kind,--how tedious and laborious must have been the work of separating
from the quarry, of shaping, of transporting to a distance, and
elevating to a proper height, the huge blocks of stone with which the
Mexicans and Peruvians contrived to erect their temples and other
public edifices!--structures that have commanded the admiration of
more modern nations. What toil and what time must have been expended
in the operation of dividing a single block, by means of continued
rubbing of one rock against another! What pains and what efforts of
ingenuity must it have cost the artizans of Montezuma, without the aid
of nails, to form the ceilings of his palace, by an arrangement of the
planks so artificial, as mutually to sustain each other! With what
eagerness the Peruvian would have accepted nails of iron, to fasten
together the pieces of timber he employed in building, and have laid
aside as worthless, the cords of hemp his necessities compelled him to
apply to that purpose! What an acquisition would have been even a
common needle, in the place of the thorn, to which, in the fashioning
of their cotton garments, they were obliged to have recourse!

Iron differs from the metals we have mentioned as earliest known, by
its occurring rarely in a metallic state, and being then most
difficult of fusion: its uses were in consequence a later discovery.
The methods, besides, of disengaging it from the ores in which it is
usually found in nature, are far from being obvious, consisting of
various processes,--such as pounding, roasting, smelting in contact
with charcoal, to render it fusible; requiring too, additional
heatings and hammerings to render it malleable, and a still more
complicated process to convert it into steel. Yet it was in use, as
has been remarked, in very remote ages: Moses, in Deuteronomy, makes
frequent mention of it. He speaks of mines of iron, and alludes to
furnaces for melting it; and from the circumstance of swords, knives,
axes, and tools for cutting stone, constructed of that metal, being
mentioned by the same authority, we are entitled to conclude that the
art of tempering and converting it into steel was also known. The mode
of tempering it was certainly known to the Greeks as early as the days
of Homer; for that poet borrows from the art some of his similes. Thus
in the Oddyssey:

  And as, when arm'rers temper in the ford
  The keen-edged pole-axe, or the shining sword,
  The red hot metal hisses in the lake,
  So in his eye-ball hiss'd the plunging stake.

It is by its conversion into steel, that we are furnished with a
material retentive of an edge, and adapted to cutting the hardest
substances, and are enabled to fabricate that most important class of
implements, edge-tools, all of which, from the ponderous pit saw to
the finest lancet, are formed in part with this metal.

It was not, however, until very late in modern times, that we may be
said to have acquired absolute dominion over this individual of the
mineral kingdom, so as to be able at command, to press it into
service, whatever may be its locality, in relation to the surface of
the earth or its interior. For, before the improvements made in the
steam-engine by the discoveries of Watts, we were limited in the power
of availing ourselves of the known existence of iron, however abundant
in any particular spot, by the necessity of the concurrence of a
stream of water in the same location with that of the metal, as a
means of impelling the machinery for producing the blast requisite in
the operation of smelting. Since those improvements, steam power may
be employed wherever the ore and fuel is found in sufficient
quantities to authorize the erection of furnaces; and the manufacture
of iron has in consequence, especially in Great Britain, risen into
great importance. The annual produce of smelted ore in that kingdom,
is estimated now to be about seven hundred thousand tons.

We cannot avoid suggesting here, to the owners and workers of coal
property in Virginia, the propriety of investigating the strata
through which they necessarily pass in their mining operations, with
reference to the discovery of argillaceous iron-stone, with more
minuteness than hitherto they have done--if indeed, (which we are
inclined to doubt,) their attention has been in any degree directed to
such examination. It is from this species of iron-stone, accompanying
coal-strata, that Great Britain derives at least nineteen twentieths
of the metals which she possesses in such abundance, and to which, in
connection with its convenient location in the immediate vicinity of
the fuel necessary in its reduction, she owes her towering eminence as
a manufacturing country. The coal formation of Virginia contains the
same clays, shales, sandstones and slates, and these are characterized
by the same vegetable impressions that mark the series in other
countries. And may we not reasonably ask, why should we hastily
conclude this usual concomitant of the coal strata in England,
Scotland, France and Germany, to be wanting here; or rather, why may
not we hope to find it equally abundant in our own coal district. We
are induced to urge this suggestion the more, from the circumstance,
that this species of ore presents in its external characters, so
little indicative of its metallic nature or chemical composition, that
but for its greater weight, it might well escape the notice of an
inexperienced or unobservant eye, unless arrested by some such hope as
we have been induced to hold out. Even in England, where from its
great abundance it might have been expected to be generally better
known, instances have occurred in some districts, of its being
wastefully misapplied, through ignorance, to the common purpose of
mending the roads. The immense benefits that would result from success
attending a research directed to this object, as well to the city of
Richmond, as to a few fortunate individuals, are too obvious to
require comment. It is sufficient to remark, that it would prove an
abundant source of individual wealth, and would, in connection with
her other great advantages and increasing facilities of
transportation, be the means of elevating the metropolis of Virginia
to an exalted rank in the class of large cities, and enable her to vie
in importance with the proudest seat of manufactures, or the most
extensive emporium of commerce.

It was our intention, as our title announces, to have passed rapidly
on, and glanced at the history, uses, and national importance of coal,
and some of the most valuable of the other mineral substances, as well
as to have pointed out in a short series of remarks, some of the
advantages to be derived from the cultivation and pursuit of
mineralogical and geological inquiries in connection with this
subject; but we have loitered on the way, and the contracting limits
of our paper admonish us to hasten to a close. We may at another time,
if leisure permit, and if on reflection, we deem our endeavors at all
likely to attract attention to subjects which have too long been
almost universally neglected, again resume, after our own fashion, a
subject which under better management, could not fail to prove
interesting as well as instructive.

GAMMA.

_Henrico, April 28th, 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER ELEVENTH.

Malmaison, Tomb of the Ex-Empress Josephine--Engine for Conveying
Water to Versailles and St. Cloud--St. Germain en Laye--Nanterre--St.
Geneviéve.


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane:_

Although quite fatigued, I cannot retire to rest ere I have rendered
my dear sister an account of to-day's excursion to St. Germain and to
Malmaison the favorite residence of the late Ex-Empress Josephine. We
took an early breakfast, and sat off by ten o'clock; the Danvilles in
their carriage, accompanied by Sigismund, and we in a remise, or, as
it is termed in England, a glass coach. We soon alighted at Malmaison,
it being only two leagues from Paris, and spent more than an hour in
walking over the house and grounds, and thinking of poor Josephine. A
great deal of the furniture yet remains as she left it; even her music
books are kept as she arranged them. The room she occupied as her
chamber, is exceedingly beautiful. It is circular, lined with cloth of
crimson and gold, and surrounded by mirrors inserted in the walls and
doors. The bed is supported by golden swans, and the coverlid and
curtains are of silver lama. In the library we saw the writing table
and inkstand of Napoleon. The first bears evident marks of his
penknife; which, while meditating, he used to strike into the wood.
The domestic who conducted us through the apartments, spoke of the
Ex-Empress with great affection; and so did the gardener, a West India
negro, whose ebony visage was a novel spectacle to us. They said she
was beloved by all the household and neighborhood, for her affability
and kindness. The green house is filled with gay and choice flowers
and shrubs; and it is melancholy to reflect that these the frailest
productions of nature, have outlived their lovely mistress, and still
blossom and flourish and shed their fragrance around, while she, like
a shadow has passed away! After following awhile the windings of a
stream that meanders through the garden, we found ourselves at the
threshold of a pretty little temple dedicated to Cupid. The
mischievous urchin himself, treading upon roses, is placed in the
centre, and on the pedestal beneath him, this vindictive couplet is
inscribed:

  Il l'est, le fut, ou le doit être,
  Qui que ce soit, voici ton Maitre.

We quitted the shades of Malmaison with regret, and proceeded to the
neighboring village of Ruelle to visit the tomb of Josephine in the
church there, where her ashes repose. The monument is of white marble,
and was erected to her memory by Eugene Beauharnais, her son. On its
summit she is represented clad in a folding robe with a diadem on her
head, and kneeling before an open breviary. It is a handsome tribute
of filial love.

Near Ruelle is a chateau that once belonged to Cardinal Richelieu, and
since then to Marshal Massena, whose widow still inhabits it.[1] Being
informed that the family were absent and that it was customary for
strangers to visit this sojourn of those distinguished men, we drove
there; and, alighting from our carriages, were demanding permission of
a person in the yard to see the mansion and its grounds, when a lady
suddenly made her appearance, and we had the mortification to find
that we were intruding on the privacy of Madame Massena herself. We
immediately explained our mistake, and would have come away but she
insisted on our entering, and was so polite that we could not refuse.
The chateau is very plain, and furnished with corresponding
simplicity. In front of it is a limpid sheet of water, and behind it a
pleasant garden, where we wandered awhile and then took leave,
gratified with our adventure, awkward as it was at the commencement.

[Footnote 1: This lady is since dead. She died soon afterwards.]

Retracing our steps a short distance, we continued our ride to Saint
Germain en Laye, and observed on our left a stupendous steam engine
which, on inquiry, we found is used for supplying the fountains of
Versailles and Saint Cloud with water from the Seine, and has
succeeded the famous machine of Marly. This machine had become so
decayed in some parts before its removal, that it occasioned the death
of several persons who were examining its construction--and heedlessly
stepped on an old board, which giving way they were precipitated into
the river and drowned, or crushed to death by the wheels. Saint
Germain en Laye derives its name from the extensive forest adjoining
it, which is considered the finest in France, and has ever been the
favorite hunting ground of the French monarchs. While partaking of the
pleasures of the chase they inhabited the spacious palace, that still
exists and is at present a barracks for soldiers. That abject king
James the Second, resided in it twelve years, supported by the
munificence of Louis le grand, and finally closed his earthly career
in this noble retreat. He was buried in the adjoining church, and his
heart is enshrined in a paltry looking altar, before which a lamp is
constantly burning, and upon which is an inscription informing the
reader why it was erected. But what renders the palace at Saint
Germain peculiarly interesting, is its having been the residence of
the Duchess de la Vallière; and in the ceiling of one of the rooms
appropriated to her use there is a trap door, through which it is
supposed her enamored sovereign descended when he visited her
clandestinely. On the left of the castle is a terrace one mile in
length, and bordering an acclivity that overhangs the Seine, and is
highly cultivated in vineyards and fruit trees. This terrace is much
frequented by persons who resort there, for the purpose of enjoying
fresh air and a fine prospect. Some go in carriages, but the usual
mode of conveyance is by a donkey, and this we chose. The streets of
the town are wide and the houses generally large; which might be
expected, as court festivities were so often held here; and
now-a-days, many of the Parisian gentry pass the summer months here.

We finished the day by dining at a neat auberge, (inn) with a garden
teeming with flowers just in front of our parlor. Returning home we
passed through the village of Nanterre, (the birthplace of St.
Geneviéve) and stopped an instant to buy some of the cakes for which
it is renowned; they are merely buns, and we did not think them
deserving of their fame. _Nanterre beer_ and _Nanterre sausages_ are
also held in great estimation, but of these we did not taste, being
quite satisfied with our trial of the cakes. I imagine you know the
history of St. Geneviéve; though lest you should not, I will tell you
in a few words that she was a shepherdess, whose virtues and piety
caused her to be canonized after her death, and made the patron saint
of Paris. There is a lovely picture of her at the Louvre, by Pierre
Guerin, representing her turning a spindle while guarding her flock.
Good night.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER TWELFTH.

Lafayette and his Family--Sévres Manufactory--Palace of St.
Cloud--Madame de Genlis--Savoyards--Ballet of Mars and Venus.


Paris, -----.

_Dear Jane:_--

We have formed acquaintance with some delightful characters since I
wrote to you a few days since. We have been introduced to the good and
brave General Lafayette and his family! On Wednesday he came with his
son, Mr. George Lafayette, to see Mr. Danville, and the latter
presented us to them. The print you have seen of this distinguished
patriarch, is a correct likeness; and his manners are as benevolent as
his countenance. He has a soirée on every Wednesday night, and we have
gladly accepted the kind and pressing invitation he gave each of us to
attend them. The ladies of the family, consisting of his daughters,
his grand-daughters, and daughter-in-law Madame G. Lafayette, have
also called, and we find them very amiable and pleasing. We have
likewise had an introduction to Madame de Genlis, for which we are
indebted to Mrs. Danville; who, rightly conjecturing it would be
gratifying to us to know this celebrated lady, and being well
acquainted with her, requested her permission to present us to her.
This was readily granted, and this morning appointed for the visit.
Accordingly, after an early ride to the Sévres manufactory of
porcelain and the palace of Saint Cloud, the most splendid of all the
king's habitations, we repaired to her residence. On arriving we were
conducted up stairs by a tidy looking _femme de chambre_ and ushered
through a small bed-room, plainly furnished, into an apartment that,
from the variety of its contents, might be compared to Noah's ark.
Besides the usual appendages of a parlor, it contained a piano, a
harp, a guitar, a folding screen, and several tables loaded with
books, papers, baskets and boxes, &c. We found the venerable authoress
seated in an arm chair, near the window. Her regular and delicate
features and fair skin, still indicate former beauty. Her nose is
aquiline, and her eyes clear blue; as they are weak, she is obliged to
wear a green shade to protect them from the light, but has never yet
found it necessary to use spectacles: this is astonishing, for she
will be eighty-two on the 25th of next January! She wore a black silk
gown, and a simple muslin cap; and when Mrs. Danville introduced us
she offered her hand to each, and as soon as we were seated entered
into conversation with a degree of vivacity that quite surprised us;
we were still more so, at her vanity. She talked a great deal about
her own works, and in their praise! We asked her if she continued to
play on the harp. "Oh oui! très bien!" she replied. "And on the piano
and the guitar, Madame?" "Oh, oui, tout, tout, très bien!" She told us
she often practised on the harp and composed in prose at the same
time; and that while reciting verses aloud in a distinct voice and
with strict attention to punctuation and emphasis, she could read a
page from any author and then recount to you in regular rotation,
every idea therein expressed; and this proved, she said, that the mind
is capable of two operations at once. Papa observed that Charles the
Twelfth of Sweden, proved it a century ago, when he played chess while
dictating letters to different persons. She did not notice this
remark, but proceeded to extol a novel she wrote some years since,
entitled "Alfred the Great." She considers it one of her best
productions, and gave it to a physician who attended her during a
dangerous illness and declined being paid for his services. She said
she thought she could not compliment him more, than by making him a
present of her work; that he seemed delighted with it, and declared he
would have it published immediately, but that much to her regret he
had not kept his promise. Alfred is her favorite hero, and she
expressed her wonder that he is not often made the subject of a
romance. She informed us that she always retires to bed at half past
ten o'clock and rises at seven, and is careful to eat very moderately.
Her faculties continue perfect, and she knows fifty-two trades; such
as sewing, knitting, spinning, embroidering, making baskets, weaving
purses, &c. &c. We saw on the chimney-piece a snuff box that
Mademoiselle d'Orleans, her _ci-devant_ pupil, had sent to her. On the
lid she had painted a harp entwined with a garland of flowers, and
below it this sentence was written: "C'est votre ouvrage." Having sat
with her two hours we took leave, and had quitted the room, when she
called us back to show us with what ease she could rise from her chair
without resting her hands on the arms of it to aid herself, as old
people are commonly obliged to do. She has invited us to call on her
whenever we can, and was so polite as to say she felt quite flattered
by our visit.

On reaching home we found Mr. Danville and Leonora much diverted at
the exploit of a monkey that had climbed in at the window, and ere
they perceived it, twitched from Leonora's hand a bunch of raisins she
was eating. It was the property of a little Savoyard, who had taught
it a variety of tricks in order to gain a few sous by their
exhibition. The Boulevard abounds with these little wanderers, and
their marmosets.

This evening we are going to a fête at the Tivoli Garden; the _New_
Tivoli as it is called; the old one (which I am told was far
handsomer) has been converted into ground for building. We have seen
the Ballet of Mars and Venus, at the grand opera; nothing can be more
beautiful and splendid than it is! Leaving it for your imagination to
fancy, I subscribe myself your affectionate

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER THIRTEENTH.

Fête at Tivoli--The Catacombs--Cemetery of Montmartre--Abattoirs--Lady
Morgan--Mrs. Opie--A Quaker Meeting.


Paris, ----.

_Dear Jane:_

We were much entertained at Tivoli. The garden was brightly
illuminated, and all sorts of amusements went on; and what a variety
of these the French have, and with what zest they partake of them! We
did our part very well too. We swung, we rode on wooden horses, we
sailed in ships, looked at a cosmorama, witnessed a phantasmagoria,
rope dancing and fire works, a play performed by puppets, and some
metamorphoses of little paste board figures, that were quite
wonderful; for instance:--a tiny lion was changed, as if by magic,
into a cupid driving a car drawn by swans, a young lady into a basket
of flowers, a butterfly into a beau, &c. &c. These transfigurations, I
think, must be produced in the following manner: Two different objects
are painted on a bit of pasteboard, one on the back and the other on
the front of it; the pasteboard is then folded into the shape of one
of them, and threads, too fine to be visible at a moderate distance,
attached to it; after exhibiting the first figure a sufficient time,
the threads are pulled and the pasteboard adroitly turned round and
thrown open, thus displaying the second figure, to the form of which
its edges are trimmed. As no person was visible, the threads were
undoubtedly passed through the scenes of the miniature stage into the
hand of the skilful operator,--for skilful he or she was who conducted
the business. When tired of strolling we entered a fine café, situated
in the centre of the garden, and refreshed ourselves with ice creams;
afterwards, attracted by the sound of music, we repaired to an open
space, where an orchestra was erected and a band of musicians were
playing quadrilles for a party of beaux and belles, who danced away
merrily, not on the _turf_ but in the sand; they were, however, so
inspired by the tones of violins and clarionets, that they moved along
as if on a board floor.

You will wonder, perhaps, how we sailed in ships without the aid of
wind or tide! I will tell you. Two poles, with a little ship suspended
by a rope from each end, were placed crosswise on a pivot, and turned
as rapidly as you chose, carrying you round and round in the air, with
an undulating motion, not dissimilar to that of a vessel at sea, and
so unpleasant to our feelings that we soon _disembarked_. This
diversion is termed "les Espagnolettes." The wooden horses are
arranged in like manner, except that they are firmly fixed on the ends
of the poles, and consequently, in riding on them you do not
experience the sickening, waving motion. The machine for swinging, is
denominated a "Balancoir." This also consists of a couple of beams
placed athwart each other, with chairs attached to their ends, which
are thrown alternately up and down. Several parties, as they glided
round on the wooden horses, amused themselves by trying to pass a
stick through a large ring which was held towards them by a woman
mounted on a bench. Whenever a ring was caught and borne off, it was
instantly replaced by another, until one of the competitors had
obtained _five_ and thus won the game. I must now change my theme and
inform you of our disappointment as respects seeing the catacombs.
They are closed at present by order of the government--I _believe_ on
account of the danger there is in visiting them. We have been to the
"cemetery of Montmartre," or "Field of Repose," as it is likewise
styled. It is of much older date than "Pére la Chaise," but not so
extensive, nor does it contain such handsome monuments; there are
however some shady, melancholy dells and moss covered tombs, that
render it peculiarly interesting. Vestris the celebrated dancer and
Very the chief of Restaurateurs, are buried there. From the cemetery
we proceeded to the "Abattoir," or "Slaughter-house of Montmartre;" an
establishment of this kind is erected in every department of the city.
Within them the butchers exercise their sanguinary functions, and the
expense of them is defrayed by taxes on the animals that are killed.
They are kept in the neatest order and composed of numerous buildings,
each of which is appropriated to a particular branch of the business.
In one the poor animals are knocked in the head; and there is a
receptacle for the blood, which trickles into it through furrows made
in the floor: in a second the carcase is skinned: in a third
quartered: in a fourth the entrails are separated and cleansed: in a
fifth the fat is boiled in an immense kettle. There are besides
spacious tables, where the unconscious victims are sheltered and amply
supplied with food and straw, while awaiting their fate. It made me
quite sad to behold them eating and reposing so calmly, and then to
think of their bloody destiny! The "Abattoirs" are liberally watered
and often washed, and therefore no disagreeable odour is perceptible
about them. I wish our butchers would follow the example of their
French brethren as regards these places!

We had the gratification of meeting with Lady Morgan last night at
Madame B----'s. Mamma had a great deal of conversation with her and
found her extremely affable and agreeable. You know we were told she
was ugly--we do not think her so, but she certainly dresses too
girlishly, rouges too highly and seems too desirous of admiration.
This cannot be said of Mrs. Opie, to whom we were also introduced. She
was as plain in her attire as a dark grey silk gown and a white muslin
kerchief and cap could make her. In her manners she is unaffected, in
her conversation animated and intelligent. Her countenance is open and
expressive of her lively mind. The moment we beheld her we recognized
her as a lady we had seen at a quaker meeting which we attended from
motives of curiosity on Sunday. A quaker meeting in Paris! you will
exclaim. Even so my dear, for what is there on the face of the earth
(that depends not on _soil_ or _climate_) which may not be found in
this bustling capital? The meeting was held in a house in the Champs
Elysèes, belonging to a quaker family with whom Mr. D. was acquainted,
and who gave him a cheerful permission to bring with him whenever he
wished it, any friends desirous of going there. We were shewn into a
neat parlor, where about twenty persons were sitting in solemn
silence, and for nearly an hour not a sound was heard, save the
occasional sneezes of an old lady who had a violent cold in her head.
At length however the spirit moved a dark eyed gentleman and he gave
us a tolerable sermon. I conclude with love from all of us to
yourself, aunt M. and Albert, and to our relations and friends in the
vicinity of Morven Lodge. I have not always room for affectionate
messages, or be assured they would always be inserted.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER FOURTEENTH.

Soirée at General Lafayette's--Benjamin Constant--Messrs. Perrier,
Laffitte and Ternaux, &c.--"Conservatory of Arts and
Trades"--Diorama--Georama--Neorama--"Royal Printing
Office"--Manufactory of Plate Glass--Hospital of the Quinze
Vingts--Castle of Vincennes--Fountain of the Elephant--Franconi's
Circus--The Duchess of Berri's children.


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane:_

Another busy week of pleasure and amusement has glided by since you
have heard from us, and two evenings of it have been spent at two
delightful soirées. The first at Madame de N----'s, the second at the
gallant old General Lafayette's, in the rue d'Anjou; where he has a
suite of small and neat apartments illuminated for the reception of
his expected guests on every Tuesday evening. We made our debut there
about 9 o'clock and found them crowded. Among the throng were many
celebrated and interesting personages, for the worthy and enlightened
of all nations seem ever ready to do homage to the virtuous patriarch
of Lagrange. At his soirées the greatest ease prevails--the
refreshments are simple and plentiful, and in compliment to the
Americans and English, tea is always served, a custom not practised
among the French. We again saw Sir Charles and Lady Morgan and Mrs.
Opie, with whom by the bye we have exchanged visits. Then there was
the orator Benjamin Constant, a pale, thin man, with light blue eyes
and snowy hair, looking as if he were far on his passage to the next
world. He was environed by a crowd of gentlemen, to whom he was
speaking very earnestly with a great deal of gesture. Not far from him
we observed other stars of the Chamber of Deputies, and these were
Messieurs Casimir Perrier, Laffitte and Ternaux, whose countenances
bespeak their noble minds. Monsieur Ternaux has introduced here and
carries on the manufacture of cashmere shawls, and they not only equal
those of India in tints and texture, but surpass them in the beauty
and richness of the borders. To him also is attributed the discovery
of the art of stamping patterns in relief on cloth table covers, &c.
In the next room, we saw Mr. Cooper, the American novelist, and his
lady--the two Miss P----'s, cousins of Lord Byron and Mr. and Mrs.
----. She is the daughter of Gen. Bertrand, and a beautiful creature
she is. The lovely countess d'A---- was sitting near her. She is the
sister of Madame George Lafayette, and is an intelligent and
fascinating woman. She called here yesterday with Madame Lasteyrie and
her daughters.

It is now time to speak of some of the curiosities of Paris to which
we have recently been devoting our mornings. I believe the
"conservatory of arts and trades" stands first on the list. It is also
termed the "museum of industry," and is a collection of all sorts of
machines and models, patterns and specimens of things that French
genius and labor have produced; for the government obliges every
Frenchman to deposit here a sample or model of whatever he improves or
invents, and to accompany it with an account of its manufacture or
construction. Besides several halls exhibiting machines and models,
there are others filled with specimens of porcelain, glass, stone
ware, lace, silks, ribbons, tapestry, colored and stamped paper,
scissors, knives, fans, watches, clocks, lamps and a thousand other
articles. One of the halls contains a number of _miniature_ buildings,
representing sundry manufactories. They are open in front, and display
in different apartments the various processes of each business and the
implements required in it, not omitting the most trifling tool.
Another hall contains a library of 10,000 volumes, written in almost
every language, and treating on subjects connected with the purport of
the establishment--and professors of geometry and natural philosophy
give lectures there to such pupils as are recommended by the minister
of the interior. Would it not be shameful if the French nation did not
rapidly progress in the arts and sciences, when the government is so
liberal in encouraging them, by affording those persons who possess
talents every advantage gratuitously, so that the poor may rise as
well as the rich, if blessed with abilities? Among the patterns of
tapestry is one concerning which a droll story is related, viz. that
Vaucanson, a skilful mechanic, being offended with the inhabitants of
Lyons for undervaluing some looms he had invented, tied an ass to one
of them and made him execute the piece of embroidery from which this
specimen was cut, and which excelled any _they_ had ever done.

We have also visited the Diorama, the Georama and the Neorama, the
royal printing office, the manufactory of plate glass and the hospital
of the "Quinze Vingts." A diorama you have seen. A georama is a
panoramic representation of the earth with its divisions of land and
water; the spectator standing in the centre. A neorama is a painting
so ingeniously designed and arranged, as to produce the illusion of
your being within whatever building it represents. The one we saw is a
picture of the interior of St. Peter's at Rome, and Mr. Dorval who has
been there says it is an exact copy. The royal printing office is an
establishment of great magnitude. There is a vast collection of types
and several hundred presses. We were informed that Pope Pius VII
visited this office during his sojourn in Paris, and that while he was
there the Lord's prayer was printed in no less than 150 languages and
presented to him. At the plate glass manufactory we beheld mirrors of
wonderful magnitude. The plates are cast at Cherbourg and at St.
Gobin, (a castle in the department of Aisne) and sent here to be
quick-silvered and polished. Eight hundred workmen are constantly
employed in the business. The French are indebted to the great Colbert
for this establishment; prior to its foundation plate glass could only
be had by sending for it to Venice. Having satisfied our curiosity
here, we proceeded to the hospital of the "Quinze Vingts," founded by
St. Louis in 1220 for the maintenance of 300 blind--a larger number is
now admitted. It was customary in the age of St. Louis to count by
twenties, and there being 15 twenties in 300 this institution derived
its appellation from having that number of pensioners. We were pleased
with the neatness and comfort that reigned, and arrived there just in
time to hear a class of the blind sing and play; for those who evince
a talent for music are instructed in it. The women were the vocalists
and the men performed on various instruments. Even the leader was
sightless! They kept time very well and we enjoyed their concert
exceedingly, though the distorted faces some made while singing were
horrible. They are taught a variety of trades, and not only reading
but the art of printing, and we saw a man arrange the types and print
several words with both skill and quickness. The types were extremely
large and made of wood, and no ink was used in the operation, but the
letters pressed on the paper, so as to leave the traces of them
perceptible to the slightest touch.

On Wednesday we went to the castle of Vincennes, a gothic fortress,
about three miles from the city. It contains the state prisons and an
armory. A note to the commandant, from Mr. Warden, the American
Ex-Consul and a kind friend of the Danvilles, gained us admission, and
we spent two hours in examining the castle within whose gloomy
turrets, nobles and monarchs have sighed in captivity. The celebrated
Mirabeau was a prisoner there during four years, and there wrote his
letters between Gabriel and Sophie. The duke d'Enghien was shot in a
moat of this castle--the spot where the execution took place is
designated by a willow tree and a black column, bearing this
inscription, "Here he fell." In the chapel is a handsome mausoleum
enclosing his ashes. Returning from Vincennes we stopped on the _Place
de la Bastille_ (once occupied by that terrific building) to view the
model of the fountain of the Elephant. It is of plaster, and 72 feet
high! A tower on the animal's back is to serve as a reservoir for the
water which is to flow from the proboscis, and one of the legs is to
contain the stair case leading to the tower. The whole mass is to be
of bronze, but it is doubtful if this grand fountain will ever be
made; it was one of Napoleon's gigantic designs, which adversity and
death prevented his accomplishing. Last night we witnessed the wonder
of an Elephant acting a part in a play at the Cirque Olympique, a
theatre of the same description as that of Astley's in London. The
house was crowded almost to suffocation, and the docile and
astonishing creature excited universal admiration by her performance.
She is called "Mam'selle Dyjeck," is a native of the island of Ceylon,
and was purchased from some Indian jugglers by Monsieur Huguet her
present owner. She is so attached to him that she shews evident
distress if he is long absent from her, and extreme delight when he
returns. If he be fatigued or indisposed, it is said that she even
undresses him, puts him to bed and watches by him while he rests.
Travellers I know are expected to exaggerate, but I assure you I am
not availing myself of the privilege in the present instance. The play
was entitled "l'Elephant du roi de Siam," and was written expressly to
exhibit the address and sagacity of M'lle Dyjeck, who really acted
throughout as if she were a human being. At the close of the
performance the audience vociferated for her re-appearance, and after
a few moments elapsed the curtain was raised and the _royal lady_ came
forth proudly tossing her trunk. She advanced to the edge of the stage
and made three courtesies, retreating all the while, and looking round
on the spectators as she rose, until she had sufficiently receded, she
walked off amidst a roar of applause. It was quite an inspiring scene.
The Duchess of Berri and her suite were present.

Apropos--Madame F. lately gave us a most interesting account of her
Highness' children, the little Duke of Bordeaux and M'lle Louise. She
says they are both remarkably amiable and _le petit Duc_ holds a levee
daily, is dressed _en militaire_ and assumes all the airs of a grown
gentleman. He is so proud of his sword, that the severest penalty his
tutor can inflict, when he misbehaves, is to deprive him of it. He is
a pretty boy--we have often met him taking an airing in his coach and
four, surrounded by gens d'armes, for the Bourbons are so unpopular
that for fear of his sharing the fate of his father, he is always
strongly guarded whenever he appears in public. He pays dearly for his
lineage, poor little fellow! and I never see him without thinking
sorrowfully of the probability of his perishing by the ruthless hand
of an assassin. But mercy! what a packet. Have patience dearest! with
your

LEONTINE.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

In recollection of Thomas H. White, who died at Richmond, Va. October
7, 1832, aged 19 years.


  Was it a dream? It has pass'd away
  As vanish dreams at the rising day,--
  That graceful form, from the Saco's side,
  That loved the leap of its dashing tide,
  And watched full long, in the mild Moon's ray,
  The rainbow tints of the rising spray.

  Fair was that form; and the feature's glow,
  True to the pulse of the Heart's warm flow,
  Heighten'd at thought of those friends afar,
  Who the aspect watched of his rising star;
  With fervent prayer that that star might shed
  Benignant influence upon his head.

  With heart as joyous, and foot as light
  As the wild young roe, he scaled the height--
  The crystal sought in its mountain-bed,
  And the fragrant wild flowers gathered;
  Nature he loved in her freakish mood--
  And sought her, deep in her solitude.

       *       *       *       *       *

  He is not now where the rapids play,
  Or moonlight tinctures the rising spray;
  Nor like the roe on the craggy height,
  With heart as gay, and a foot as light;--
  Did he hear the howl of the frost-god nigh,
  And fly like the Birds to his native sky?

  His native sky?--Ah! it brightly glows--
  It cheers the bird and it scents the rose;
  It wakes all nature to songs of joy--
  _But it smiles all vainly on thee, sweet Boy!_
  They laid, who loved thee, all lone and deep,
  On the James' green shore, in thy last, long sleep!

  Yes! 'twas a dream of Life's dreamy day!
  Beautiful, fleeting, and vain as they!
  Dreams of the heart, the mind, the eye,
  Belov'd, how dearly!--how soon to fly!
  They fade, they vanish, e'er dawns the morrow,
  And the heart is left to its night of sorrow.

ELIZA.

_Saco, Maine_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO SPRING.[1]


  Not since the world's first blushing Spring
  Hath warmer, truer offering
  Than mine, by minstrel, muse, or maid,
  Been on thy rose-wreathed altar laid.

  May-flower, the first in Flora's band,
  I've snatch'd from thy half-open'd hand,
  And help'd the little Daisy shake
  From her bright head the light snow-flake;

  I've watch'd thee while thy crayon spread
  The first tint on the Violet's head,
  And wrapt with pleasure, scan'd the grace
  Thy light touch threw o'er Nature's face--

  But more I love thee for thy promise bright,
  That Man shall spring, revived from Death's cold, wintry night.

ELIZA.

_Saco, Maine._

[Footnote 1: On the warm banks of the James, this Apostrophe to Spring
may probably appear altogether too late for the season, but on the
banks of the Saco, where a good fire is still necessary to comfort,
and the May-flower, the most daring of our wild flowers, is just
putting forth its blossom in token of _approaching_ Spring, it is
quite early enough.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SPRING.


    Rude Winter's surly storms are gone--
  Spring, in her joy, is passing on:
  Beneath her light and magic tread,
  Each flow'ret lifts its gentle head:
  Streamlets, so long in fetters bound,
  Leap with a glad, reviving sound:
  Valleys and hills, so long unseen,
  Glow with a rich and silv'ry green:
  The Robin's wild and thrilling note,
  The silence of the grove, has broke:
  The Bee, for months, in bondage held,
  Wakes her hum in the wonted field:
  The Horse and Ox their stalls forsake,
  In leaping streams, their thirst to slake;--
  To seek, on mountain-side and plain,
  The feast, that Nature spreads again.
  Nymph, with the sweetly-laughing eye!
  Where dost thou dwell, when o'er the sky,
  The murky storms of Winter scowl,
  And through the leafless valleys howl;--
  That thou, the moment they are gone,
  Doth, lovely still, come tripping on?
  Go on, upon thy blooming way!
  I know thou wilt not, canst not, stay;
  But oft, as on your course you wind,
  Oh! cast a "ling'ring look behind!"

ROY.

_Lovingston, April 1, 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger

TO A. L. B.

Author of "_Trust Not_," in the Messenger for February.


    Scorn not the love of the gentle one!
  Turn not away from the heart's devotion!
    Still to its shrine may'st thou be won,
  And thy bosom be stirr'd with its gentle emotion.

    Spurn not that treasure! its worth is untold;
  Bright gems are hid in its deep recesses;--
    Fear not that her bosom shall grow cold,
  When the light is gone from her wavy tresses.

    There's a fountain of feeling pure and bright,
  Which the glance of her eye is so gently revealing;
    Like the twilight dawn of the Summer's light,
  On the longing sight of the weary stealing.

    Trust to the love thou hast falsely disdain'd,
  So shall the trusted deceive thee never;
    Forget the scorn thou hast falsely claim'd,
  And the star of thy breast shall be bright forever.

    Then come to "the hall of wine and song,"
  Where the spirit of beauty reposes,
    And truth shall be crown'd by the shining throng,
  With a garland of myrtle and roses!

S. W. W.

_Raleigh, N. C._




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SPRING.


  To see thy tiny songsters rear
    With wondrous skill, their home of love;
  And hear each praise the other's care
    In songs, that might be breathed above.

  To watch the modest flowret's growth,
    The spotless type of love on earth
  Which nightly droops, as though 'twere loath
    To quit the breast that gave it birth;

  Or lay me down beside some brook,
    Where I may muse the livelong day,
  And drop my oft neglected book,
    To dream of others far away.

  Such is the joy, the quiet bliss,
    Of holding converse sweet with thee,
  And wooing, still, thy favoring kiss
    Midst nature's wilds, in fancy free.

  But I must bide within my room,
    Content to breathe, alone, thy air,
  And feel that it is double gloom,
    Because thou art so lovely, there.

A PRISONER.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. T. W. WHITE.

_Dear Sir:_--You have been so kind as to solicit something from my pen
for your interesting periodical. With great pleasure I transmit the
enclosed sheets, in the hope that you may find them suitable to the
Messenger.

The subject I consider as particularly congenial with this delightful
season, which has been truly said to constitute the "great jubilee of
nature;" awakening our sympathy with young life, and drawing our
attention to the promise and hazards of the vegetable creation, amid
the cheerful labors of agriculture.

  Nunc omnis ager, nunc omnis parturit arbos;
  Nunc frondent sylvæ, nunc _formosissimus annus_.

But I am sure that my subject has an interest, independent of the
delightful associations of the season at which I write, and that most
of your readers will be ever ready to exclaim in the gallant strain of
the _sweet_ Irish Bard,

  Oh woman! whose form and whose soul
  Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue!
  Whether sunn'd in the tropics, or chill'd at the pole,
  If woman be there, there is happiness too!

What I have written in this first number of my Dissertation, has
reference principally to what may be termed the _sentimental_ portion
of our nature. I must therefore beg of your readers, to suspend all
judgment as to the partiality or impartiality of the execution, until
I have drawn the whole picture. I am yet to compare the sexes
together, in relation to the intellectual powers.

I am, sir, with high respect,

Your obedient servant,

Z. X. W.

_May 12, 1835_.

       *       *       *       *       *

DISSERTATION

On the Characteristic Differences between the Sexes, and on the
Position and Influence of Woman in Society.


NO. I.

When we survey with a philosophic eye the varied and complicated works
of nature, there is nothing upon which the mind rests with more
pleasure, than the contemplation of the harmony, the order, and the
unity of design, manifested throughout. The physical philosopher
points to the centripetal and centrifugal forces, to the annual and
diurnal revolutions of the earth, to the periodical return of the
seasons, the regular succession of day and night, to the laws of
cohesion and repulsion, and shows with pride the wondrous harmony
which exists in all the departments of the physical world, all working
and conspiring to one great end. The political economist delights to
look to the nations of the earth, composed of vast multitudes of
individuals; to scan the great variety of occupations which the
endless division of labor has generated, and to see how the almost
countless millions of inhabitants, although each one is busily and
selfishly engaged in the pursuit only of his own little narrow
schemes, are nevertheless, when we embrace the grand whole, working,
in as perfect harmony and accord, as if the spirit of unbounded wisdom
and universal philanthropy guided every head and touched every
heart.--While to the common observer, the great volume of the human
mind is uninteresting, with its pages confused and scattered like the
sybil leaves of antiquity, it becomes to the metaphysician who can
arrange and interpret it, a source of knowledge, of pleasure, and of
gratitude. He beholds the nice lineaments of feelings and
passions--observes the operations of our various intellectual powers
and faculties. He sees a beautiful harmony and unity of design in the
whole Ideal Republic; and finds with wonder and astonishment, that all
our passions, instincts and faculties are so nicely arranged in
relation to each other, that, like the bodies in our planetary system,
not one could be struck from existence without endangering the harmony
of the whole. Thus shall we find, look where we will, through the wide
range of nature's works, part corresponding to part, power to power,
mind to mind, and to matter too; and the whole moving forward with
that beautiful harmonious action, which at once demonstrates the
illimitable wisdom of the designer,--his benevolence and his
consistency. Among all these beautiful adaptations in the universe,
there is not one perhaps, which presents itself to the mind under a
more engaging, a more interesting aspect, than the relations of the
_sexes_. To increase and multiply, seems to be the great law of
animated creation; and the attractions by which the sexes are brought
together for the fulfilment of this universal law, are so many, so
complicate, and yet so beautiful and delightful, while shedding their
benign influence over the rugged journey through life, that it is
impossible to contemplate them, without an immediate acknowledgment of
their sublime harmony, and of the benevolent design of him who ordered
and established them. My mind of late has been more than usually
engaged in the contemplation of this subject; and to amuse my leisure
hours, I have determined to throw together, however loosely, some
thoughts on the constitutional differences between the sexes--to point
out the effects which those differences have produced upon their
moral, social and political characters--to show that the position of
woman in society is not an accidental one, but results from the law of
nature; and that the benign and powerful influence which she exerts
over the destiny of man, is due principally to that very state of
things which woman is so apt to condemn. From this investigation, we
cannot fail to see that a constant amelioration in her condition is
calculated to enlarge and diversify the pleasures of the whole human
family, while it urges forward with irresistible power, the march of
civilization.

Whether there be any original natural differences between the sexes,
in a moral and intellectual point of view, is a question extremely
difficult to determine. Education has commenced, long before children
have arrived at that age and growth of intellect, which will enable
them to manifest with certainty their passions, propensities, tastes,
and mental powers. The wide intellectual and moral differences
existing among individuals similarly situated and similarly educated,
lead us to conclude that they have different original capacities and
dispositions. But so different is the education of the sexes--so
different is their position in society, that we cannot say with
certainty, whether their moral and intellectual differences are due
wholly to education, or partly to nature. The discussion of this
question I shall waive, as not being of much importance to the view
which I propose to take of the subject, and shall proceed to show how
the education of the two sexes is calculated to produce the
differences which we observe among them, and how their relative
positions in society are the results of the force of circumstances,
and not of accident, as some have most ingeniously contended; and this
I hope to be enabled to show, even upon the supposition of perfect
_intellectual equality_ between the sexes at birth.

Before entering upon this subject, it is proper to state, that I use
the word _education_ in its most extended sense,--to mean not only the
moral and intellectual discipline which we derive from our parents and
teachers, but to include the influence of physical organization, of
the physical circumstances by which we are surrounded, of opinion--in
fine, all those influences which are extraneous to the mind itself,
but capable of forming and directing it. There is both a physical and
moral education, to which we are constantly subjected, from birth to
manhood, entirely independent of professed teachers, which perhaps
exercises the greatest sway in the formation of our characters. Most
persons are apt to forget, in the calculation of character, the effect
of physical circumstances; but these must never be lost sight of.
Physics govern morals, to a certain extent, all over the world. It is
impossible to withdraw ourselves wholly from the influence of physical
causes. In the beautiful language of Mr. Allison, "Wander where we
will, trees wave, rivers flow, mountains ascend, clouds darken, or
winds animate the face of heaven; and over the whole scenery, the sun
sheds the cheerfulness of his morning, the splendor of his noonday, or
the tenderness of his evening light;--there is not one of these
features of scenery, which is not fitted to waken us to moral emotion;
to lead us, when once the key of our imagination is struck, to trains
of fascinating and endless imagery; and in the indulgence of them, to
make our bosoms either glow with conceptions of mental excellence, or
melt in the dreams of moral good. Even upon the man of the most
uncultivated taste, the scenes of nature have some inexplicable charm:
there is not a chord perhaps of the human heart, which may not be
awakened by their influence." Again, let us wander where we will, and
in vain shall we attempt to escape the moral influences which are
exerted around us. Opinions, manners, customs, fashions, &c. exercise
a silent, but potent sway, from which none can hope to be exempt. We
sometimes indulge the wish of flying from our native land, to escape
these influences in a foreign clime. How vain the wish! Go where we
will, the mighty spell is still laid over us--the enchantment is still
unbroken--and as long as man's nature remains unchanged, so long must
he be subject to the guidance and direction of that mighty physical
and moral machinery, which if ever at work around him, silently
developing and forming his character. These causes, in their all
pervading influences, may almost be considered as emblematical of the
omnipresence of the Divinity. In our remarks then, upon the
distinctive characteristics of the sexes, it is proper to commence
first with the operation of physical causes; and among these, without
doubt the difference of physical organization exercises the most
powerful influence--perhaps so powerful as to be itself sufficient to
account for all the characteristic differences between man and woman.
Of course, the remarks which follow, apply to the entire sexes, and
not to individual cases; for the individual female will frequently be
found to have all the masculine traits of character more perfectly
developed than the individual man. Few men, for example, can be
compared with an Edgeworth or De Stael in point of intellect--and few
have shown more persevering courage and masculine heroism, than Queen
Margaret of England, or Joan d'Arc of France; but these are specimens
from which we can draw no just conclusions concerning the entire sex.


_Physical Differences between the Sexes, and their Immediate Effects_.

What then is the difference in physical organization? "Woman," says
Voltaire, "is in general less strong than man; smaller and less
capable of lasting labor. Her blood is more aqueous; her flesh less
firm; her hair longer; her limbs more rounded; her arms less muscular;
her mouth smaller; her hips more prominent, and her abdomen larger.
These physical points distinguish woman all over the earth, and of all
races, from Lapland unto the coast of Guinea, and from America to
China."[1] The physiologists all agree in the main points of
difference here asserted. They say that woman differs from man in the
whole of her lower stature--in the delicacy of her organization--in
the predominance of her lymphatic and cellular system, which softens
down the projections of the muscles, and gives to all her limbs those
rounded and graceful forms, of which we see in the Venus de Medicis
the inimitable model. "In woman, sensibility is also more exquisite;
and, with less strength, her mobility is greater. The female skeleton
even, is easily distinguished from that of the male, by striking
differences. The asperities of the bones are less prominent; the
clavicle is less curved; the chest shorter, but more expanded; the
sternum shorter, but wider; the pelvis more capacious,"[2] &c.
Comparing the sexes together then, all over the world, man appears to
be decidedly the stronger and better formed for war, for hard and
persevering labor; woman for retirement, for the mild and less
laborious occupations. The camp, the field, the woods, and the sea
seem to be the natural theatres for the display of man's powers. Woman
fills with peculiar grace, all the domestic occupations and sedentary
employments. In fact, the same amount of exercise is not necessary to
the preservation of her health, as for that of man. Hence she is more
naturally sedentary and quiet, and perhaps less industrious. Her
labor, in a purely politico-economical light, is universally
considered less valuable. The severer labors of cutting, mauling,
ditching, carpentry, masonry, &c. are performed by men. The management
of children, sewing, knitting, washing, &c. are performed most
frequently by women. The working in lace, Rousseau considered an
occupation particularly suited to a delicate modest female. He never
could exercise the slightest patience towards men tailors. The needle
and sword ought not to be managed by the same hands. In his _Emile_,
he says, "If I were sovereign, I would not permit sewing and the
occupations of the needle to any but women and lame men."

[Footnote 1: See Phil. Dic. Vol. 6, Art. Woman.]

[Footnote 2: Richerand's Physiology. Chapman and Goodman's Edition: p.
381.]

Occupation produces a mighty influence on character. Women in all
countries will talk about their dresses and domestic matters: Men talk
of war, politics, horse-racing, field sports, and the labors of the
farm. At a very early period of life, we find the boy delighting in
his top, his bow and arrows, and his mimic wagon or cart. The girl
finds most pleasure in dolls, in pretty dresses and glittering toys,
which amuse her without much exertion on her part. "With what a
languid yawn," says Mary Woolstoncraft in her Rights of Woman, "have I
seen an admirable poem thrown down, that a man of true taste returns
to again and again with rapture; and whilst melody has almost
suspended respiration, a lady has asked me where I bought my gown."
And whilst the men converse about business, politics or literature,
"how naturally," says Swift, "do women apply their hands to each
other's lappets and ruffles." The learned lady whom I have just
referred to, might have saved herself a great deal of vexation and
pretended mortification, if she had only reflected, that difference in
occupation between the sexes is due principally to difference in
physical organization; and that the conversation of men and women will
always run more or less upon their occupations. Our very dreams are
but too frequently dictated by the occupations which engage us. Queen
Mab gallops

  "Through lover's brains, and then they dream of love;
   On courtier's knees, that dream on court'sies straight;
   O'er lawyer's fingers, who straight dream on fees.
   And sometimes comes she with a tithe pig's tail,
   Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep--
   Then dreams he of another benefice:
   Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
   And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats;
   Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades;
   Of healths five fathoms deep: and then anon
   Drums in his ear--at which he starts and wakes;
   And being thus frighten'd, swears a prayer or two,
   And sleeps again."


_Relative Position of the Sexes in Society_.

The relative position of the sexes in the social and political world,
may certainly be looked upon as the result of organization. The
greater physical strength of man, enables him to occupy the foreground
in the picture. He leaves the domestic scenes; he plunges into the
turmoil and bustle of an active, selfish world; in his journey through
life, he has to encounter innumerable difficulties, hardships and
labors which constantly beset him. His mind must be nerved against
them. Hence courage and boldness are his attributes. It is his
province, undismayed, to stand against the rude shocks of the world;
to meet with a lion's heart, the dangers which threaten him. He is the
shield of woman, destined by nature to guard and protect her. Her
inferior strength and sedentary habits confine her within the domestic
circle; she is kept aloof from the bustle and storm of active life;
she is not familiarized to the out of door dangers and hardships of a
cold and scuffling world: timidity and modesty are her attributes. In
the great strife which is constantly going forward around her, there
are powers engaged which her inferior physical strength prevents her
from encountering. She must rely upon the strength of others; man must
be engaged in her cause. How is he to be drawn over to her side? Not
by menace--not by force; for weakness cannot, by such means, be
expected to triumph over might. No! It must be by conformity to that
character which circumstances demand for the sphere in which she
moves; by the exhibition of those qualities which delight and
fascinate--which are calculated to win over to her side the proud lord
of creation, and to make him an humble suppliant at her shrine. Grace,
modesty and loveliness are the charms which constitute her power. By
these, she creates the magic spell that subdues to her will the more
mighty physical powers by which she is surrounded. Her attributes are
rather of a passive than active character. Her power is more
emblematical of that of divinity: it subdues without an effort, and
almost creates by mere volition;--whilst man must wind his way through
the difficult and intricate mazes of philosophy; with pain and toil,
tracing effects to their causes, and unravelling the deep mysteries of
nature--storing his mind with useful knowledge, and exercising,
training and perfecting his intellectual powers, whilst he cultivates
his strength and hardens and matures his courage; all with a view of
enabling him to assert his rights, and exercise a greater sway over
those around him. Woman we behold dependant and weak; but out of that
very weakness and dependance springs an irresistible power. She may
pursue her studies too--not however with a view of triumphing in the
senate chamber--not with a view to forensic display--not with a view
of leading armies to combat, or of enabling her to bring into more
formidable action the physical power which nature has conferred on
her. No! It is but the better to perfect all those feminine graces,
all those fascinating attributes, which render her the centre of
attraction, and which delight and charm all those who breathe the
atmosphere in which she moves; and, in the language of Mr. Burke,
would make ten thousand swords leap from their scabbards to avenge the
insult that might be offered to her. By her very meekness and beauty
does she subdue all around her. The Grecian poet of old has told us
where her power lies.

  "To woman what does nature give?
   Beauty she gives instead of darts;
   Beauty instead of shields imparts:
   Nor can the fire nor sword oppose
   The fair, victorious where she goes."

We must recollect, however, that it is beauty of mind, of grace, of
accomplishment; and not beauty of person alone, which constitutes her
power. When the beautiful mother of mankind is described by the
matchless poet, he mentions not one _purely_ physical trait of beauty.

  "Grace was in all her steps; heaven in her eye:
   In all her gestures dignity and love."

When Juno too, tries the old and successful cheat of love with her
imperial husband, the poet of antiquity makes her borrow the beauties
of mind, rather than those of body.

  "The gentle vow, the gay desire,
   The kind deceit, the still reviving fire;
   Persuasive speech, and more persuasive sighs,
   Silence that spoke, and eloquence of eyes."

Even Waller, the sycophantic poet of a corrupt and profligate court,
pays all due homage to the beauty of mind.

                 "Oh, my lovely foe,
  Tell me where thy strength doth lie--
  Where the power that _charms_ me so:
  In thy soul, or in thine eye."

As woman then cannot conquer by physical strength, she must depend
upon other attributes of a more passive quality. The following little
anecdote well illustrates the characteristic differences between the
sexes in this respect. I was once giving a handsome and accomplished
lady a description of the Menagerie Royal at Paris, and was describing
the apartment of a large ferocious lion that had been brought from
Africa. The apartment was double, with a partition wall between the
chambers. Whilst the lion would be in one chamber eating, it was the
custom of the keeper to go into the other for the purpose of cleaning
it out, taking care to shut the door between them. One day he
neglected this; and the lion leaving the meat which he had been
devouring, suddenly entered the room, advanced to the man, who backed
against the wall, then leaped upon his breast, and looked him steadily
in the face. Just at this point, I paused and asked the lady, for she
seemed agitated, what she would have done in a similar crisis. Her
answer was characteristic indeed: I would have _kissed_ him! Now I
assert that there is not a man in the wide world who would have ever
thought of appeasing the wrath of the monarch of the forest by a kiss.
His power does not depend on a kiss. From him it is not sufficiently
appreciated to make it coveted by others, and therefore a source of
his power. But with woman it is far otherwise; it is one of her most
potent means--a sort of reserve, not to be resorted to but under the
pressure of necessity. Had you addressed the same question to man, he
would have told you, that he would have stood quiet and firm, (as did
the individual just mentioned,) till assistance could be brought; or
he would have summoned up all his courage and all his strength for one
desperate effort, and attempted to hurl the lion from him; but never
would he have thought of purchasing his life by giving him a kiss.
This is one of woman's resources in the hour of peril, and woman alone
would ever have thought of it.

In that darkest and most dismal hour of Josephine's life, when the
dread secret of the divorce was first hinted to her by that great but
wily and unprincipled statesman Fouche, how does she act? In all the
agony and concentrated grief which preys upon her heart, she seeks in
his chamber the solitary chieftain, whose martial prowess had shaken
all the thrones of Europe, and filled the world with a fame which
eclipsed that of the Cæsars and Alexanders--she seats herself in his
lap--she strokes back the hair from his forehead: in the mild and
faltering tone of injured honor, she asks him if it be so? He answers
no! And with beauty, grace and tears supplicating, who could have
answered otherwise! Then imprinting a kiss upon his brow, she asks the
dismission of Fouche as an earnest of his attachment. This was denied
her; and at that moment despair seized upon her heart. She knew her
power was gone--the charm was broken--the spell was dissolved.
Ambition triumphed over love. But the Colossus of Europe could have
told you, that the melancholy triumph of that moment, had cost him
more than the conquest of kingdoms and the dethronement of monarchs;
or he could have told you afterwards, that when he for the first time
beheld the barren rock of St. Helena, with that countenance unmoved
and unchanged, which so astonished those who observed it,--the
internal struggle by which he chained down the conflicting emotions of
his soul, was not to be compared with that which could firmly resist
the request of a beloved but injured wife in tears.


_Points of Honor in the Sexes_.

So far, I have been considering the effects of mere inferiority of
strength in the female. But independently of this, there is another
portion of her organization, attended with consequences no less marked
on the whole character. I allude of course to the great law of nature,
which imposes upon her the burden of gestation--of nursing and of
training the rising population of the world. That woman is destined to
the office of nursing and rearing her children, the arrangement of
nature evidently demonstrates. It is she alone whom nature provides
with the food adapted to the support of the fragile constitution of
the newly born babe. She has known and felt all the solicitude,
anxiety and pain pertaining to its existence. It is a law of our
nature, to love that with most ardor, which has cost us most pain and
most anxiety in the attainment. For this reason perhaps, it may be
that even at birth, a mother's love for her babe is more intense than
that of the father; and hence an additional reason of a moral
character, why the office of tutoring and nursing should devolve more
particularly on her. Let us now proceed, for a moment, to trace the
consequences of this position of woman. It is evident that its
tendency must be, to narrow the circle in which she moves; a
considerable portion of her life must be spent in the nursery and the
sick room. Here, at once, would be presented an insurmountable barrier
against that ambition which would lead her into the field, into
politics, or any of the regular professions. She never could compete
with man. In fact, to succeed at all, she would be obliged to desert
the station and defeat the ends for which nature intended her. A
physician, a lawyer, or statesman, who should be obliged to attend to
the suckling, clothing, and the thousand little wants of a helpless
babe, would be distanced in the race by him, who with any thing like
equal power of intellect, was unimpeded in his career by any of those
embarrassing obstacles.

This organization of woman now under consideration, renders
circumspection and virtue more absolutely indispensable to her than to
man. Guilt and infidelity are much more certainly detected in her case
than in his, and are attended with much more lamentable consequences.
Her whole moral character is formed in some measure in view of this
state of things: chastity and virtue become her points of honor;
modesty becomes her most pleasing and necessary attribute.

  "That chastity of look which seems to hang
   A veil of purest light o'er all her beauties,
   And by forbidding, most inflames desire,"

may truly be said to constitute one of her greatest and most
indispensable ornaments. The great point of honor in man, is
undoubtedly courage; and in woman, chastity and virtue. "In books of
chivalry, (says Addison, in one of the Nos. of the Spectator,) where
the point of honor is strained to madness, the whole story runs on
chastity and courage. The damsel is mounted on a white palfrey, as an
emblem of her innocence; and to avoid scandal, must have a dwarf for
her page. She is not to think of a man until some misfortune has
brought a knight errant to her relief. The knight falls in love, and
did not gratitude restrain her from murdering her deliverer, would die
at her feet by her disdain. However, he must waste many years in the
desert, before her virginity can think of a surrender. The knight goes
off--attacks every thing he meets that is bigger and stronger than
himself--seeks all opportunities of being knocked on the head--and
after seven years' rambling, returns to his mistress, whose chastity
in the mean time has been attacked by giants and tyrants, and
undergone as many trials as her lover's valor." The following
inscription on a monument erected in Westminster Abbey, to the Duke
and Duchess of New Castle, particularly pleased Mr. Addison, as
illustrative of the difference in the points of honor between the
sexes. "Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas
of Colchester; a noble family--for all the brothers were valiant, and
all the sisters virtuous." Voltaire in his Philosophical Dictionary
remarks, that all animals, if they could talk, would tell you they
considered the female, each one of its own species, as the most
beautiful creature in the world. The remark is a philosophical one;
and will no doubt apply with great force to man, especially in a
civilized condition. All our writers on taste, rank woman in point of
beauty at the head of creation; and make _her_ the most beautiful of
her sex, whose beauty is combined with virtue and loveliness, and
fortified by modesty. How beautifully has Barrett described the
superior excellence of the female character in the following lines:

  "To guard that virtue, to supply the place
   Of courage, wanting in her gentle race--
   Lo, modesty was given; mysterious spell,
   Whose blush can shame, whose panic can repel.
   Strong, by the very weakness it betrays,
   It sheds a mist before our fiery gaze:
   The panting apprehension, quick to feel
   The shrinking grace, that fain would grace conceal,
   The beautiful rebuke that looks surprise--
   The gentle vengeance of averted eyes;--
   These are its arms, and these supreme prevail;
   Love pauses--Vice retracts his glozing tale."

We are now prepared to see at once, the foundation of that difference
observable among the sexes all over the world, in all ages, in
relation to the conduct which they observe towards each other. Man
makes all the advances towards the weaker sex. He is the wooer, and
woman the wooed, in every age and country: whilst she is coy and
retiring, and blushes deeply at the very idea of her preferences and
attachments for the opposite sex being even suspected, man
acknowledges with candor his devotion to woman; seeks her society
every where; confesses his enthusiastic delight at the charms of her
conversation, and glories in the performance of those civilities and
gallantries, which the laws of social intercourse have always demanded
at his hands. The desires and inclinations of man, are open and
confessed; those of woman, kept doubtful and secret. "Man (says
Rousseau,) depends on woman on account of his desires; woman on man
both on account of desires and necessities." The difference, however,
is that the former are avowed, the latter concealed.[3] The charms and
fascination of woman, are so contrived as to hide all art itself, and
to appear entirely aimless. Yet in this very circumstance frequently
rests the great power of her attractions.

  "Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall,
   And she who means no mischief does it all."

[Footnote 3: Broussais, the materialist, supposes a difference in this
respect between the sexes, founded on differences in irritation and
animal sensibility, and this is the reason why "she is contented to
win him (man) by gestures and speech, but never does she undertake to
subdue him by force." Whether this be the fact, must be decided by
physiologists. To those who wish to examine this subject, I can only
refer them to Broussais's Physiology, ch. 13, sec 2.]

It is easy to deduce from the foregoing, that what is called character
or reputation, in the eyes of the world, is infinitely more necessary
to woman than to man: her virtue is the true sensitive plant, which is
blighted even by the breath of suspicion. Cæsar would not have a wife
upon whom suspicion fell, even though convinced of her innocence. Man
may, by reformation, regain a lost character, but woman rarely can.
Man may, and often ought to rise superior to the opinion of the world;
woman never can. Hence the bold assertion of Rousseau, in his _Emile_:
"L'opinion est le tombeau de la virtue parmi les hommes et son trône
parmi les femmes." Under these circumstances, does not the guilt of
the individual, who undermines or asperses the female character,
become a thousand times more atrocious? In regard to woman, Madame de
Stael observes, in her work on literature, that "to defend themselves
is an additional disadvantage; to justify themselves a new alarm. They
are conscious of a purity and delicacy in their nature, which the
notice even of the public will tarnish." And those who suppose
themselves clothed in panoply complete, because of their superior
talents, she likens to "Erminia in her coat of mail:" the warriors
perceive the helmet, the lance, and the dazzling plume; they expect to
meet with equal force; they begin the onset with violence, and the
_first_ wound cuts to the heart. Well then does it behoove every man
of honor and chivalry to guard against the injury of a being so
defenceless, and to contribute all in his power, to the elevation and
amelioration of her position, if it be only as compensation for the
many disadvantages to which she is subjected, in comparison with man.
I have thus endeavored to trace out the causes which produce the
modesty, gentleness and virtue, which certainly characterize the
female sex.

Upon the same principles we may explain that extraordinary command
over her feelings, which is certainly another of the characteristics
of woman. She cannot give utterance to her passions and emotions like
man. She is not to seek, but to be sought. She is not to woo, but to
be wooed. She is thus frequently required to suppress the most violent
feelings; to put a curb on her most ardent desires, and at the same
time to wear that face of contentment and ease which may impose upon
an inquisitive and scrutinizing world. How often do we see in the gay
circles of fashion and of folly, that while apparent joy it beaming
from the countenance, a secret grief is preying on the heart, and
working the soul into an agony. We are told by Plutarch, that the
institutions of Lycurgus had so disciplined the Spartans in the art of
enduring pain without complaint, that a boy permitted a stolen fox to
eat down to his bowels, without complaining or exhibiting his
sufferings in his countenance. The education and position of woman,
produces an influence in this respect similar to that produced by
Spartan legislation. She can suffer much, and she can suffer long, in
silence, without complaint. How admirably has Shakspeare described
this trait of character, in the description of Viola, in the 12th
Night: though so often quoted, I cannot forego the pleasure of
repeating it:

  "She never told her love,
   But let concealment like a worm in the bud,
   Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,
   And with a green and yellow melancholy,
   She sat like patience on a monument,
   Smiling at grief."

All persons placed in situations requiring great self command, by
constantly curbing the passions and allaying the rising emotions,
arrive at last at that self control, that perfect apparent mental
equilibrium which appears so wonderfully difficult to the ordinary
spectator. This is often most strikingly exemplified in statesmen,
diplomatists and gamblers, and sometimes in mercantile men. The great
reserve of Washington on state affairs, is well known: Davilla, the
historian, praises the deep dissimulation of Catherine de Medicis.
Lord Clarendon, and Locke, have spoken with commendations of the same
traits in the characters of the Earls of Bristol and Shaftsbury;
whilst Cicero even, has bestowed his eulogy on the same qualities, and
points to the characters of Homer's Ulysses, Themistocles the
Athenian, Lysander the Spartan, and to Marcus Crassus of Rome, for
examples. Talleyrand, the great diplomatic wonder of the nineteenth
century, it is said, possesses this "_talent pour le silence_," on
state affairs, in a most extraordinary degree. With such a being,
every thing becomes a matter of calculation, down even to the
responses to the ordinary questions of "how do you do?" and "how have
you been?" Such a man may truly be said to carry his heart in his
head, as was said of Mr. Pitt the younger.[4]

[Footnote 4: Bulwer, in his France, pp. 107 and 8, has given us the
following little anecdotes illustrative of this trait of character;
and the first admirably exhibits the opinion which that deep searching
and wily politician entertained of the candor of statesmen. "But why
is not M. de S. here?" said M. de Talleyrand. "M. de S. est malade,"
said an acquaintance. "Ha! ha!" replies the old statesman, shaking his
head, "M. de S. est malade! mais qu'est ce donc qu'il gagne à être
malade!" Again, "which do you like best, M. de Talleyrand," said a
lady, "Madame de ---- or myself?" The reply was not so decisive as the
fair and accomplished questioner expected. "But now," said she,
"suppose we were both to fall into the sea, which should you first try
to save?" "_Oh! Madame_," said the Prince, "_I should be quite certain
that you could swim._" After these, we may well believe the late
response which he is said to have made to his physician, who asked him
some questions about Spain. "Doctor," said he, "you must have
remarked, that I never give an opinion, except upon subjects which I
do not understand. I am happy to talk about physic."]

Upon the same principles we can explain a seeming moral paradox, in
the fact, that phlegmatic men, when once suddenly excited, become
perfectly ungovernable; exhibiting follies and extravagances, beyond
those we see manifested by men of great imagination and warm feelings.
Very phlegmatic persons, when suddenly in love, are sometimes to be
ranked among the most amusing and laughable objects in nature: with
them a new feeling has just been called, for the first time, into
action: it entirely unhinges and deranges the whole internal man: it
is a new power, which, for a moment, subjects every thing to its
capricious dominion, and the man becomes instantly like Ahmed, the
pilgrim of love, so beautifully described in the tales of the
Alhambra, mounted upon the suddenly disenchanted steed, clad in the
magic armor, and overturning, without the possibility of managing
himself or steed, both friend and foe.

It has generally been supposed, that sudden love is a symptom of much
imagination, and excitable feelings: this is not always true; it may
sometimes be a proof of the reverse. Very cold phlegmatic men, may
frequently be suddenly roused and enamoured, because they have no
control over the little imagination and feeling which they possess,
when once that little has been roused. One of the most phlegmatic men
I ever knew, married in less than three months after the death of a
wife, whom he had loved while alive, as much as such a nature was
capable of loving; and an affectionate squeeze of the hand, and a more
than usually tender tone of voice, were the simple means by which this
sudden flame was kindled.

The remarks made above, are susceptible of extensive generalization.
Mr. Stuart says, in the third volume of his Elements of the Philosophy
of Mind, "In one of our most celebrated universities, which has long
enjoyed the proud distinction of being the principal seat of
mathematical learning in this Island, I have been assured, that if at
any time a spirit of fanaticism has infected (as will occasionally
happen in all numerous societies,) a few of the unsounder limbs of
that learned body, the contagion has invariably spread much more
widely among the mathematicians, than among the men of erudition. Even
the strong head of Waering, undoubtedly one of the ablest analysts
that England has produced, was not proof against the malady; and he
seems at last (as I am told by the late Dr. Watson, Bishop of
Landaff,) to have sunk into a deep religious melancholy, approaching
to insanity. When Whitefield first visited Scotland, and produced, by
his powerful though unpolished eloquence, such marvellous effects on
the minds of his hearers, Dr. Simpson, the celebrated professor of
mathematics at Glasgow, had the curiosity to attend one of his sermons
in the fields, but could never be persuaded, by all the entreaties of
his friends, to hear another. He had probably felt his imagination
excited in an unpleasant degree, and with his usual good sense
resolved not to subject himself to the danger of a second experiment."
Now it is well known, that mathematical studies exercise the
imagination less perhaps than any other whatever; and the powerful
influence spoken of by Mr. Stewart, was no doubt owing to the fact,
that the individuals in question, had no control over the imagination;
when once excited, they had never learned to manage and restrain it.
Upon the same principles we can explain the wonderful control which
the coquette ultimately acquires over all her feelings. The general
opinion is, that coquettes are cold and feelingless, and have always
been so, and that all their demonstrations of emotion, are the result
of hypocrisy. This may sometimes be the case, but not always. Persons
of this description, may even have intense feelings; but from
constantly watching, restraining and curbing them, after they have
been called into action, they acquire perfect mastery over them. In
some cases, the feelings may be so chained down by habit, as almost to
be destroyed; in fact, this is generally the case with coquettes, and
when they do marry, it is frequently more from policy than love.
Ambition and vanity, in their case, triumph eventually over love and
feeling; and the love of riches, standing, pomp, and show, determines
their choice.[5] There is one species of coquetry for which I have
much compassion and sympathy; it is where the affections of a lady
have really been won by an individual, whom prudence and the advice of
friends, will forever prevent her from marrying. In this case it
sometimes happens, that tenderness on her part, and a desire to avoid
wounding his feelings, may cause her to excite hopes which are never
to be realized. In this case, he may drink too deeply of what
Shakspeare calls

  "The honey'd music of her words;"

and at last will awaken to a disappointment, whose melancholy
influence I shall describe, when I come to speak of the effects of
love on the sexes. Perhaps in a case like this, prompt decision, and
the concealment of every thing like tenderness, may be the stern
mandate of reason and prudence; but we must recollect that it is not
that of feeling and sympathy; and we often, in our passage through
life, meet with cases of this kind, when too loose a rein is given to
the feelings upon Sterne's principle, that it is not always agreeable
to be fighting the d----l.

[Footnote 5: Sometimes coquettes appear to love after marriage more
intensely than others: in most cases I am disposed to doubt the
reality of the affection. Sometimes they have remained single until
the decline of their charms, the advance of age, and an unfavorable
public opinion, have destroyed their reign. This condition is almost
insupportable, and marriage becomes an asylum for their refuge. In
this case the coquette is in love with marriage, rather because of the
insupportable ills which she has escaped, than of the love which she
bears her husband. In other cases, after marriage, want of something
to engage her attention, and exercise her powers of pleasing; of
something that may amuse and excite her; in fine, as Mademoiselle de
L'Enclos, who will readily be acknowledged first rate authority on
this subject, expresses it, "_La necessité d'avoir quelque
gallantrie_," may induce her to lavish upon her husband, all those
attentions, finesses, and displays of feeling, which she before
bestowed upon the world at large. In this case, she makes her husband
the very personification of the gallantries of the world, and proceeds
to play out the game with him, which she had before been carrying on
with the dashing beaux of the fashionable world. Lastly, in some
cases, mere vanity itself may be sufficient, by its intense action, to
make the coquette wear in her countenance, and manifest by her
actions, that love which she feels not in her heart. I do not think
then the coquette will often make a fit companion for the man of
delicate sensibility and all searching penetration. He should seek for
some sensitive, deep feeling heart, which can return him back a full
measure of the love of which his own fond, devoted heart is so lavish.
True and genuine affection cannot long be deceived: it has too many
nice and exquisitely delicate chords, to be played upon with success
by the coarse fingers of hypocrisy.]

A gentleman, for similar reasons, often indulges sentiments of love
towards her whom he knows that circumstances will never permit to be
his. I have seen many cases of most tender attachment, of this kind.
Travellers in foreign countries, and persons in lower stations of
life, suddenly brought into contact with the upper, furnish the most
frequent illustrations.


_Pride and Vanity._

We are now prepared to compare the sexes together, as to two most
important traits in character--_pride_ and _vanity_; and before
entering upon this investigation, it is proper to premise, that I use
these words in their technical philosophical meaning: _Pride_ to mean
that quality which makes us set a high value on ourselves,
independently of the esteem of the world--and _vanity_, to be that
which makes us desire the esteem of others, and value ourselves
accordingly.

False pride is the valuing ourselves for properties which are really
contemptible, or not praiseworthy; and false vanity is the desire of
the esteem of those whose opinions we should disregard, either because
of the inferiority of their judgments, or because of the
insignificance of the merit, for which we claim their approbation. The
meaning which I have here given to _false_ pride and vanity, is what
is generally attached in ordinary parlance to the simple terms pride
and vanity.

Now, according to the definition given above, it follows, that these
two qualities belong, in some proportions, to all the members of the
human family. Man is evidently made by his maker, a being of relations
and dependencies: coming into the world in the most helpless and
dependent condition, the preservation of his life, and the training of
infancy, demand the continued assistance of others: those who are
around him, give him his daily food, and teach him his daily lessons:
their esteem and love is the reward of his little virtues and merits:
their censures and frowns his punishments. As he grows to manhood, and
his mind expands, his relations with the world become more numerous,
and more extensive, and he ultimately seeks the applause and esteem,
not only of the little family circle in which he was reared, but of
his neighborhood, of his State; then, if his ambition be great, of
mankind, and of the generations that are to follow. Thus the desire of
the applause of the world, and the dread of its censure, becomes one
of the most powerful motives to action, in the breast of man--this is
_vanity_.

But at the same time, there is that within us, which produces
happiness from the reflection, that we have done our duty, and that
our conduct is praiseworthy, whether we have the esteem of the world
or not. We value ourselves for what we consider our real intrinsic
merits, and not for the applause of the world--and this is _pride_.

As thus explained, it is very evident that these two great principles,
pride and vanity, must have almost omnipotent sway in the formation of
character. Chenevix, in his work on national character, and Adam Smith
in his theory of moral sentiments, make the whole human character to
hinge on these two qualities. When pride is excessive, you have for
the most part a haughty isolated independent taciturn being, who,
wrapt up in himself, and his own ideal perfections, despises the
opinions of those around him, and treats the world with austerity and
scorn. His social defects are bluntness, rudeness, and a want of
sympathy and compassion. But then he is a being who is firm and steady
in his character, and unwavering in his resolves. He may be relied on,
if you can ever win him to your side. When vanity is excessive, you
have a being the very reverse of the one just described. He is social,
loquacious, polite and attentive to all around him. He has no fixed
character or opinion of his own: the opinion of the world is the
looking glass in which he daily dresses himself. Affectation and
disingenuousness are his social defects. Win him to your side to-day,
and to-morrow when he finds the other the most popular, he will desert
you without hesitation. He is a treacherous friend. When these two
qualities are properly combined, you have the perfect character.

Now it is easy to see, from what has already been said, that of the
two sexes man is the prouder, and woman the vainer. The greater
physical strength of man, the occupations in which he is engaged, his
self dependence and self sufficiency, make him generally more proud
and less vain than woman, who being weaker than man, and more
dependent on others, is obliged to seek their esteem and applause, in
order that through their attachment and love, she may exercise a power
which she finds not within herself. The desire to please is
undoubtedly the ruling passion in the female heart. As I have before
observed, her virtue is a much more sensitive and tender plant, than
that of man: it can much more easily be tarnished, by the breath of
public opinion; and when her reputation is once lost, it can never be
regained. Hence the good opinion of the world is all in all to her.
She endeavors to secure it by every means. She is generally more gay
and cheerful, more loquacious and polite, infinitely more amiable and
agreeable in the social circle, and she trifles with more grace and
elegance. For the same reason she adorns and perfects her beauty more,
and endeavors to heighten and polish her natural endowments by the aid
of artificial ornaments. "I have observed, (says Ledyard,) among all
nations, that the women ornament themselves more than the men; that
they are ever inclined to be gay, cheerful, timorous and modest." They
are more observant of fashions and of etiquette, and, as we shall
presently see, they have more tact, more nice discrimination of
feeling and discernment of character than men have. Women are
precisely what the men make them, all over the world. Addison says,
"that had women determined their own point of honor, it is probable
that wit or good nature would have carried it against chastity;" but
our sex have preferred the latter, and woman has conformed to the
decision.

The vanity of woman, under proper regulation, makes her the most
fascinating being in creation, when it is the virtuous, the
intelligent, and the just, whose approbation she attempts to win, by
the charms and graces of virtue, innocence, modesty, and
accomplishment, where "she is the darling child of society, indulged
not spoiled, presiding over its pleasures, preserving its refinements,
taking nothing from its strength, adding much to its brilliancy,
permitted the full exercise of all her faculties, and retaining the
full endowment of all her graces."

And this same being, who, in her unmarried state, is the delight and
charm of every circle in which she moves, may after marriage look to
the esteem and approbation of him who has won her hand and heart, as
the jewel of greatest price. His opinion may become to her what that
of the world was before. His taste is the one which she may delight to
please.

  "She, if her lord but gaze with pride,
   Wears what he loves, and thinks no gem denied;
   And if, compliant with his wish, she roam,
   To the gay tumults which endear her home,
   'Mid brighter fashions, and that pomp of waste,
   Which glittering fools misname, and call it taste;
   Tho' not a gem her simple hair have crown'd,
   While lavish diamonds fling their beams around,
   Can smile serene, nor feel one envy burn,
   And sleep without a sigh, on her return."[6]

[Footnote 6: _Paradise of Coquettes_, generally ascribed to the pen of
the late Dr. Thomas Brown, the professor of moral and mental
philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, of whom Mr. Dugald Stewart
said, "in my opinion even Dr. Brown would have been a still better
metaphysician, if he had not been a poet, and a still better poet if
he had not been a metaphysician." I have no doubt of the truth of this
remark, though we must acknowledge, that whether we examine his
metaphysics or his poetry, we shall find that none has ever better
understood the heart of a truly virtuous and constant female, or more
highly appreciated it.]

Such a companion makes the home of her husband a paradise on earth,
and the thought of him and his happiness, soon interweaves and
intertwines itself with all her little schemes and projects, with all
her desires and ambition, and her house becomes the true scene of
domestic happiness and of the domestic virtues.

On the other hand, when vanity is excessive, or badly regulated, woman
is too apt to substitute art for nature, and to attempt to impose upon
the world by outward show and hollow pretensions; to manage and
intrigue for the purpose of carrying her plans, and consummating her
schemes; and when in danger of detection, she has recourse to evasions
and devices, which in the end may produce the character of falsehood
and hypocrisy.

"A person (says Adam Smith,) who has excessive vanity, in attempting
to win the applause of those around him, is apt to fall into the
practice of lying, but the lies are not of a black or very hurtful
character to society; they are intended to deceive you, and make you
think more of the person who tells them, and not to injure others;
whereas a proud man but rarely lies, and when he does, it is apt to be
a dark and malicious falsehood, which he tells; one intended for the
injury of others, not for the exaltation of himself." It is badly
regulated vanity, which produces that character for cunning, which
Rousseau considered one of the distinguishing characteristical traits
in the female. He was so much impressed with the predominance of this
trait in woman's character, that he was disposed to attribute it, (I
think falsely,) rather to nature than to circumstances and education.
He tells us of the following device, practiced by a girl of six years
old, who had been strictly forbidden to ask for any thing at table.
For the purpose of inducing her parents to help her to a dish which
she had not tasted, she pointed her finger at the several dishes,
saying, I have eaten of that, and of that, &c. until she came to the
one of which she had not eaten, passing that by in silence. A cunning
hint was thus given to the parents, without violation of their
commands, that she would like to be helped to it. This little
stratagem Rousseau thinks far beyond what a boy of the same age would
have planned, and hence he comes to the conclusion, that "_La ruse est
un talent naturel au sex_"--he thinks this a wise dispensation of
nature, for, says he, "La femme a tout contre elle nos defauts, sa
timidité, sa faiblesse; elle n'a pour elle que son art et sa beaute.
N'est il pas juste qu'elle cultive l'un et l'autre?" When these
devices and stratagems, which the softer sex practice for the
attainment of their ends, become too apparent, they disgust; when well
concealed, they frequently succeed: but honesty here, as every where,
will prove to be the best policy; and I cannot agree with Rousseau,
that generally they are advantageous to those who practice them: they
always endanger more or less the character of the individual. In
spite, however, of all our caution and advice on this subject, in the
little concerns of life, and the petty tactics of the drawing and ball
rooms, woman will always display more skill and cunning than man.
These are the scenes with which she is more conversant, and which she
studies far more deeply than he. A skilful tactician in the drawing
room, may almost be compared to a general in the field. She notes,
without being perceived, every movement, and by skilful evolutions she
brings about that arrangement of parties which best suits her taste,
and which seems to others, who have not the sagacity to see the game,
the effect of magic, rather than of art. With man it is very
different; concealment and stratagem in the little courtesies and
plans of life, are never expected of him. The maxim of David Crockett,
"go ahead," is the one on which he practices. As woman is the most
skilful manager on these occasions, so is she the most sagacious
observer, and she can sometimes greatly amuse us, by furnishing a key
to the manoeuvring in the social and fashionable world.


_Mother and Child._

I now proceed more particularly to the consideration of the effects
produced upon the female character, by that most interesting and
tender tie, the relation of mother and child. We have already pointed
out the reasons why the mother should be considered, as intended more
particularly by nature, for the office of nursing, rearing, and
tutoring the infant. Although the effects of this position, are first
manifested upon mothers, yet, as they constitute so large and
influential a portion of females, their character, whatever it may be,
will quickly diffuse itself over the whole sex, and consequently we
may predicate of the whole, to a certain extent at least, the
properties and peculiarities of character, which flow from the
relation of mother and child.

There can scarcely be conceived in the whole range of nature, a more
tenderly interesting object, than the perfectly helpless and innocent
babe. The writers on the sublime tell us, that that obscurity and
indistinctness which prevents us from seeing the exact proportions of
objects, is favorable to sublimity, by the increased play which it
gives to the imagination. Now, what is there so well calculated to
rouse the imagination and excite our anticipations, as the listless,
inactive infant,--slumbering from the moment at which he takes his
milky food to the moment at which he awakes to require it again? What
is that infant to become? What is to be his destiny? What the rôle
which he is to play in the great drama of life? He is now at the
starting point; the future lies latent within him. He is to be nursed
and taken by the hand, and led gently along the path of life, until
the growth of body, and the developement of mental powers, shall
enable him, unaided, to combat the difficulties and obstacles which
beset him on his way.

Then, is he to select the part which he is to act? Is he to be the
great warrior, "striding from victory to victory, and making his path
a plane of continued elevation"--dethroning and unmaking princes, and
grasping the destiny of empires in his single hand? Or is he, by
overturning the fair fabric of his country's government, and wading
through war, anarchy and blood, at last to triumph over the law and
the constitution, and build up his own throne on the melancholy ruins
of his country's liberty? Or will he be the philosopher of his age,
taking

          "His ardent flight
  Through the blue infinite;"

numbering the planets, noting their complex but harmonious movements,
and deducing the unerring laws by which they are governed? Or, by
pouring truth after truth upon the world, is he to break up the
prejudices and dissipate the errors which have before bound down the
restless energies of the mind under the fatal spell of ignorance and
superstition? Perhaps he is to be the genuine philanthropist, and like
Howard, to travel from country to country, "not to survey the
sumptuousness of palaces or the stateliness of temples; not to make
accurate measurement of the remains of ancient grandeur; not to form a
scale of the curiosity of modern arts; nor to collect medals or to
collate manuscripts: but to dive into the depths of dungeons--to
plunge into the infection of hospitals--to survey the mansions of
sorrow and pain--to take the gauge and dimensions of misery,
depression and contempt--to remember the forgotten, to attend to the
neglected, to visit the forsaken--and compare and collate the
distresses of all men in all countries." Or is he to be the simple,
but contented being, whose world is bounded by his visual horizon,--

     "Who never had a dozen thoughts
  In all his life; and never changed their course;
  But told them o'er, each in its 'customed place,
  From morn till night, from youth till hoary age,
  And never had an unbelieving doubt;
  But thought the visual line that girt him round
  The world's extremes: and thought the silver moon
  That nightly o'er him led her virgin host,
  No broader than his father's shield."--

Well, this being who is now rocked in his cradle, with these germs
infolded, but unperceived, in his heart and in his feeble intellect,
although the most helpless and dependent of animated creation,
commands the sympathies and love of those who were the authors of its
being, and possesses already so great an influence, that he cannot in
after life, "by the most imperious orders which he addresses to the
most obsequious slaves, exercise an authority more commanding, than
that which in the first hours of his life, when a few indistinct cries
and tears were his only language, he exercised irresistibly over
hearts of the very existence of which he was ignorant." But it is the
mother that gave it birth, who feels the deepest sympathy with all its
pains and wants, and carries in her heart, the most unbounded and
unremitting affection for it. Man as I have before observed, has a
ruder and a hardier nature than woman: the out of door world, with all
its bustle and jostling, its difficulties, dangers, hardships and
labors, is the theatre for his actions. He only enjoys the domestic
scenes during the intervals of his labors, and then perhaps worn down
by toil and fatigue, he dandles for a moment his smiling infant on his
knee, and retires to rest, or to muse on the projects of his ambition,
or to form schemes for the accumulation of wealth and the extension of
his influence. And when he thinks of his child, he associates him with
those schemes and projects with which he is to be connected in after
life, and looks upon

  "The bright glad creature springing in his path
   But as the heir of his great name, the young
   And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long
   Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love!
   This is man's love!"

The prayer which Homer puts into the mouth of Hector for his son
Astyanax, at the parting with Andromache, most beautifully illustrates
the nature of a father's love. "O Jupiter, and ye gods! grant that
this my son may be like his father, a leader among the Trojans, brave
in battle, and a brave king of Illion. And hereafter, may the people
say of him as he comes from battle, he is far braver than his father,
and may he bring back the bloody spoils, having slain his enemy, and
please his mother's heart." A Brutus and a Titus Manlius, who would
condemn their own sons to death for the satisfaction of public
justice, may be found among fathers, but never among mothers.
Agamemnon may consent to the sacrifice of Iphigenia, but Clytemnestra,
although a woman of depravity, could not,--because she loved the
daughter more than she loved Greece. Joy it is well known, may
sometimes be so intense as to produce death. Listen to the three
following cases of death from joy: they will illustrate the difference
between the father's and mother's love. Pliny tells us, that Chilo the
Spartan died upon hearing that his son had gained a prize at the
Olympic games. Again--the three sons of Diagoras were crowned on the
same day victors in the Olympic games, the one as a pugilist, the
other as a wrestler, and the third, at the _pancration_, or game
combined of wrestling and boxing; and Aulus Gellius tells us, that the
father's joy was so great, that he expired in the arms of his sons in
the presence of the assembled multitude, "ibi in stadio inspectante
populo, in osculis atque in manibus filiorum animam efflavat." In both
of these cases joy came from gratified ambition. Livy tells us of an
aged mother, who, while she was plunged into the depths of distress
from the news of her son's death in battle, died in his arms from the
excess of joy, on his sudden, unexpected safe return; the mother loved
her son, not for the lustre which he might shed on her name and
family, but for himself, and well might she, for it is the lot of a
mother to watch with unremitting care over her infant during the first
years of its existence. She notices with a tender anxiety all its
little movements, and administers to all its wants. She alone learns
to

  "Explore the thought, explain the asking eye;"

she alone learns to read all the emotions of its heart by gazing on
the play of its features. To her the voice of laughter is as
delightful and beautiful as the most ravishing music; and the tones
and cries of sickness and distress, are as afflicting and melancholy,
as the fall of stocks, revulsions of commerce, and the disasters of
trade and business are to man.

Even in women of the most wicked character, those who are the very
fiends of their sex, we sometimes see this maternal fondness bursting
out, and demonstrating at once, the difference between the wickedness
of man and that of woman. Mrs. Jameson admires very much those touches
of Shakspeare's pencil, which mark in the midst of all her atrocities
and dark crimes, the womanly character of Lady Macbeth. How beautiful
is the recollection of a mother's love, even in this fiend:

  "I have given suck, and know how tender 'tis
   To love the babe that milks me."

And again she shows the woman, when she exclaims:

  "Had he not resembled my father as he slept,
   I had done it"--

Well, then, are we prepared in the fifth act for the declaration of
this monster of depravity, under the stings of a tormenting
conscience, when she gazes on the hand that had done the deed and
exclaims:

  "All the perfumes of Arabia, will not sweeten this little hand."

But let us quit such specimens as these, and go back to our subject.

Who is there among us, who can look back to the period of his infant
career, and not shed a tear of gratitude for a mother's love, and a
mother's care? What heart does not heave with emotion at the
recollection of the first years of our education, when day by day we
were clasped in our mother's arms, and with the kiss of affection
imprinted upon the brow, were charged to be good boys, and learn with
cheerfulness the lesson that was assigned us. Black indeed must be
that heart which can forget a mother's solicitude. The recollection of
her advice and admonition has often saved the individual in the hour
of temptation, and we can almost forgive Marmontel for his vices and
his sins, while breathing the atmosphere of a profligate and abandoned
court, when we peruse in his interesting memoirs the following
paragraph, occasioned by the farewell which he took of his mother in
declining health. "Yet a little while, and she will be no longer mine;
this mother who from my birth has breathed only for me; this adored
mother whose displeasure I feared as that of heaven, and if I dare say
it, yet more than heaven itself. For I thought of her much oftener
than of God, and when I had some temptation to subdue or some passion
to repress, it was always my mother that I fancied present. What would
she say, if she knew what passes in me? What would be her confusion?
What would be her grief? Such were the reflections that I opposed to
myself, and my reason then resumed its empire, seconded by nature, who
always did what she pleased with my heart. Those who, like me, have
known this tender filial love, need not be told what was the sadness
and despondency of my soul." Montaigne in his singular, but highly
amusing and ingenious essays, places Epaminondas of Thebes, among the
_three men_ who were "more excellent than all the rest" of whom he had
any knowledge; and the very first proof which he adduces of his
excessive goodness is the declaration of Epaminondas, "that the
greatest satisfaction he ever had in his whole life, was the pleasure
he gave his father and mother by his victory at Leuctra."

The influence which a mother's care and a mother's love produces upon
a girl, is much greater than that wrought on a boy. The girl is more
constantly with her mother; she is taught to imitate and act like her;
she is more constantly with the younger children of the family; her
attentions, her kindnesses, her sympathies and her love, come in
process of time to resemble those of the mother, much more than of the
father. Hence it is fair to say, that all the effects wrought on the
mother by the nursing, training, &c. of the infant, are produced in
some degree on all her daughters.

Having thus pointed out the character of that love which a mother
bears for her children, I will now proceed to show the effects which
it produces on the character of the mother herself. Marmontel in his
"_Lecons Sur la Morale_," pronounced "the heart of a good mother, to
be the masterpiece of nature's works;" and Stewart, on the Active and
Moral Powers, endorses the assertion,--and adds, "there is no form
certainly, in which humanity appears so lovely, or presents so fair a
copy of the Divine image after which it was made."

The tender offices of a mother, combined with that inferiority of
strength which I have before noted, together with difference in
physical organization, will no doubt contribute to increase the number
and sensibility, if I may use the expression, of the chords of
affection and sympathy. They will cultivate to a much greater extent,
the finer and the lovelier feelings of our nature. They understand
better and receive more readily those finer and more fugitive
impressions which come under the description of sentiment. We become
hackneyed by the rough and rude business of the world, our feelings
become coarse and less delicate, and less minute. In consequence of
their domestic life, "that reciprocation of social kindnesses which is
only a recreation to men, is to women in some sense a business. It is
their field duty, from which household cares are their repose. Men do
not seek the intercourse of society as a friend to be cultivated, but
merely throw themselves on its bosom to sleep." In the same manner, we
shall find that woman possesses much more tact, and much nicer
discernment of character than man. Perhaps in the rough storms of
life, when the master passions are called into action, and mind is
brought into conflict with mind, under the most powerful agitation,
man then may be the best judge of character; for the tragedy has
become too deep and dark for woman's penetration and experience. She
is not so well acquainted with the deep feelings of the heart, when
lashed into a tempest by the strife and conflicts of the political
world. But of the fireside character, of those inequalities exhibited
by the temper under all the manifold aggravations of social injury,
she is decidedly the best judge, and knows best how to administer the
proper remedies. Under the influence of sorrow and pain, we may often
wear a countenance that will deceive man,--rarely one that will impose
on woman, when she is interested in our fate. Every man will have
observed occasionally how quickly a woman discerns the wound which she
has involuntarily inflicted upon his feelings, and how soon and how
tenderly she will repair the mischief; making him by the manner of
reparation, not only forgive the injury, but admire her more than
ever. With man it is but too often very different, and he must be
asked for explanation before he is aware of the injury.

Woman, in all conditions, is a better comforter and a better nurse
than man. She reads in the countenance with more facility all our
little wants, and is ever ready to administer to them. Her sympathy is
more alive, and her familiarity with the distresses around, make her
more humane and compassionate than man. Mercy and mildness have always
been her attributes; and the horrors and barbarities of war were never
moderated, until chivalry and religion brought forward the mighty
influence of woman to suppress them.

The following most beautiful and just eulogy of one of the most
distinguished travellers which the world has ever produced, written
without any view to publication, is so apposite to the views which
have just been presented, that I will give it entire from Sparks's
Life of Ledyard, with the exception of portions already quoted. "I
have observed among all nations (says Ledyard,) that wherever found,
they (women,) are the same kind, civil, obliging, humane, tender
beings. They do not hesitate like man to perform a hospitable or
generous action; not haughty, nor arrogant, nor supercilious, but full
of courtesy, and fond of society; industrious, economical, ingenious,
more liable to err than man, but in general, also more virtuous, and
performing more good actions than he. I never addressed myself in the
language of decency and friendship to a woman, whether civilized or
savage, without receiving a decent and friendly answer. With man, it
has often been otherwise. In wandering over the barren plains of
inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen Lapland, rude and
churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and the wide spread regions of
the wandering Tartar, if hungry, dry, cold, wet or sick, woman has
ever been friendly to me, and uniformly so; and to add to this virtue
so worthy of the appellation of benevolence, these actions have been
performed in so free and so kind a manner, that if I was dry, I drank
the sweet draught, and if hungry, ate the coarse morsel with a double
relish."[7]

[Footnote 7: The author of "Leaves from my Log Book," relates the
following incident which occurred while he was passing through a
village near Rochefort in France, as a prisoner under a military
escort. It affords so fine an illustration of the truth of Ledyard's
eulogy on the sex, that I am induced to insert it in a note.

"I had obtained a fresh supply of canvass for my feet, which were much
blistered and extremely sore; but this was soon worn out, and I
suffered dreadfully. About noon, we halted in the market place of a
small town bearing every mark of antiquity, (I think it was Melle,) to
rest and refresh. To escape the sun, I took my seat on an old tea
chest, standing in front of a Huckster's shop, and removed my tattered
moccasins. Whilst doing this, an elderly woman came out of the shop
accompanied by a young girl very prettily dressed, and '_pauvre
garcon! pauvre prisonier!_' were uttered by both. The girl with tears
in her eyes looked at my lacerated feet, and then without saying a
word returned to the house. In a few moments afterwards she
reappeared, but her finery had been taken off, and she carried a large
bowl of warm water in her hands. In a moment the bowl was placed
before me. She motioned me to put in my feet, which I did, and down
she went upon her knees and washed them in the most tender manner. Oh
what luxury was that half hour! The elder female brought me food,
while the younger having performed her office, wrapt up my feet in
soft linen, and then fitted on a pair of her mother's shoes." Well
then might this grateful writer exclaim, in conclusion of this little
narrative,

  "Hail! woman hail! last formed in Eden's bowers,
   Midst humming streams, and fragrance breathing flowers:
   Thou art 'mid light and gloom, through good and ill,
   Creation's glory, man's chief blessing still.

   Thou calm'st our thoughts, as Halcyons calm the sea,
   Sooth'st in distress, when servile minions flee;
   And oh! without thy sun bright smiles below,
   Life were a night, and earth a waste of woe."

Far, indeed, might this poor prisoner have journeyed without meeting
in our sex, with such a kind, tender being, as the fair Evlalie.]

Marmontel tells us that Madame de Tencin, one of the most
distinguished and fashionable ladies at Paris, and one who possessed a
deep and exquisite knowledge of men and women, advised him always to
seek for friends among women, rather than among men. "For by means of
women (said she,) you may do what you please with men; and these are
either too dissipated or too much occupied with their own personal
interest to attend to yours: whereas women think of your interest, be
it only out of indolence. Mention this evening to a woman who is your
friend, an affair that intimately concerns you; to-morrow at her
spinning wheel, at her embroidery, you will find her occupied with
you, torturing her fancy to invent some means of serving you. But be
careful to be nothing more than the friend of her whom you think may
be useful to you; for between lovers, where once there happens any
cloud, dispute or rupture, all is lost. Be then assiduous to her,
complaisant, gallant even, if you will, but nothing more. You
understand me?"

So strongly does woman sympathize with the distress and suffering of
those around her, that under peculiar circumstances, she sometimes is
carried to perform acts of enterprise and heroism, which rival the
achievements of the ages of chivalry. Under the impulse of highly
excited feelings, she has sometimes forgotten her inferiority of
strength, and the dangers to which she is exposed by collision with
the rudeness and roughness of the out of door world. On such
occasions, she has braved all the hardships and labors which have
opposed her, has crossed mountains and rivers, and penetrated alone
into Siberian deserts; or visited courts and camps, and importuned
monarchs and generals, until she has accomplished her humane purposes.
How interesting is Elizabeth to us, in the Exiles of Siberia, by
Madame Cottin, when she determines to go alone from the heart of the
Siberian desert, to beg the Emperor for the liberty of her exiled
father; and how much more deeply interested do we become in this tale
when we know that it is not only founded on fact, but that the real
dangers and difficulties which Elizabeth encountered, were of such a
character as to make Madame Cottin suppose that they would not be
believed, if faithfully narrated. The deep and thrilling interest
excited by the character of Jeannie Deans, in the Heart of Mid
Lothian, is due in a great measure to her magnanimous and heroic
resolution, taken under the influence of sisterly love, to make a
journey on foot, unprotected and alone, from her father's mansion near
Edinburg, to London, for the purpose of obtaining the pardon of her
sister, and to the difficulties, dangers and hardships which she is
represented as surmounting with unshaken fortitude. Mrs. Jameson in
her Visits and Sketches, has given us a narrative of the adventures of
Mademoiselle Ambos, equal to those of Elizabeth in the Exiles of
Siberia, or to those of Jeannie Deans in the beautiful fiction of Sir
Walter Scott.

This young lady formed the bold and daring project of visiting the
court of Russia for the purpose of obtaining the pardon of her brother
Henri Ambos, who was exiled to Siberia. She actually visited St.
Petersburg alone,--obtained after a triumph over the most appalling
difficulties, the pardon of her brother from the Emperor
Nicholas,--and then under the impulse of those Divine feelings which
can exist in woman's heart alone, she determined herself to be the
bearer of the glad tidings which would restore a lost son to a broken
hearted mother, and an affectionate sister. And the reader can scarce
refrain from dropping a tear of sympathy, when she received for answer
to the pardon which she had delivered to the commandant of the
fortress, with a hand trembling with impatience, and joy almost too
great to be borne, "Henri Ambos _is dead!_"--In order to estimate the
heroism, the sublimity of such deeds, we must call to mind the
relative positions of the sexes in society; we must recollect the
weakness, the modesty, and above all the shrinking timidity of the
female, before we can estimate the depth of that feeling which can
conquer all the weaknesses of her nature, in the execution of her
benevolent purposes.

"Ye who shall marvel," (says Byron in his very interesting description
of the Maid of Saragossa,)

   "Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
    Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,
    Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal black veil,
    Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower,
    Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,
    Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
    Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
    Beheld her smile in danger's Gorgon face,
  Thin the closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase."

The sympathies, the feelings of woman on such occasions, impart a
courage and fortitude which seem to be almost the inspiration of
heaven itself; the rude uncourteous world, is awed into respect and
admiration by the forbidding dignity of her demeanor, and the fearless
determination with which she executes her resolves. When Mademoiselle
Ambos was asked if she had ever met with insult, she said she had
twice met "with wicked men"--but she felt no alarm, she knew how to
protect herself; and as she said this, (says Mrs. Jameson,) her
countenance assumed an expression which showed that it was not a mere
boast.


_Influence of Love_.

I come now to the consideration of the character of the sexes in
relation to a passion, which is one of the most universal, powerful
and interesting, implanted in the human breast--the passion of love. A
passion which has agitated alike, the philosopher and the poet, the
nobleman and the peasant; which in the language of the Edinburg
Review, "has filled the parsonage house with chubby children, and
beats in the breast of the Baptist, animates the Arminian, melts the
Unitarian maid, and stirs up the moody Methodist, to declare himself
the ready victim of human love." My limits will not of course allow me
to enter fully into a subject upon which so much has been written, and
so much more has been felt. The sexes throughout the whole animated
creation are determined towards each other by an instinct, and this is
animal love. Under its operation but little preference is shown for
individuals, except in those cases where the joint aid of male and
female is necessary to the rearing of the offspring. There nature,
ever consistent with herself, and with that harmonious design and
beautiful adaptation observed throughout the universe, has established
a temporary union among the sexes, similar to marriage in the human
family. But this connexion seems to be determined more by the
operation of mere instinct, than by reason, imagination, and the
association of ideas. With man, love is no doubt founded on animal
instinct; but then all the powers of the human mind, all the passions
of the heart, all the affections and emotions; in fine, the whole
moral and mental machinery of our nature are brought to bear on this
instinct, to foster or stifle, to develope or exterminate it. By means
of the mighty power of imagination, and the laws of association, such
a complicated and magnificent fabric is reared, as occasionally to
obscure and almost hide the instinct material which lies at the
bottom. It is under the influences of these higher and more exalted
powers of the mind, that this passion of our nature is directed
towards one object alone, and that all the world is so readily
forsaken for the possession of that one.

Most of our desires, although natural, are determined as to their
particular direction by the operation of circumstances--take for
example the desire for society. There is no doubt that this is a
natural instinctive desire; man is certainly a gregarious animal; he
delights in intercourse with fellow-man; solitude is at war with the
condition of his nature, and so strong is his desire for society, that
if man be deprived of intercourse with man, he will make companions of
brutes and reptiles themselves. Horses, dogs, cats, even spiders and
rats, have become his very dear associates in his solitary condition.
And yet, under the operation of reason, imagination, and the passions,
together with that endless variety of character which we find in the
human family, this desire is directed to particular persons and
particular circles. We may shun the society of A and B--we may court
that of C and D--and indeed, under the very severe pressure of
calamity, when all our hopes and our darling schemes of ambition and
aggrandizement are blasted forever, by the perfidious machinations and
wily projects of those very individuals whom we had fondly called our
friends, there is an almost irresistible tendency in the mind, at such
a melancholy crisis, to indulge the gloomy feeling of misanthropy, and
plunge into the depth of solitude, where we may escape the persecution
and treachery of a dissembling world. Thus do we find circumstances
controling, directing, and sometimes almost exterminating our natural
passions and propensities.

Love in the human family is eminently under the control of
circumstances. The original, natural passion implanted in the breast,
may be compared to the common quantities in algebra--it belongs to
all. Cupid cares not for creeds, nor occupations, nor professions; but
the development of the passion, under the guidance of reason,
association and imagination, assumes as many shapes as the
dispositions and intellects of the myriads who compose the human
family. In the civilized countries of Europe, and in our own, woman
has been liberated from that state of servitude and debasement, to
which either the condition of barbarism, or the laws of Mahommedanism
had too long confined her. The institution of chivalry, and the
diffusion of the humane spirit of christianity, have assigned her that
station in society which makes her in the social circle the equal of
man. She has been disenthralled from that jealousy which would quietly
immure her within the walls of the Seraglio, and which, in attempting
to preserve her chastity by constraint, prevents the development of
mind, extinguishes the vigor and intensity of the affections, and
really in the end, debauches the heart, whilst it guards the person.
Under a system of free and equal intercourse among the sexes, love
assumes a totally different form from that which exists in society
where woman is not looked on as the equal of man. In the former case,
she must be wooed and won; in the latter, she is bought and locked up.
In the former case, she is allowed the free employment of all her
faculties, and the full play of all her graces and accomplishments. In
the latter, becoming the slave of man, and losing all those higher
inducements to mental and moral excellence which freedom alone can
foster, she degenerates into a mere being of ignorance and sensuality,
going through the dull round of solely animal pleasures, unattended by
that grace and refinement which throw so bright a lustre around the
female character.

When freedom of intercourse exists among the sexes, what is called
courtship, becomes a longer and more assiduous task to the gentlemen,
than where such freedom does not exist. The heart of woman may be
likened to the besieged and fortified castle. It must be regularly
invested; slowly and cautiously, or boldly and daringly approached,
according to circumstances. The whole science of social tactics must
be studied, and a skilful application made to the heart which is to be
won. Under these circumstances, when all the affections of a man's
heart have really been concentrated upon one object, if he possess a
keen sensibility and a highly wrought imagination, the period of his
love and of his courtship, may be the most important of his whole
life: like the fabled wand of the magician, it may but wave over the
character, and change the whole inner man. Ardent and intense love is
certainly the master passion of our nature, whilst it exists; but like
all tyrants, it may reign but for a season; it is liable to
dethronement. Whilst, however, it is enthroned, it conquers every
other. Ambition, interest, patriotism, all have yielded during the
hour of its ascendancy. Whilst this passion endures, it clusters
around its object all the dearest associations and fondest
recollections of our life. It is the spirit which has only to move
over the chaos of our existence, and attract to itself all the
elements of our nature. It enters the heart, and makes us brood over
dreams of joy, and look with rapturous gaze and supplicating eye,

  "To the bright form of our idolatrous worship,
   Whose every gesture, motion, look or word--
   Like wonder-working secret alchymy,
   Changes each passing thought to visioned bliss."

It mixes itself with all our thoughts, our desires, our hopes and
actions. It is the realization of the fable of the fish, which
imparted its own beautiful color to every object that approached it.
How often when we have stood amid the lone majesty of nature's works,
"all heaven above" and earth beneath, with no eye gazing on us, save
that of him _who doeth his will and ruleth in the armies of heaven_,
have we felt this unseen spirit to move within us--to touch, as if
with magic hand, all the springs of our moral sensibility, and waken
up all the tender emotions of our soul. Even with the prayer which we
address to heaven from this great temple of nature we cannot refrain
from mingling the name of her whose beauty and loveliness have excited
within us the sympathetic emotions of virtue and piety. This passion
of love, when it is genuine, accompanies us wherever we go; it
associates the beloved object with all our plans and schemes of
ambition, and casts its own bright radiance over all the objects which
surround us:

  "It breathes forth in the song of joyous birds--
   In the violet hues of the broad laughing heavens--
   In sunlight--in the beams of radiant stars--
   In gush of waters--in the evening breeze,
   Making its nest amidst the parting boughs
   Of murmuring trees--and oh! the most of all
   In _her_ sweet melting tones of tenderness,
   The steadfast lustre of her gazing eye--
   For all are nature's oracles, and teach
   The heart to love."

Even the circle of friends by which we are surrounded, become
associated in our imagination with the sole object of our affections;
our tastes are often changed, our friendships altered, our very
opinions and inclinations are sometimes revolutionized by the potent
but silent sway of that being whose beauty and loveliness have placed
us under this mysterious spell. Love like this, terminating in
marriage, founded on reciprocity of affection, must be productive of
the most exquisite and refined happiness which the frail condition of
man will allow us in this world. It is such love as this which will
quickly bring two heterogeneous beings to harmonize in temper and
disposition. It is such as this which will tame down the ferocity of
the tiger and triumph over the savage spirit of the hyena. Under its
operation the corsair has been sometimes arrested in his bold career,
the robber has been reformed, and the arm of the bloodthirsty villain
has been withholden from an infliction of the deadly blow.

When, however, such love is unfortunate, and fails to win its object,
there comes perhaps one of the heaviest blows to which mortality is
subject; then does it become necessary to gather up the shattered
resources of mind and body to withstand the storm which is
overwhelming us with calamity. This is a period fraught with infinite
danger even to the character of man. At such a time we seem suddenly
arrested in our mid career by the cruel hand of misfortune. The
bright, the delusive prospects which we beheld reflected in the mirror
of hope, have suddenly disappeared from the mental vision. But a
little while ago and we were like him who had wandered into the
splendid repository of the works of art, illumined by the bright lamp
whose radiant light was beautifully reflected from the thousand
polished surfaces which glittered around; now we are like him in that
same mazy hall, with his lamp extinguished and total darkness around.

The very sun of our moral and social existence seems suddenly struck
from the heavens, and well may we in the agony of despair exclaim,
"how stale, flat, and unprofitable" is this world to us now. When we
wander abroad, how dismal is the prospect which lies before us. The
sun, and the moon with her nightly train, seem to have lost that
celestial spirit which a little while ago had made us gaze upon them
in silent and pensive bliss. Our homes, our firesides, our friends
have lost the charm which can neutralize woe; for a period the desire
for fame and honor is lost, and the voice of ambition is silenced
within.

  "Look where he comes. In this embowered alcove
   Stand close concealed and see a statue move;
   Lips busy and eyes fixed, foot falling slow,
   Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped below!
   That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue
   Could argue once, could jest or join the song--
   Could give advice, could censure or commend,
   Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend.
   Now neither healthy wilds, nor scenes as fair
   As ever recompensed the peasant's care,
   Nor gales that catch the scent of blooming groves
   And waft it to the mourner, as he roves,
   Can call up life into his faded eye,--
   That passes all he sees unheeded by."

This period of agony which I have just described has often infused the
gall of bitterness into the cup of life, turned benevolence into
misanthropy, soured the temper, and destroyed the tranquillity of
existence. When the shock has come after matrimonial engagement, which
has been ended by woman's caprice, or the wily artifices of the
mischief-making meddler, then the stroke is still more dreadful, and
productive of effects still more marked in the character of the man;
and oftentimes is the conduct of that being, who stands an anomaly in
the eyes of the world, to be traced back to this cause. We have seen
an individual mysteriously settle down in our vicinage, immure himself
in his solitary mansion, shrink from the gaze of the world as from the
dragon's visage, and live as though life were a burden which was to
him insupportable. Pry into his history, and you will find, when you
have traced it out, that it was the treachery of her upon whom he had
lavished all the affections of his soul, which separated him from his
original home and happiness. Look again--there is another being whose
brilliant, but meteor like career, alarms the selfish statesman and
puzzles the philosopher. To-day, listening senates are hanging on his
words, and electrified by the magic of his soul-stirring eloquence.
To-morrow, in the social circle, he displays those powers of
fascination and attraction which fix the gaze of all on the play of
his features, while the brilliancy of his fancy and the vivid
corruscations of his wit and intellect, are delighting all around with
his wonder-working speech.

At times he realizes the fable of Orpheus; he draws the very trees
after him, melts the hearts of stone that are around him, and makes
them forgive the wrongs which he has done--then his reason seems to be
dethroned, the very demon of malice enters his heart; his shafts of
calumny transfix alike friend and foe, and he traverses seas and
continents almost like the deluded victim of knight errantry, impelled
by a spirit which urges forward with irresistible impetuosity, whilst
it seems to have lost its destination. The world stands amazed whilst
this brilliant meteor is playing above the horizon. One ascribes his
course to the waywardness of nature, and calls him a _lusus naturæ_;
another traces his character to the diseases of the body; another
tells you he was ambitious, and that all his schemes of promotion and
self-aggrandizement were wrecked.

But go to him who has shared his confidence, and nursed him in the
hours of his misfortune--to him who can best tell you his history, and
he will tell you his was a heart with feelings as intense and pure, as
ever were given to the heart of man; he will tell you that that heart
poured forth the mighty stream of its affections upon another, and
that his love, great as it was, was returned by that being,--when the
spoiler came, and then came mystery, converting the very affections of
the heart into the scorpions of the furies, and the garden of Eden
into a place of torment, which deranged his faculties and destroyed
the equilibrium of his mind; and that thus all those fitful moods
which puzzle the world, may be traced back to disappointed love.

The effects which I have been describing as flowing from disappointed
love, are certainly of an extreme character, happening only in the
case of ardent temperaments, combined with a concurrence of
circumstances which generate intense and all absorbing affection for
the beloved object. In these cases, when all hope is entirely
eradicated, there is certainly a tendency to peevishness, fretfulness,
whim, suspicion and misanthropy; and against these consequences the
individual ought always to be on his guard. He should not charge to
the human race, or even to the whole sex, the vices which he thinks he
sees in a single individual. This is a case in which kind friends,
especially females, may do much to soothe and tranquillize the mind.
Women alone seem to have enough of that deep discernment, nice tact,
and generous sympathy, which can administer consolation to a wounded
heart and calm the irritated feelings of blasted hope. In the great
majority of cases however, the disappointed lover plunges into the
business and scenes of active life, forms new associations and
attachments, and quickly forgets his former love, without any
permanent effect being produced on the character by mere
disappointment. Man (says Dr. Cogan on the passions) rarely runs any
serious risk from disappointment in love. "If he have not speedy
recourse to the pistol or the rope, he will probably survive the
agonies under which the softer sex will gradually pine and die."

I will now examine briefly, a few of the effects produced on the
character of the male, during the period of courtship in society,
organized as it is in this country and Europe,--and certainly one of
the most marked effects, is the strengthening of vanity and the
weakening of pride. As it is the province of man to woo and to win,
his constant aim must be to render himself agreeable to the object of
his affections. To gain her esteem, her approbation, _her love_, is
the object of all his efforts. Now this is vanity. The proudest heart,
the soul of sternest stuff, by the operation of this all subduing
passion of love, is made to yield--to become a candidate for the
praise of her whose affections he so much covets. In this condition we
are all more or less like Petrarch, who declared that "she (Laura) was
the motive and object of all his studies--that he coveted glory only
as it might secure _her esteem_--that she alone had taught him to
desire life, and to lift his thoughts towards heaven." In his
"Conversations with St. Augustin," he even confesses that he was more
ardent in his desire for the _Laurel Crown_, on account of its
affinity to the name of Laura. Now, although this vanity seeks the
approbation directly of but one, yet as she is regulated by the
opinion of the world, we quickly find it necessary to gain the good
opinion and esteem of those around us, in order, by their means, to
win the approbation of the object of our affections. Hence, however
proud the man, love and courtship will in the civilized countries of
our globe soon infuse a degree of vanity, which will temper his
overweening pride and make him more social, more loquacious, more
attentive to all the little courtesies of life, and much more cheerful
than he was before. In all the Mahommedan countries, where woman is
bought and locked up, and the alternately sweet and painful
solicitudes of love and courtship are never known--how proud, how
taciturn, how forbidding, unsocial and grave, is the character of man!
In France, where the influence of women is very great, how entirely
opposite is his character; there, vanity is his predominant trait.
Montesquieu, in his "Lettres Persannes," makes Usbeck say to Ibben, in
a letter from Paris, on the characters of the French and Persians, "It
must be allowed that the seraglio is better adapted for health than
for pleasure. It is a dull uniform kind of life, where every thing
turns upon subjection and duty; their very pleasures are grave, and
their pastimes solemn; and they seldom taste them but as so many
tokens of authority and dependence. The men in Persia are not so gay
as the French; there is not that freedom of mind and that appearance
of content which I meet with here in persons of all ranks and estates.
It is still worse in Turkey, where there are families, in which from
father to son, not one of them ever laughed from the foundation of the
monarchy." Now these proud, taciturn, grave beings would at once be
changed, by giving full freedom to the females, and rendering it
necessary for each one to woo, to interest and to delight her whom he
would make his wife.

In fact, we have never learned so well to know the unappreciable, the
priceless value of a woman's heart, as when we have experienced the
pains and the pleasures, the doubts and hopes, pertaining to the
period of courtship. There have been instances of husbands losing all
affection for their wives in the quietude of their possession, but who
were suddenly roused to the most tormenting love, as soon as they saw
that their cold and brutal indifference had destroyed that affection
which they once possessed. Mrs. Jameson, in her very interesting
description of the beauties of Charles 2d, tells us that Lady
Chesterfield, the daughter of the Duke of Ormond, when first married
to Lord Chesterfield, received from him in return for her own pure,
warm and innocent affection, a negligent and frigid indifference,
which astonished, pained and humiliated her. Finding however that all
her tenderness was lavished in vain, mingled pique and disgust
succeeded to her first affection and admiration: and in this condition
she was suddenly taken by her husband to the Court of Charles the 2d,
where, from a neglected wife, living in privacy and even in poverty,
she suddenly became a reigning beauty. Lord Chesterfield, when he
found his charming wife universally admired, was one of the first to
sigh for her; and his passion rose to such a height, that casting
aside the fear of ridicule, he endeavored to convince her by the most
public attentions, that his feelings towards her were entirely
changed. And let the result be a warning to all negligent
husbands.--"Unfortunately," says Mrs. J., "it was now too late: the
heart he had wounded, chilled and rejected, either could not, or would
not be recalled; he found himself slighted in his turn, and treated
with the most provoking and the most determined coldness."

The author of the "Journal of a Nobleman at the Congress of Vienna,"
has given us a still more interesting and striking illustration of the
assertion which I have made, in the case of the Count and Countess of
Pletenburg, whom he saw in the gay circles of Vienna during the period
of the session of the Holy Alliance in that city. Pletenburg had
married, without much courtship or difficulty, a young and beautiful
woman, for the purpose of securing a fortune which had been left to
him, on the condition that he married before he was twenty-five. He
soon plunged into every kind of debauchery and dissipation, conceived
the greatest disgust for his lovely and loving wife of sixteen--left
her almost broken hearted, for the purpose of travelling in Europe,
returned after some years, saw her, and saw that she had ceased to
love him: then he loved in turn, and loved most violently and
hopelessly. He is thus described by the author of the Journal just
mentioned, who met with him at a party of the Countess Freck's in
Vienna. "The poor man has become an object of ridicule by the
servility of his devotion; always sighing, as at the age of eighteen,
and, as jealous as a sexagenarian, he never moves from her side. He is
ever taking up her gloves and her handkerchief, and pressing them to
his bosom in public. But all this tends only to increase the aversion
he has raised. Proscribed from the nuptial bed which he had so long
disdained, he complains of this rigor in prose, and laments his fate
in verse. In short, his enthusiasm has become so great, that if it
continues for any length of time, his intellect must become affected
by it." And thus is it that the disenthralment of woman will always
cause her to be more respected and loved, and by her influence on man
she will be sure to make him more agreeable, more social, less proud.

Besides this, virtuous love has a tendency to improve the morals of
man, to increase his sympathies and call into play all his most tender
feelings. This moral tendency of love in the male, arises partly from
imitation of the virtues and character of her whom we love; but mostly
from that exquisite, indescribable pleasure, which one in love feels,
from the performance of those acts of kindness and virtue which excite
the gratitude and esteem of the lady beloved. In this case his minute,
tender and ever anticipating attentions to the female, have an effect
on man similar to that which I have described as being produced on
woman by the relation of mother and child.

  "How oft the thrillings of transported joy
   Have stolen on the heart, with life's warm tide,
   When _she_ has deigned with approbating smile
   To pay the effort of the wish to please!
   How oft with sorrow's keen corroding pang
   We've seen displeasure cloud her beauteous face!
   As when the sun, obscured, would teach the world
   The value of his genial noontide smile."

I know of nothing so well calculated to soften the heart, to smooth
down the asperities of character, to excite all the kindly,
sympathetic and amiable feelings of our nature, as ardent affection
for a virtuous and pious female. Mr. Randolph in his letters to a
relation, has spoken with great force and propriety of this effect of
virtuous love.

So far, I have been describing the nature of man's love, and the
effects which it produces on his character. The love of woman however,
is much more interesting, and if not more ardent, it is perhaps more
devoted, more tender and more constant than that of man. "Man," says
Irving, "is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads
him forth into the bustle and struggle of the world. Love is but the
embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of
the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's
thoughts, and dominion over his fellow men. But a woman's whole life
is the history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there
her ambition strives for empire--it is there her avarice seeks for
hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she
embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if
shipwrecked, her case is hopeless,--for it is a bankruptcy of the
heart." Madame de Stael tells us that love is but an episode in the
history of man's life, but it is the serious business of a woman's.
And a _man_, says Thomas, is more to a woman than a whole nation.
Under these circumstances, when a woman's affections have been won,
when, casting aside all passions, feelings, joys of earth, save for
one alone, she settles down,

  "With wings all folded and with silent tongue"--

to brood over dreams of felicity to be enjoyed with _him_--how
overwhelming, how crushing must his treachery be, to her all confiding
heart. Her bygone dreams of deep enthralling bliss are all a mockery.
Her pride is wounded, her modesty is shocked. For a time she may still
affect gaiety; she may travel the routine of apparent pleasure; but
the worm is at the heart, and she sinks at last a martyr to her
affections. Where one man falls a victim to love, there are perhaps at
least ten women. No wonder then she should be more inveterate in her
antipathies and animosities when she has once been wronged--when once
deceived she rarely forgives.

  Taught to conceal, the bursting heart desponds
  Over its idol.
  And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring,
  And their revenge is as the tiger's spring,
  Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet as real
  Torture is theirs--what they inflict they feel.

But if the affections of a woman are once fixed on a man,--so
absorbing, so overwhelming do they become, that she will forgive the
stain which his conduct has inflicted on his own honor; she will
forgive him for her own ruin; she will pardon every thing in fine,
save the _loss of his love for her_. For this wrong, and for this
alone, will she conceive the most bitter and deadly hatred and
revenge. How admirably did Sir Walter Scott understand this trait in
woman's love. When in the heart of Mid Lothian, Effie Deans is visited
in prison by her sister, who makes mention of the being who had
disgraced and ruined her, but who nevertheless loved her and was
anxious to save her life, he makes Effie exclaim, in the overflowing
and forgiving fulness of her affection, "O Jeannie, if ye wad do good
to me at this moment, tell me every word that he said, and whether he
was sorry for poor Effie or no." A woman in this situation is
sometimes like Antigone in the Oedipus--she may become fond of the
_very misery_ which she feels for his sake.

The constraint which is put upon the passion of love in woman, nurses
and invigorates it. Fear and modesty mingle inquietude with her love,
and double its force. The confession of her affection is of itself a
mighty sacrifice; but a woman is then only the more tender for the
great sacrifice which she has made. The more the confession has cost
her, the more fondly does she love him to whom she has made it. "She
attaches herself," says Thomas, "by her sacrifices. Virtuous, she
enjoys her denials; guilty, she glories in the favors she bestows.
Women therefore, when love is a passion, are more constant than men;
but when it is only an appetite they are more libertine. For then they
feel no more of those anxieties, those struggles, and that sweet shame
which impressed the delicious sentiment so strongly on their hearts."
With what facility a Ninon de l'Enclos and a Catherine of Russia would
change their lovers, every body knows; theirs was more of an appetite
than of an affection and sentiment, and where this is the case,
woman's love is more fickle than man's; in every other instance it is
more constant and faithful.

I have thought proper, in this dissertation, to speak of the effects
produced upon the character of man during the period of courtship and
love; and we have seen that the effects in his case are decidedly
beneficial. I doubt whether the same may be asserted in all cases with
regard to woman. The time which a woman passes between the period of
her entrance into society and her marriage, is perhaps the most
important and the most perilous of her career. Having led a previous
life of retirement and comparative seclusion, unacquainted with the
wiles and stratagems of the world--endowed almost always with a vivid
imagination and warm feelings, she comes forth into society with
buoyant hopes and an animating gaiety, which throw a charm over the
whole face of nature, that conceals from view the snares and
deceptions of the world. She may then fall a sacrifice to some artful
deceiver, and suffer the pangs of disappointment, which I have just
been describing.[8] Or she may acquire a love of conquest in the wars
of Cupid--may become fascinated by the applauses and flattery of the
world, until nothing but the incense of adulation can satisfy her
perverted vanity. This period, is one, during which, a woman enjoys
more fame, more worldly glory, than during any other of her life. It
is not to be wondered at then, that she is so frequently seen
suppressing her feelings and smothering her affections, in order that
she may protract this period of her glory and reputation.[9] There is
nothing more seducing, more captivating to the vanity and imagination
of woman, than to see all hearts enchained, and rendering the willing
homage of love and admiration to her graces and accomplishments. But
she must beware, lest this delightful devotion implant in the heart a
lust for applause and notoriety, at the sacrifice of all the more
feminine and lovely virtues. And she must recollect too that the very
pain of disappointment, which she is obliged to inflict and to witness
from day to day, in her unfortunate lovers, is of itself calculated to
weaken and obtund her feelings and sympathies, and to generate
coldness and hardness of heart. Metaphysicians tell us that the active
feelings are strengthened, but the passive are weakened by too
frequent repetition--the frequent sight of beggary, of death, of pain
and misery of every description, when it is beyond our power to
administer relief, always tends to weaken our sympathy and harden the
heart. Now there can be no pain,--no anguish more exquisite, than that
which the disappointed lover feels in the melancholy hour of his
rejection; and the woman, who witnesses such scenes too frequently,
may at last lose the generous sympathies of her nature. Like the man
of deep feelings and keen sensibility, who the historian informs us,
was at first unwillingly dragged to the amphitheatre to witness the
horrid, the revolting combats of the gladiators, she may at last by
repetition so conquer the feelings of nature as even to experience a
savage delight in the pain and suffering of human sacrifice and human
woe.

[Footnote 8: "It is easier for an artful man who is not in love, (says
Addison) to persuade his mistress he has a passion for her, and to
succeed in his pursuit, than for one who loves with the greatest
violence. True love has ten thousand griefs, impatiences and
resentments, that render a man unamiable in the eyes of the person
whose affection he solicits: besides that, it sinks his figure, gives
him fears, apprehensions and poorness of spirit, and often makes him
appear ridiculous, where he has a mind to recommend himself."]

[Footnote 9: A lively French writer, says Mary Wolstoncraft, asks what
business women turned of forty can have in this world.]

Before leaving this topic, I beg leave to add one word of advice to
the gay and fascinating belle, who is moving forward in her victorious
career,--conquering all hearts before her,--until, like the Juan of
Moliere, she may wish for other worlds, not for purposes of conquest,
like Alexander, but to win the hearts of those that inhabit them. A
lady in this situation ought always to be mindful of the great
influence which she is exerting on those around her. Her lightest
words are treasured up with the fondest zeal, her very defects are
sometimes considered as surpassing beauties. A principle advocated by
her, no matter how erroneous,--a doctrine advanced, no matter how
false, is apt to make an impression, sometimes deep and indelible, on
the susceptible hearts of her admirers. She should ever recollect that
the cause of virtue and of piety is peculiarly hers; and when she is
walking the golden round of her pleasures, shedding her influence on
all who approach her, let her be conscious to herself of no word or
deed which can injure the sacred cause of morality and religion. We
all know the irresistible influence of association. A writer of
antiquity said he would rather believe drunkenness no vice, than that
Plato could have one. The stuttering of Aristotle and the wry neck of
Alexander were admired on the same principle: and Des Cartes, the
great philosopher, declared he had a partiality for persons who
squinted; and he says that in his endeavor to trace the cause of a
taste so whimsical, he at last recollected, that, when a boy, he had
been fond of a girl who had that blemish. I have rarely known a very
devoted lover who did not love all the peculiarities and even oddities
of his mistress. We are all like the Frenchman, whose mistress had a
_twisted nose_, of which the lover used to say, "C'est au moins la
plus belle irregularité du monde." Hence, for the very same reason
that Dr. Johnson remarks, "if there is any writer whose genius can
embellish impropriety, or whose authority can make error venerable,
_his_ works are the proper object of criticism,"--would I say, that if
there be any being whose opinions and actions form the

                                      "Glass
  Wherein the noble youths do dress themselves,"

let such beings remember the nature and responsibility of their
station, and manage well the _talents_ which are committed to their
charge. I shall for the present, pass over all consideration of the
married state, with the sole remark, that in all ages and countries
the women love more constantly and more devotedly in that state than
the men, possessing a more exclusive and more engrossing affection,
and that their errors and infidelity have generally been the result,
not the cause, of those of the men. Hence, the more attentive, the
more sedulously tender and kind the husband is, the more virtuous,
affectionate and faithful the wife becomes. All over the world, the
woman who marries from love, covets, beyond every thing else, the
entire affections of her husband. He is all in all to her,--and it
will be only his indifference and infidelity which will ever alienate
her affections; then, in the spirit of chagrin and mortification, may
she bewail her lot, in the language of Dryden:

                            "Cursed vassalage,
  First idolized till love's hot fire be o'er,
  Then slaves to those who courted us before."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DANCING, WALTZING, &c.

J'ai toujours cru que le _bon_ n'etait que le _beau_ mis en
action.--_Rousseau_.


Amid the various changes in the customs and fashions of society, the
abolition of old, and the introduction of new modes, which an age
prolific in intelligent and important improvement has effected, it is
matter of surprise, that some of the engines of reform, some of the
batteries of satire, have never been unmasked upon the crude and
barbarous fashion of dancing. Start not, gentle reader, when I say
_barbarous_ fashion, for such dancing unquestionably is. Its very
origin is barbarous. In a rude state, when the untutored savage is
agitated by any strong emotion, as joy, patriotism, admiration, &c.,
his first impulse is to caper and skip about like a grasshopper. Among
the records of the customs and manners of the most polished and
civilized nations of antiquity, we seek in vain for the importance and
admiration which attaches to this miscalled accomplishment at the
present day. The Romans, perhaps the most accomplished and polite of
the ancients, held the art in very low esteem. Indeed we find Cicero
striving with all the force of his matchless eloquence, to vindicate
his friend Muræna from the charge of being a dancer, preferred against
him by Cato. So conscious is he of the weight of the imputation, that
he makes it the subject of one branch of his defence, and, in a
digression, recounts the brilliant services and devoted patriotism of
his client's ancestors, to discountenance a charge affecting so
seriously, the value and dignity of his character.

  "Tempestivi convivii, amæni loci,
   Multarum deliciarum, comes est extrema saltatio."

The Greeks, we are told, held the art of dancing in higher estimation,
and it is said, considered graceful dancing one of the necessary
constituents to the character of an accomplished gentleman; but the
very word, and indeed the only one used by them to express the motion,
[Greek: orchêsis], signified _mimicry_; plainly intimating its
derivation from the buffoons and jesters of the stage, and
consequently it never could have had much popularity in their more
refined and elegant circles. As a religious rite it was in use, it
seems, among the ancient Jews, and in celebration of the worship of
the heathen deities of Greece and Rome, we find it only practised in
the orgies of Bacchus, a fact of itself sufficient to mark it as a
lewd, licentious and vulgar pastime. It was a favorite amusement of
the ancient Scythians, the Chinese, the Goths, the Vandals, the
Persians, and other barbarous nations of antiquity, and is yet in
practice among the modern French and Italians, who, first introducing
it in theatrical amusements, and then having carried the art to great
perfection, have now transplanted it to the fashionable circles of
domestic society. But it is rather in reference to its effects upon
the present constitution of society, and its awkward adaptation to the
chastened simplicity of the republican character, that I propose to
consider dancing, than in regard to its estimation among the ancients.

Excellence in _national_ dances, _as such_, may deservedly be ranked
among the highest efforts of skill and grace. We discover much
elegance, certainly, in the easy and graceful evolutions of the
Spanish waltz. There is a charming vivacity in the romping gaiety of
the French gallopade; and even the oriental mazourka, is not devoid of
a certain graceful beauty. But they derive their interest from the
national and historical associations connected with them. We see the
haughty Spaniard, proud indeed, but pliant, aptly pictured in the
mysterious intricacy of the mazy waltz. The lively _gallop_ presents
to our mind at once, the reckless _nonchalance_ and chivalrous gaiety
of the Frenchman; and thus these dances come to us as faithful types
of their national origin. But why may we not be content to witness
this delineation of national characteristics upon our theatrical
boards? Why should we take them from their appropriate sphere, and
introduce them to the frivolous and undignified imitation of the
polite and refined? I do not know a scene more faithfully descriptive
of rude, boisterous, and unbecoming merriment, than an American ball
room. Place your hands upon your ears, and look down the hall. You
will see the most unmeaning grimaces--the most ridiculous contortions
of body in one quarter--while another view presents to you the
unwelcome picture of man, lordly man, fallen from his high estate, and
going through the laborious operations of the dance, with the farcical
solemnity of a monk, or the clownish rapture of a mountebank. People
may say what they please, about those only opposing this capering
vice, who cannot dance themselves. They may tell us, that Lord Byron
wrote his fretful satire upon waltzing, because his lordship could not
participate in that fashionable dance, owing to his _club foot_. They
may preach, that the ignorant alone complain of those accomplishments
which they cannot attain themselves; that the dances in practice, from
time immemorial, among our ancestors, were equally objectionable as
those we now adopt and admire, which certain bold critics, going
beyond their province, dare to denounce as dangerous innovations,
savoring of foreign modes and manners, licentious and demoralizing.
All this will not do, Mr. Editor. Dancing is dangerous, and _the waltz
especially_: and a virtuous and intelligent community will unite, I
feel assured, to frown these vicious amusements out of society, and
consign them to the barbarous regions whence they were so irreverently
introduced among us.

This mania for dancing, waltzing, &c., is the bane of every social
circle. Do you go to pass the evening sociably with your friend, where
you have a vague instinctive idea you will meet the pretty creature
you passed in the street, on the Thursday previous--you will
enter--your fondest anticipations are realized--you draw your chair
towards her, and fall into a charming tete-a-tete, with the dear
object for whom you already conceive a nascent passion--who has made
you lose a whole week's sleep, break your mirror, tear your black silk
_bonnet de nuit_ into fragments, and kick your faithful _valet de
chambre_ down stairs, because your laundress has failed to impart the
due degree of rigidity to your collar linen. Now you promise yourself
a full indemnity for all the _contre-temps_ of the past week--you are
just arranging a most pleasant excursion with the lady the next
afternoon, when, alas! the vanity of human hopes! an impertinent
coxcomb, whose only merit consists in a well arranged dress and
capacious whiskers, demands the honor of the lady's hand for the next
waltz. Odious, detested waltz! You have too much taste to dance
yourself: your _inamorata_, however, must yield to the unrelenting
tyranny of fashion, and you are left in a posture of _amiable_
abstraction, musing on the provoking scene enacting before you. To sit
quietly and await the termination of the dance, might not be an
unattainable effort of patience; but to see her partner's place
supplied again and again--you take leave of hope and the company
together, and pass the next week to the manifest infringement of your
own peace of mind, and your aforesaid ill-fated valet's physical
comforts.

Now, Mr. Messenger, I take you to be a sensible and discreet man,
anxious for the purity of public taste, and ever vigilant to rid
society of all nuisances; I doubt not, therefore, that I shall find in
you, an able and willing coadjutor in the remedy I propose to apply,
for the extirpation of this unspeakable annoyance; and I hope the
undignified, graceless, dancing fraternity, aye, and _sisterhood_ too,
(for sorry am I to say, the ladies are the most _untiring_ patrons of
this capering vice,) will take the hint forthwith. I propose, through
the "Messenger," to give to the public the result of my best labors to
eradicate this odious practice from society. I know not if my efforts
will ever receive their deserved reward. The public is an ungrateful
master, and ever incredulous and uncourteous when you propose to
reform him. It is not, however, the part of a philanthropist and
reformer, to abate his efforts on that account. Immortality will be
the price of success, and posterity will pay it. Had Columbus
abandoned his attempts to explore the western main, because bigoted
and ignorant monarchs would not accept the world he offered them, we
might now have been the wretched subjects of some European despot
instead of the countrymen of Washington, under a government of equal
laws, and in a land of liberty.

On a visit a few evenings ago, to a maiden aunt, I was glad to find,
that among the ladies assembled on the occasion, the utmost unanimity
prevailed as to the importance and utility of the proposed reform.
Miss Betsy Bloomever declared it would be one of the most extensively
beneficial reformations which the world has witnessed, since the
proscription of hoops, stays, and stomachers. Miss Debby Creaktone
pronounced it a more important revolution than that achieved by
Signorina Garcia, in the musical style of the American vocalists; and
Miss Judith Knowell said, that in her estimation, (and she was a
Protestant Episcopalian, she added,) Luther's reformation would sink
to insignificance before it.

You can imagine my gratification, Mr. Messenger, at so numerous and so
respectable an accession to my opinions; a fact upon which I could not
forbear to felicitate myself, to Miss Sophronisba Grundy, adding, that
I was confident my exertions would now be duly appreciated by an
enlightened public, when it should be apprised, that I was aided in my
labors by ladies, from whose _age_ and _experience_, so much might be
expected, when----conceive my astonishment, the whole group rose upon
me, with unanimous rage; and declared it was a positive insult--

"Age and experience indeed! humph! Call me _old_ at thirty-five!"
screamed Miss Deborah.

"And _me_, at forty--only five years more!" shouted Miss Betsy.

"And _I_," said Miss Judith, scornfully, "that will let you know, Sir,
I shall not be thirty-five till the 29th day of June next."

"Impudence!" said Miss Primrose.

"Insult!" echoed Miss Grundy.

In short, I found it impossible, Mr. Messenger, to compose the
troubled elements, thus innocently put in motion, and was forced to
retire. All my attempts at expostulation and entreaty, being overborne
and silenced by the volume of voice and clamor sent after me--my aunt
even intimating to me, at the hall door, that I must not visit her
house, unless I could better estimate the _feelings_ of her friends,
who certainly had much cause to complain of my wanton outrage upon
them.

I was electrified--was astounded--and tossed on my pillow the whole
night, vainly laboring to unravel the inexplicable problem. That
ladies of such seeming propriety, should evince such passion at an
allusion to that to which I considered them _alone_ indebted, for any
consequence they might have in the world, was more than my philosophy
could estimate, or my ingenuity explain.

As some compensation, however, for the defection of these _young_
ladies with delicate _feelings_, I am rejoiced to find that the sex
can appreciate my exertions in the cause of elegance and refinement,
and are determined to aid me in my patriotic labors. Last evening the
penny post brought me the two following letters, on the subject of the
great reformation of manners in which we are engaged; and as they
strengthen my opinions with great force of argument, I am unwilling to
suppress them, and beg leave you will give them at once to the dear
public, whose welfare I have so much at heart. With the kind and very
welcome invitation contained in the first, I shall certainly comply,
and hope ere long, to give you the result of the deliberations of a
body, from whose wisdom, (I will not say _age_ or _experience_,) so
much may be justly expected; and in the mean while, I am very
faithfully, yours and the public's dear friend,

ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.


_Mr. Absolute:_

I am secretary to the "Society of Young Ladies for the suppression of
vulgar practices, and the promotion of elegance and gentility among
young men," and am directed by a resolution of the Society, at its
last meeting in Quality Hall, to convey to you the assurance of their
hearty good will and ready co-operation, in your philanthropic efforts
in the dancing reformation. Our society has long deplored the absence
of some efficient and active measures for the suppression of a
practice so derogatory to the dignified grandeur of the human form and
character, and congratulate themselves and their co-laborers in the
same cause, upon the highly important and gratifying results, which
your beneficent zeal and energy promise. They have ever since the
formation of their society, regarded the practice of dancing--of
waltzing particularly, and especially in private circles--as seriously
obstructive to that "_march_ of mind," which is elsewhere effecting
such important improvements in the domestic economy and wealth of
nations; and hail with delighted enthusiasm the dawn of a brighter and
better period, in our beloved country. An anti-dancing clause is found
in the constitution of our society. Our members have all abandoned the
custom very long ago; indeed, our president, among the oldest of our
number, being nearly sixty years of age, says, that at the last
dancing party she attended, she saw General Washington dance a minuet
with her aunt Fanny. There was, she says, so much stately grace in
that dance, that she would not object to seeing minuets danced always;
but nothing _else_. We all agree in unanimous condemnation of the
rapid, whirling, graceless waltzes, hops, gallops, and all those
Frenchified follies, which are now, alas! by the depraved taste of the
day, considered so fashionable.

Pray do not spare any pains to wipe off this dreadful stain upon our
domestic customs and manners, and let not dancing be any longer urged
against us as a national reproach. The next meeting of our society
will be held on the afternoon of this day week, when I am directed to
invite your attendance. Pray do not fail to come and give us your aid
in working the speedy extirmination of this great vice from among us.
And, in the meantime, wishing you perfect success in your virtuous
labors, I remain your friend, in the sympathy which unites the
advocates of a common cause.

CAROLINE CAMFIELD, _Secretary_.


_Mr. Absolute:_

Hearing of your intended efforts, by a series of essays, and by
forming societies throughout the country, to draw the public attention
to the demoralizing tendency and intrinsic ungentility of dancing, I
cannot forbear to wish you entire success, in a reformation fraught
with the best interests of society.

I am a young lady of respectable connexions, of some reading, more
property, and, unless my glass plays me false, of a person quite
agreeable. With youth and these advantages, one would think I could
get along very well among the patrons of dancing; but you must know I
never could dance _fashionably_, and as no body dances otherwise, the
consequence is, that I go to party after party, and never dance at
all. Pa sent me to the dancing school almost a whole quarter, but I
had hardly in that time learned more than the positions, when our
master dislocated his ankle joint in teaching one of the scholars (a
fat Dutch girl from the mountains,) the French gallopade, and since
then, we have never got another one in our neighborhood. How much more
sociable it is to pass the evening in agreeable conversation, in which
all can participate, than by dancing, to gratify one part of the
company at the expense of the other.

Lord Chesterfield, (whose letters I have sometimes read,) advises his
son never to play on any musical instrument. It is an accomplishment,
he says, of the necessitous or vulgar. If he wants to hear music, he
directs him to send for a professed performer, and pay him for his
services. Thus ought it be in regard to dancing. Confine it to the
circus or theatre, and society will not be annoyed by the practice.
Until this is done, rely upon it, Mr. Absolute, none of your disciples
will do more to drive it from the polished circles of domestic
society, than your obedient servant,

SALLY SOBERLY.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LION-IZING. A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

  ------------all people went
  Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment.
                     _Bishop Hall's Satires_.


I am--that is to say, I _was_, a great man. But I am neither the
author of Junius, nor the man in the mask--for my name is Thomas
Smith, and I was born somewhere in the city of Fum-Fudge. The first
action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with both hands. My
mother saw this and called me a genius. My father wept for joy, and
bought me a treatise on Nosology. Before I was breeched I had not only
mastered the treatise, but had collected into a common-place book all
that is said on the subject, by Pliny, Aristotle, Alexander Ross,
Minutius Felix, Hermanus Pictorius, Del Rio, Villarêt, Bartholinus,
and Sir Thomas Browne.

I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to
understand, that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently big, he
might, by merely following it, arrive at a Lionship. But my attention
was not confined to theories alone. Every morning I took a dram or
two, and gave my proboscis a couple of pulls. When I came of age my
father sent for me to his study.

'My son'--said he--'what is the chief end of your existence?'

'Father'--I said--'it is the study of Nosology.'

'And what, Thomas'--he continued--'is Nosology?'

'Sir'--I replied--'it is the Science of Noses.'

'And can you tell me'--he asked--'what is the meaning of a nose?'

'A nose, my father'--said I--'has been variously defined, by about a
thousand different authors. It is now noon, or thereabouts. We shall
therefore have time enough to get through with them all by midnight.
To commence:--The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that
protuberance, that bump, that excrescence, that'----

'That will do Thomas'--said my father. 'I am positively thunderstruck
at the extent of your information--I am, upon my soul. Come here! (and
he took me by the arm.) Your education may be considered as finished,
and it is high time you should scuffle for yourself--so--so--so (here
he kicked me down stairs and out of the door,) so get out of my house,
and God bless you!'

As I felt within me the divine _afflatus_, I considered this accident
rather fortunate than otherwise, and determined to follow my nose. So
I gave it a pull or two, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology. All
Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.

'Wonderful genius!'--said the Quarterly.

'Superb physiologist!'--said the New Monthly.

'Fine writer!'--said the Edinburg.

'Great man!'--said Blackwood.

'_Who_ can he be?'--said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.

'_What_ can he be?'--said big Miss Bas-Bleu.

'_Where_ can he be?'--said little Miss Bas-Bleu.

But I paid them no manner of attention, and walked into the shop of an
artist.

The Duchess of Bless-my-soul was sitting for her portrait. The
Marchioness of So-and-so was holding the Duchess's poodle. The Earl of
This-and-that was flirting with her salts, and His Royal Highness of
Touch-me-not was standing behind her chair. I merely walked towards
the artist, and held up my proboscis.

'O beautiful!'--sighed the Duchess of Bless-my-soul.

'O pretty!'--lisped the Marchioness of So-and-so.

'Horrible!'--groaned the Earl of This-and-that.

'Abominable!'--growled his Highness of Touch-me-not.

'What will you take for it?'--said the artist.

'A thousand pounds'--said I, sitting down.

'A thousand pounds?'--he inquired, turning the nose to the light.

'Precisely'--said I.

'Beautiful!'--said he, looking at the nose.

'A thousand pounds'--said I, twisting it to one side.

'Admirable!'--said he.

'A thousand pounds'--said I.

'You shall have them'-said he--'what a piece of Virtû!' So he paid me
the money, and made a sketch of my nose. I took rooms in Jermyn
street, sent his Majesty the ninety-ninth edition of the Nosology with
a portrait of the author, and his Royal Highness of Touch-me-not
invited me to dinner.

We were all Lions and _Recherchés_.

There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He said that the angels were
horses, cocks, and bulls--that somebody in the sixth heaven had
seventy thousand heads and seventy thousand tongues--and that the
earth was held up by a sky-blue cow with four hundred horns.

There was Sir Positive Paradox. He said that all fools were
philosophers, and all philosophers were fools.

There was a writer on Ethics. He talked of Fire, Unity, and
Atoms--Bi-part, and Pre-existent soul--Affinity and Discord--Primitive
Intelligence and Homoomeria.

There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and
Arianus--Heresy and the Council of Nice--Consubstantialism, Homousios,
and Homouioisios.

There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned Latour,
Markbrunnen and Mareschino--Muriton of red tongue, and Cauliflowers
with Velouté sauce--veal _à la_ St. Menehoult, Marinade _à la_ St.
Florentin, and orange jellies _en mosaiques_.

There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He spoke of Cimabue,
Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino--the gloom of Caravaggio--the amenity
of Albano--the golden glories of Titian--the frows of Rubens, and the
waggeries of Jan Steen.

There was the great Geologist Feltzpar. He talked of Hornblende,
Mica-slate, Quartz, Schist, Schorl, and Pudding-stone.

There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He said that the
moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in Egypt, Dian in Rome, and
Artemis in Greece.

There was Delphinus Polyglot. He told us what had become of the
eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus--of the fifty-four orations of
Isæus--of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches of Lysias--of the
hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus--of the eighth book of
the Conic Sections of Apollonius--of Pindar's Hymns and Dithyrambics,
and the five and forty Tragedies of Homer Junior.

There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblichus,
Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus, Tyrius, and Syrianus.

There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price,
Priestly, Condorcet, De Staël, and the "Ambitious Student in rather
ill health."

There was myself. I talked of Pictorius, Del Rio, Alexander Ross,
Minutius Felix, Bartholinus, Sir Thos. Browne, and the Science of
Noses.

'Marvellous clever man!'--said his Highness.

'Superb!'--said the guests: and the next morning her Grace of
Bless-my-soul paid me a visit.

'Will you go to Almacks, pretty creature?' she said.

'Certainly'--said I. 'Nose and all?'--she asked.

'Positively'--I replied.

'Here then is a card'--she said--'shall I say you will be there?'

'Dear Duchess! with all my heart.'

'Pshaw! no--but with all your nose?'

'Every bit of it, my life,'--said I. So I gave it a pull or two, and
found myself at Almacks. The rooms were crowded to suffocation.

'He is coming!'--said somebody on the stair case.

'He is coming!'--said somebody farther up.

'He is coming!'--said somebody farther still.

'He is come!'--said the Duchess--'he is come, the little love!' And
she caught me by both hands, and looked me in the nose.

'Ah joli!'--said Mademoiselle Pas Seul.

'Dios guarda!'--said Don Stiletto.

'Diavolo!'--said Count Capricornuto.

'Tousand Teufel!'--said Baron Bludenuff.

'Tweedle-dee--tweedle-dee--tweedle-dum!' said the orchestra.

'Ah joli!--Dios guarda!--Diavolo!--and Tousand Teufel!' repeated
Mademoiselle Pas Seul, Don Stiletto, Count Capricornuto, and Baron
Bludenuff. It was too bad--it was not to be borne. I grew angry.

'Sir!'--said I to the Baron--'you are a baboon.'

'Sir!'--replied he, after a pause,--'Donner and Blitzen!'

This was sufficient. The next morning I shot off his nose at six
o'clock, and then called upon my friends.

'Bête!'--said the first.

'Fool!'--said the second.

'Ninny!'--said the third.

'Dolt!'--said the fourth.

'Noodle!'--said the fifth.

'Ass!'--said the sixth.

'Be off!'--said the seventh.

At all this I felt mortified, and called upon my father.

'Father'--I said--'what is the chief end of my existence!'

'My son'--he replied--'it is still the study of Nosology. But in
hitting the Baron's nose you have overshot your mark. You have a fine
nose it is true, but then Bludenuff has none. You are d----d, and he
has become the Lion of the day. In Fum-Fudge great is a Lion with a
proboscis, but greater by far is a Lion with no proboscis at all.'




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. I.

  What am I? how produced, and for what end?
  Whence drew I being? to what period tend?
                                     _Artbuthnot_.


My name is Lionel Granby. I was the second and youngest son of the
Honorable Edmund Granby, a gentleman distinguished for his polished
education and stately aristocracy. The earliest associations of my
eventful life, steal from memory more of joyousness than of pain; and
gathering in a gilded horizon of light around the darkness of my
destiny, they whisper a consolation which despair cannot efface, nor
misfortune obliterate.

Chalgrave, (an ominous name for a patrician family,) was the proud
mansion of my ancestors. It was a huge and gnarled pile of Dutch
brick, surrounded by a cumbrous wall of the same material. Situated on
the western side of Chesapeake Bay, it frowned with stubborn
misanthropy, on the mingled beauty which softened the silent
landscape. It stood alone in the silence of its grandeur,--cold,
fearful and noiseless. A broad and level plain swept round its base,
dotted into life with the cottages of my father's numerous slaves.
From them sprung the only voices which soothed the chilled solitude of
the scene. Here, at all times might be heard the merry laugh, the
jocund song, or the unalloyed mirth of alternate ease and idleness.
One of those noble and beautiful rivers, which dally, as if it scorned
to arise from an humble rivulet, with the bosom of the Chesapeake,
gushed up its full waters fresh as in the morning of its creation.
Much rude and incongruous taste disfigured the interior of Chalgrave.
A dark and gloomy heaviness sate on the antique wainscotting, the
massy sofas, and the blackened windows. From the dinner hall, the
portraits of my ancestors looked down, as if in contempt on the
degeneracy of modern times. Here was a cavalier, with flowing locks
and iron-bound brow, who had lost his life in the memorable field of
Naseby. Opposite to him, was the stiff and rigid portrait of a grave
and thoughtful face. He was one of those inflexible and independent
lawyers, whose moral courage had labored in the war of our revolution,
and whose inflexible spirit had inspired successful resistance.
Mothers with children in their arms; infants with toys, and belles
with flowers and books, filled the wall alike with vermillion and
smiles.

The number _seven_ was curiously interwoven, in the circumstances of
my birth. I was born on the seventh day of the seventh month, at seven
o'clock, being the seventh of May. In our old family Bible, I find the
record of my birth in my father's hand writing, followed with this
fearful sentence. "Curse him not, oh God! with the ---- of our
family." Amid the desolations of despair--the anguish of broken
hearted affliction, and the contempt of the world, I turn to the
gentle and joyous hours of my childhood, even as the "hart which
panteth after the water brooks." My memory is my heart, and my
affections hourly trace themselves on its index. My mother's dark and
deep blue eye, even now beams over her wretched child, and I live
alone in the regenerative charity of this blessed passion.

I have a faint and indistinct recollection of my father's death and
burial. The solemn ceremony of his funeral, and the dull and harsh
sound of the earth as it touched his coffin, deeply affected my
youthful spirits. I cried bitterly in the arms of my old nurse, and
wondered at my mother's chilled and tearless eye. My father was dead!
He had been stern and imperious to me; and as my gratitude was no
reasoning power, I soon laughed brightly again in the serious and
melancholy face of my mother. My old nurse Ellen, had lived in the
Granby family for three successive generations, and was addressed by
the endearing epithet of "Mammy." Her grandson, a well formed and
athletic youth, named Scipio, four years older than myself, had been
given to me by my father, and I soon learned the deep and abiding
fidelity of his affection. He was my friend, companion and slave; and
I thank God! that the pride of dominion never insulted or degraded
him. In his obedience, he was dignified; and in his devotion, ardent,
generous and sincere. He taught me to ride the unbroken colt--to steer
the frail periogue, and to fish with success for the active boneta.
According to the custom in Virginia, he did no service but wait on his
young master. Thus separated from the great mass of my father's
slaves, he grew into manhood with a gentleness of character and a
dignity of address which would have honored the proudest gentleman in
the state.

My old uncle Charles, who was one of the happiest and most dignified
specimens of the "decayed gentleman," had found a resting place for
his adversity in the Chalgrave family. He had been a Colonel in the
militia; and having on one occasion, performed with his whole regiment
before an admiring _court yard_, the difficult and vexatious manoeuvre
of "the hollow square," he instantly resigned his commission; and
under the shade of his laurels, he lamented the decay of military
spirit, and the ignorance of the officers. The "hollow square," was
the first mathematical figure I learned. Every thing in nature was
pressed by my uncle into this fortified figure (as he called it,) of
fortification. The trees, the flowers, the grass plats, backgammon
men,--and the flies trained with honey, presented the solemn outline
of my uncle's pride and learning. His peculiarities were few, and
deeply tinctured with enthusiasm. As an antiquary alone, in the cause
of Virginian history, he was bigoted, obstinate and credulous; and,
considered as the first of books, "the Metamorphoses of Ovid, done
into English by Mr. George Sandys, the company's treasurer." He
contended that Clayton, the botanist, was greater in learning, than
Linnæus; and, told with much indignation, the minutiæ of Clayton's
quarrel with Gronovius, the Amsterdam printer. My uncle was
experienced in the diseases of dogs and horses, and perfectly familiar
with the technical jargon of the racing calendar. He had travelled in
Europe, but would never mention the incidents of his tour, except to
inform his auditory that the best saddles were made in London, and the
finest pointers were bred at Padua. Yet my uncle had learning, taste
and erudition, which he guarded, from every profane eye, with a
repulsive and dogged obstinacy; and the few flashes which occasionally
broke from him, glittered like the trembling rays which play around
the edge of some sombre cloud. As an admirer of the fair, he was
courteous, dreamy and fantastic, and would ever and anon, refer, for
an evidence of his family gallantry, to the speech of one Sir Danvers
Granby, who was a commissioner under Henry VIII, for dissolving the
nunneries. When the nuns were shivering in the rude gaze of the
populace, Sir Danvers, looked at them with tears in his eyes,
exclaiming, "God bless you! I could marry you all, if I did not adore
you!" This story my uncle told with a smile and a bow.

My gallant, gifted, and noble brother Frederick! how bright was the
star which shone over thy boyhood! Alas! that its flickering light
should only beam o'er thy pallid couch!--He was several years my
senior, and had been sent to Europe for the purpose of acquiring a
military education, but had returned at the age of nineteen with a
broken and impaired constitution. He was studious, solitary and
reserved; while the hectic flush of consumption, which irradiated his
cheek, nerved alike the fortitude of his character, and awakened the
sympathy of every eye. His heart was gentle, though his studies were
severe--and he saved from the wreck which ambition ever makes of
feeling, no jewel so rich as the untainted tenderness of his
character. He had become a member of the bar; and I have often gazed
on his high and marbled brow, as a living monument, on which destiny
had inscribed its fiat of despair. Political life! that maddening
turmoil of empty nothingness! was the goal on which he had fixed his
dream of hope; and, though ill health prostrated him to the earth, his
sunny smile breathed a freshness, and a gloom, as brilliant, and as
melancholy as the tremulous twilight of an autumn sky. He cared naught
for wealth, love or pleasure. Ambition was the demon which moved
around him, in a track of its own desolation; and though beauty had
lured him almost to the confines of matrimony, he could trample down
the sympathies of his nature beneath its despotic rule.

My sister Lucy, was two years younger than myself; she was fair,
delicate, and singularly beautiful. Her raven and luxuriant hair, fell
in prodigal ringlets over a brow of Parian whiteness, giving that
struggling halo of beauty which darkness throws around the solitude of
the snow drift. She was deeply versed in the fashionable
accomplishments of female education, and had added to them the
acquirements of solid learning. The old library was the resort of her
solitary hours; and as her light and sylph-like form, would flit
through its darkened walls, fancy might easily personify her into
Fame, hovering over the tomb of Genius.

The coachman, ostler, and dining room servants, are all important
characters in the _dramatis personæ_ of a Virginian household. With
them I was a pet. The first, taught me to drive--the second, initiated
me into the mysteries of Tree Hill and Broad Rock; while the third,
corrected with severity, any breach of etiquette or violation of
morals, inconsistent with his own or the Granby's dignity.

Such was the Granby family. Where are they now? The spider has woven
her web, and the owl has built her nest in the crumbling walls of
Chalgrave. The silent grave reads but one lesson--for the breeze which
sighs over its dewy grass, tells me that _I_ alone, am the last of
that proud and gifted name.

THETA.




DAGGER'S SPRINGS,

IN THE COUNTY OF BOTETOURT, VIRGINIA.


Among the numerous watering places in Virginia, our attention has been
drawn to that which is named at the head of this notice, by several
individuals who tested its virtues during the last season, and who
speak highly of the situation and management of the Springs, and the
efficacy of its waters. The mineral qualities of these Springs have
been long known, and they have been resorted to for some years by
persons living in their vicinity. But the character and circumstances
of the original proprietor, a descendant of the early Dutch settlers
of the country, prevented their improvement until within the last year
or two. He had a full sense of the mineral treasure which enhanced the
value of his property, and refused all offers from those who wished to
purchase the site of the Springs; while he had not the means of
bringing them into profitable use, by erecting buildings for the
accommodation of visiters. Many individuals were, nevertheless, in the
habit of drinking the waters of the Springs during the warm season,
and of sojourning for a few days in the rude and imperfect dwellings
which he had erected: and with the moderate income thus obtained from
this mine of natural wealth, its sturdy proprietor seemed well
satisfied. At his death, his successors disposed of the Springs and
the adjacent lands to the present proprietors; and buildings were
erected last year, on a limited scale, with every regard to the
comfort of the traveller and the invalid. The consequences of a more
liberal arrangement were immediately felt. The number of visiters last
season exceeded the means of accommodation; and the managers have in
the interim, made the most active exertions to meet the growing
popularity of their establishment, having completed additional
apartments, which will enable them to provide for the comfort of one
hundred persons. The scenery in the vicinity of the Springs has been
described to us in glowing colors, as combining every variety of the
magnificent and the beautiful--and we have also been assured that the
fare and attendance are worthy of all praise; so that we feel safe in
recommending the enlarged establishment of the proprietors (Messrs.
Dibrell and Watkins,) to the attention of travellers for health or
pleasure.

Dagger's Springs are situated within easy distances from some of the
most interesting towns in the Valley of Virginia--they are forty-five
miles from the White Sulphur; twenty-two from Lexington; eighteen from
Fincastle, and sixteen from Pattonsburg. The following letter from a
distinguished physician, affords all necessary information as to the
medicinal properties of the waters, and the management of the
establishment:

_Danville, April 28, 1835_.

I visited Dagger's Spring on the 24th of last July, and on the next
day proceeded to subject the water to a number of chemical tests. The
experiments performed, though not as full and as satisfactory as I
could have wished, were sufficient to demonstrate that the water
possesses highly valuable properties, and sufficient also to make us
somewhat acquainted with the _nature_ of those properties. The most
active mineral ingredients in the water are carbonated alkalies. In
this it differs materially from the White and Salt Sulphur, and is
more nearly assimilated in its qualities to the Red and Gray Sulphur.
It is however more decidedly alkaline than either of those Springs.
This peculiarity will ever recommend it to persons subject to
acidities of the stomach, and to the other concomitants of dyspepsia;
while the large quantity of hydrogen that it contains, will render it
useful in all of those complaints for which sulphur water is usually
prescribed.

The following experiment was performed with the view of ascertaining
the quantity of gas contained in the water. Three measures of the
water were placed in a retort, and the bulb of the retort plunged in
water, heated to the temperature of 108 Fahrenheit. The gas, as it was
extricated, was received over mercury, in a graduated measure. The
result was, that the three measures of water yielded one measure of
gas. This gas was subsequently tested, and found to consist of
sulphuretted hydrogen, azote, and atmospheric air--principally of the
former.

The presence of iron is not detected by the usual tests; but the
water, when treated with prussiate of potash, and subsequently with
sulphuric acid, yields a blue precipitate, which is evidently
prussiate of iron--the sulphuric acid having a stronger affinity for
potash than the prussic acid, disengages the latter. The acid thus
disengaged, unites with the iron in the water, and forms the prussiate
of iron or prussian blue.

Although the water contains but about 36 grs. of mineral substances to
the gallon,[1] it acts, under certain circumstances, with great
promptness. It effects upon the system are invigorating: it promotes
digestion and improves the secretions generally; it strengthens
without producing an undue excitement, and may therefore be used
beneficially in some cases, in which the water of the White Sulphur,
from its stimulating properties, would prove destructive.

[Footnote 1: The smaller of two springs at the Red Sulphur contains
about 60 grs. per gal. The larger, which is most used, does not
contain but about 24 grs. per gal.]

I will only say in conclusion, that I was pleased with the manner in
which the establishment appeared to be conducted, with the spirit of
enterprise manifested, and the taste displayed in the plan of
improvement, which was kindly exhibited to me. I met with no situation
among the mountains susceptible of as great improvement as that
selected for the buildings. It may be made a second Eden.

I am engaged in preparing a work for the press, in which this Spring
will be more particularly noticed, and attention directed to objects
of interest in the surrounding country. It would have been completed
before this, but for the peculiarities of my situation, which allow me
but little leisure for literary pursuits.

I was told of another spring belonging to the establishment, from
which I was informed it was designed to supply the bathing house. From
the account given of it, I have no doubt but that it is highly
alkaline. I regret very much that it was not in my power to examine
and test its properties.




THE RED SULPHUR SPRINGS.


We have received, and shall insert in the next No. of the Messenger, a
continuation of the "_Visit to the Virginia Springs_," the first
portion of which will be found in the preceding pages. The second part
contains much valuable information, relating particularly to the Red
Sulphur, which has recently risen into importance under the management
of Mr. Burke, whose amiable and intelligent character is well known to
the citizens of Richmond. As we consider it important, that the
qualities of the healing waters which abound in this state, should be
made known as extensively as possible, we anticipate the more ample
information of our correspondent, by making the following extract from
a circular just issued by the proprietor of the Red Sulphur Springs,
(Mr. Burke):

"In that species of pulmonary disease attended by hemorrhages, unless
the energies of life are completely exhausted, it never fails to
afford relief. Sometimes, when the pulse beats 110 to 115, and the
emaciated figure of the patient too plainly indicates the ravages made
by repeated hemorrhages, and the unavailing efforts of physicians to
arrest them, he comes to the Red Sulphur, drinks about four quarts of
the water in twenty-four hours, lives upon plain farinaceous articles
of diet, takes all the exercise his case will admit, and at the end of
that brief period, his pulse falls to 80 or 85;--his spirits revive,
he continues daily to improve, and almost invariably, to gain a pound
in weight every day. At the expiration of fifteen days, he becomes
renovated, and pours forth his gratitude, by extolling the virtues of
the waters on every occasion. This is the usual action of the waters,
but there are cases in which their advantages are not perceived for
two or three weeks. Such is the exhilarating effect of confidence and
hope, that he soon forgets his late deplorable condition, and becomes
guilty of some unhappy imprudence that endangers his prospects.

"The luxuries of the table, or violent exercise, if indulged in, at
this crisis, will cause incalculable mischief. In affections of the
bronchia, this water, visited early, affords certain relief. In
asthma, it is highly valuable. In the early stage of genuine
phthisical consumption, it will arrest its progress; and, by repeating
the visit annually, and using the utmost self-denial, life may be
protracted for many years, and rendered comparatively comfortable; but
in the later stages, it is vain to hope for relief from any earthly
remedy; and it is therefore unwise to remove from the consolations and
comforts of home, the unfortunate patient, whose approaching
dissolution is apparent to all except himself and his nearest
relatives.

"When the patient has alternate chills and fevers, copious night
sweats, and a pulse at 120 or 130; moreover, when it becomes necessary
to check diarrhoea by opiates, and to sustain his sinking strength by
juleps, what rational hope can be afforded by any remedy whatever?

"In diseases of the liver, this water is highly efficacious. In
dropsy, rheumatism, gravel, gout, dyspepsia, tic doloreux, and
epilepsy, it has been used with advantage. In cutaneous diseases, it
seldom fails to effect a cure."

From the same circular we learn, that the accommodations at the Red
Sulphur have been much enlarged since the last season, and that
provision has been made for the reception of two hundred and twenty
visiters, with their servants and horses. The efficacy of the waters
in cases of incipient consumption, renders this an important place of
resort for a large class of invalids, who may be assured of finding in
Mr. Burke, a humane and considerate entertainer.




FEMALE EDUCATION.

Young Ladies Seminary, at Prince Edward Court House.


There is no subject which claims greater attention than the judicious
education of females. It has justly been considered by some of the
most eminent writers, of vast importance that the minds of the gentler
sex should be cultivated and enlarged by every practicable means; that
the _mothers_ of an enlightened nation should be well prepared to
train the mental faculties of their offspring; and that, as the
earliest intellectual as well as physical nutriment is derived from
the mother by the child, she should be fitted with care for her
responsible and momentous duty. Much greater attention is now bestowed
upon the culture of the female mind than formerly; and parents
generally seem more impressed with the propriety of giving to their
daughters a solid education. Accomplishments, which at one time seemed
to make up the sum of their acquirements, are beginning to be
considered as secondary to those studies which strengthen the
intellect and store the mind with useful knowledge. We have no doubt
that a change which carries such beneficial consequences into the
bosom of every well-ordered family, will gain ground. The importance
and the advantages of a thorough course of study for females, in the
present enlightened state of society, are too obvious to need
enforcement. The parts they have to act in this world's drama, require
that their early years of freedom from care and anxiety, should be
employed in preparation for the performance of the high duties of
their after lives, with ease, with dignity and usefulness. The time
has, we trust, arrived when the general cultivation of the female
intellect will be deemed, (as it is) absolutely necessary for her
happiness, and for the well-being of those whom providence may render
dependent upon her guidance, her councils, or her affections--when she
will be educated with a view to her becoming the companion, and not
the plaything of the other sex. The importance of her position in
civilized society, and the vast influence of her benignant qualities,
demand that she should be prepared to fill the one, and to exercise
the other with dignity and effect.

Our attention has been called to this subject by the encomiums
bestowed by many intelligent individuals, on the "YOUNG LADIES
SEMINARY _at Prince Edward Court House, Va._," which is conducted by
Mr. E. Root, in the most satisfactory manner. This institution has
been established about four years, and has met with great success, as
is shown by the fact that it had upwards of one hundred pupils during
the past year. It has been the object of its director to fix upon a
thorough course of study, rigidly to be pursued, under the
superintendence of the best teachers in the various departments;
rendering solid study the main object of attention, but without
neglecting those ornamental branches which embellish and refine the
more important acquirements. Music and the French language are taught
by proficients in each, and in fact every means is afforded at this
seminary for giving young ladies a finished education. To build up an
institution of this description, where every important branch of study
is ably and faithfully imparted, is a work of no ordinary difficulty,
as it is one of great public benefit: and Mr. Root and his assistants
are deserving of public commendation for the manner in which this
establishment is conducted, divested as we believe it to be of the
faults too often found in such schools, and which have rendered the
epithet "Boarding School Miss," almost a term of contempt. We can
conscientiously recommend the Prince Edward Seminary, for its
efficient _method_ of instruction--not short and easy, but such as is
best adapted to the developement and strengthening of the mental
energies--for able and well qualified teachers--a discipline which
combines kindness and gentleness with order and propriety--a careful
attention to the manners and morals of the pupils--and moderate
expense. Believing such to be the characteristics of Mr. Root's
Seminary, we have deemed it our duty to call to it the public
attention by these brief remarks.




LITERARY NOTICES.


I PROMESSI SPOSI, or the Betrothed Lovers; a Milanese Story of the
Seventeenth Century: as translated for the Metropolitan, from the
Italian of Alessandro Manzoni, by G. W. Featherstonhaugh. Washington:
Stereotyped and published by Duff Green. 1834. 8vo. pp. 249.

The appearance of this work strongly reminds us of the introductory
remarks with which the Edinburg Review, thirty years ago, prefaced its
annunciation of Waverley. We would gladly appropriate them, were it
fair to do so; but "honor among thieves!" Reviewers must not steal
from Reviewers; and what is it but theft, when he who borrows, can
never have anything worthy of acceptance to give in return?

We may, nevertheless, so far imitate "the grand Napoleon of the realms
of criticism," as to congratulate our readers on the appearance of a
work, which promises to be the commencement of a new style in novel
writing. Since the days of Fielding, unimitated and inimitable--and of
Smollett, between whose different productions there was scarce a
family likeness, we have had a succession of _dynasties_ reigning over
the regions of romance. We have had the Ratcliffe dynasty, the
Edgeworth dynasty, and the Scott dynasty; each, like the family of the
Cæsars, passing from good to bad, and from bad to worse, until each
has run out. Partial movements in the provinces have occasionally set
up the standard of rival aspirants: but these have soon passed away.
Heroines from the bogs, and heroes from the highlands of Scotland, or
the Polish wilds, could not maintain their pretensions, though uniting
in themselves all that is admirable both in the civilized and the
savage character. Perhaps this was the reason. We like to read of
things that may a little remind us of what we have seen in real life.
Sir Charles Grandison in the Scottish Kilt, is a startling apparition.

The younger D'Israeli has indeed, occasionally flashed upon us the
light of his capricious genius; but one of his caprices has been to
disappoint the hope that he had raised. He has shown us what he could
do, and that is all. Mr. Bulwer too, in a sort of freak of literary
radicalism, has set up for himself. He scorned to add to the number of
those who dress themselves in the cast-off habiliments of Scott; and
study, as at a glass, to make themselves like him, as if ambitious to
display their thefts. _He_ learned the craft of plagiarism in the
Spartan school, where _detection_ was the only disgrace. He would not
steal, not he, from any but "the poor man, who had nothing save one
little ewe lamb, that lay in his bosom, and was unto him as a
daughter." He would imitate none but himself, and draw from no other
models. His novels are all echoes of each other. There is hardly a
page which might not be known for his, nor a favorite character which
is not an exhibition of one of the phases of his _exquisite_ self. The
variety is between what he imagines himself to be, and what he
imagines that he might have been, had he been a cavalier of the
seventeenth century, or had circumstances made him a highwayman or a
murderer. We are aware that he denies all this, and may be unconscious
of it: but his identity can no more be mistaken than that of the
one-eyed companion of Hogarth's "idle apprentice." We are aware too,
that Mr. Bulwer is a member of a certain literary cabal, who aspire to
direct the public taste, and bring all the influence of wealth and
fashion and political connexion in aid of their pretensions. He is a
sort of literary Jack Cade. "His mouth is the law." We know that the
"amphitrion on l'on dire" is always the true amphitrion. But we never
expect to travel as caterers for a public journal. We in the south do
not do that sort of thing. We are not taught so to "raise the wind."
We are not up to perpetual motion, nor to the art of making our living
by taking our pleasure. We feel ourselves therefore under no
obligation to admire Mr. Rogers's poems, though he be a banker--nor
Mr. Bulwer's novels, nor himself, though he be a member of Parliament;
nor though his female _doublure_ Lady Blessington, "have the finest
bust," and "the prettiest foot," and be "the finest woman in London."
_We_ do not put the names of our fine women in the newspapers. The
business of female education with us, is not to qualify a woman to be
the head of a literary _coterie_, nor to figure in the journal of a
travelling coxcomb. We prepare her, as a wife, to make the home of a
good and wise and great man, the happiest place to him on earth. We
prepare her, as a mother, to form her son to walk in his father's
steps, and in turn, to take his place among the good and wise and
great. When we have done this, we have accomplished, if not _all_, at
least _the best_ that education can do. Her praise is found in the
happiness of her husband, and in the virtues and honors of her sons.
Her name is too sacred to be profaned by public breath. She is only
seen by that dim doubtful light, which, like "the majesty of
darkness," so much enhances true dignity. She finds her place by the
side of the "Mother of the Gracchi," and of her whom an English poet,
who well knew how to appreciate and how to praise female excellence,
has simply designated as

  "SIDNEY'S SISTER, PEMBROKE'S MOTHER."

We much fear, that after all this, the author of the work before us
will have no reason to thank us for our praise. On the contrary, there
may be danger of involving him in the displeasure, which we may draw
upon ourselves from that same cabal, which has its members on both
sides of the Atlantic. "Ca me; Ca thee," is the order of the day. If
half the praise be due, which is lavished on the works that daily
issue from the press, we may live to see the writings which instructed
and delighted our youth, laid on the same shelf with Thomas Aquinas
and Duns Scotus. Men can no more read every thing than they can eat
every thing; and the _petits plats_, that are handed round
hot-and-hot, leave us no room to do honor to the roast beef of old
England, nor to the savory Virginia ham. But these are the food by
which the thews and sinews of manhood are best nourished. They at once
exercise and help digestion. Dyspepsia was not of their day. _It_ came
in with _French Gastronomy_. Are we mistaken in thinking, that we see
symptoms of a sort of intellectual dyspepsia, arising from the
incessant exhibition of the _bon bons_ and _kickshaws_ of the press?

Well! here is something that will stick by the ribs; a work of which
we would try to give a sort of outline, but that it cannot be
abridged. The machinery of the story is not intricate, but each part
is necessary to the rest. To leave anything out is to tell nothing.

It might be too much to say that this novel is, in every sense of the
word, original. The writer is obviously familiar with English
literature, and seems to have taken at least one hint from Sir Walter
Scott. The use made by that writer of the records and traditions of
times gone by, has suggested this hint. It naturally occurred to
Manzoni, a native of Italy, that much of the same sort of material was
to be found among the archives of the petty Italian states, now
blotted from the map of Europe. It is obvious that the collisions of
small states, though less interesting to the politician than those of
mighty nations, must afford more occasion for a display of individual
character, and the exercise of those passions which give romance its
highest interest. But what is known of the great and good men who
nobly acted their parts in these scenes, when the very theatre of
their acts is crushed and buried beneath the rubbish of revolution? To
drag them from beneath the ruins, and permit the world to dwell for a
moment on the contemplation of their virtues is a pious and
praiseworthy task. It is sad to think how the short lapse of two
centuries can disappoint the hope that cheered the last moments of the
patriot and the hero. "For his country he lived, for his country he
died;" his country was all to him; but his country has perished, and
his name has perished with it. With the civil wars of England we are
all familiar; and our hearts have glowed, and our tears have fallen,
in contemplating the virtues and the sufferings of those who acted in
those scenes; but, if we may credit the traditions imbodied in this
book, a contemporary history of the Italian Republics would display
characters yet more worthy of our admiration and our sympathy. The
Cardinal Borromeo is an historical character. The writer obviously
means to paint him as he was; and the annals of mankind may be
searched in vain for a more glorious example of the purity, the
enthusiasm, and the inspiration of virtue.

We might suspect that something of a zeal for the honor of the Romish
Church had mingled itself in the rich coloring of this picture. But
Manzoni was as much alive, as Luther himself, to the abuses of that
church. In an episode, which will be found at page fifty-eight, he
discloses some, of the precise character of which we were not hitherto
aware. We knew that something was wrong, but what that something might
be, was never certainly known. The author has unveiled the mystery. He
has withdrawn a curtain, behind which we had never been permitted to
look. We had guessed, and we had read the guesses of others; but we
never knew precisely what was there. The moral coercion, more cruel
than bodily torture, by which a poor girl, the victim of the heartless
pride of her parents, without command, without even persuasion, (for
both it seems are forbidden) is driven to the cloister, that her
brother may have more ample means to uphold his hereditary honors;
this was a thing inscrutable and inconceivable to us. In reading such
works as Mrs. Sherwood's Nun, we feel that we are dealing with
conjectures. We turn to the scene exhibited in this work, and we
_know_ it to be real life. We would gladly grace our pages with it. It
would probably be read with more interest than any thing we can say;
but it is before the public, and we have no right to discharge our
debts to our readers, by giving them what is theirs already. We will
only pray their indulgence so far as to offer a short extract, as a
specimen of the writer's power. It is a picture of some of the horrors
of the plague, as it raged in Milan in the year 1628. It may serve to
show us that the pestilence, which lately stooped upon us, was in
comparison, an angel of mercy.

The cars spoken of in the following extract, are those in which the
uncoffined bodies of the dead were borne to a common receptacle,
"naked for the most part, some badly wrapped up in dirty rags, heaped
up and folded together like a knot of serpents." The "monalti" were
men who, having had the plague, were considered exempt from future
danger, and were employed to bury the dead.

"A lady came from the threshold of one of the houses, whose aspect
announced youth advanced, but not yet passed away. Her beauty was
obscured, but not obliterated, by distress and mortal languor; that
sort of beauty, at once majestic and soft, which is so conspicuous in
the Lombard race. She walked with pain, but did not stagger; her eyes
shed no tears, but bore marks of having done so abundantly. There was,
in her grief, a something inexpressibly quiet and deep, betokening a
soul imbued and filled with it. But it was not her own appearance
alone, that in the midst of so much wretchedness, marked her
especially for commiseration, and awakened in her favor a feeling now
deadened and worn out in all hearts. She bore in her arms a girl about
nine years old,--dead, but dressed in a white frock of spotless
purity, with her hair divided in front, as if her own hands had
adorned her for a feast, long promised as the reward of her goodness.
She held her, seated on one of her arms, with her breast upon the
lady's breast; and she might have been thought to be alive, but that
her young white hand hung heavy and lifeless on one side, like
wax-work, and her head lay upon her mother's shoulder, with an air of
abandonment heavier than that of sleep. Her mother! If the resemblance
had not proclaimed the relation, the distress of the survivor
announced it too plainly.

"A coarse monalti drew near the lady, and silently offered to relieve
her from her burthen, but with an air of unwonted respect and
involuntary hesitancy. But she, with an action betokening neither
disgust nor scorn, drew back, and said, 'No; do not touch her now; I
must lay her on that car myself; take this.' She opened her hand,
showed a purse, and dropped it into his. She then continued: 'Promise
me not to take a thread from her, and to suffer no other to do so, and
to put her in the ground just as she is.'

"The monalti placed his hand on his breast, and then with an
obsequious zeal, rather like one subdued by a new and strange emotion,
than as if prompted by the unexpected gift, he busied himself to make
room on the car for the little corpse. The lady placed her there, as
on a bed, laid her straight, kissed her cold brow, spread over her a
white sheet, and then spoke for the last time. 'Adieu, Cecilia! Rest
in peace! This evening we meet again, to part no more. Pray for us, my
child, and I will pray for thee, and for the rest. You,' added she to
the monalti, 'when you pass again at vespers, will come and take me
too, and not me alone.'

"Having said this, she re-entered the house, and presently appeared at
the window, holding in her arms a still younger darling, alive, but
with the marks of death on its face. She stood, as if contemplating
the unworthy obsequies of the first, until the car moved, and while it
remained in sight, and then she disappeared. What remained, but to lay
her only surviving babe upon the bed, place herself by her side, and
die with her; even as the stately blossom, with the bud beside it on
its stem, falls before the scythe that levels all the plants in the
meadow."

There is a power in this to which we do not scruple to give great
praise. We regret to say that the translation has many faults. We
lament it the more, because they are obviously faults of haste. The
translator, we fear, was hungry; a misfortune with which we know how
to sympathize. The style is, for the most part, Italian, in English
words, but Italian still. This is a great fault. In some instances it
would be unpardonable. In this instance, perhaps, it is more than
compensated by a kindred excellence. In a work like this, abounding in
the untranslatable phrases of popular dialogue, it gives a quaint
raciness which is not unacceptable. It does more. Such translations
_of such works_, would soon make the English ear familiar with Italian
idioms, which once naturalized, would enrich the language. It is
already thus incalculably enriched by the poetry of Burns and the
novels of Scott. A familiarity with Shakspeare, (which is not the
English of the present day,) preserves a store of wealth which would
else be lost. The strength of a language is in the number and variety
of its idiomatic phrases. These are forms of speech which use has
rendered familiar, and emancipated from the crippling restraint of
regular grammar. They enable the speaker to be brief, without being
obscure. His meaning, eliptically expressed, is distinctly and
precisely understood. Should any other work of Manzoni fall into the
hands of Mr. Featherstonhaugh, we hope he may have time to correct
those inaccuracies of which he is doubtless sensible; but we trust he
will not consider his popular Italian idioms as among his faults.
Smollett, in his translation of Don Quixotte, through extreme
fastidiousness, threw away an opportunity of doubling the force of the
English language.

This work comes to us as the harbinger of glad tidings to the reading
world. Here is a book, equal in matter to any two of Cooper's novels,
and executed at least as well, which we receive at the moderate price
of forty-two cents! It forms one number of the Washington Library,
published monthly, at five dollars per annum. At this rate, a literary
gourmand, however greedy, may hope to satisfy his appetite for books,
without starving his children. The author has our praise, and the
translator and publisher have our thanks.

       *       *       *       *       *

HORSE-SHOE ROBINSON; A Tale of the Tory Ascendency. By the Author of
'Swallow Barn.' Philadelphia: Carey, Lea and Blanchard.

We have not yet forgotten, nor is it likely we shall very soon forget,
the rich simplicity of diction--the manliness of tone--the admirable
traits of Virginian manners, and the striking pictures of still life,
to be found in Swallow Barn. The spirit of imitation was, however,
visible in that book, and, in a great measure, overclouded its rare
excellence. This is by no means the case with Mr. Kennedy's new novel.
If ever volumes were entitled to be called original--these are so
entitled. We have read them from beginning to end with the greatest
attention, and feel very little afraid of hazarding our critical
reputation, when we assert that they will place Mr. Kennedy at once in
the very first rank of American novelists.

_Horse-Shoe Robinson_ (be not alarmed at the title, gentle reader!) is
a tale, or more properly a succession of stirring incidents relating
to the time of the Tory Ascendency in South Carolina, during the
Revolution. It is well known that throughout the whole war this state
evinced more disaffection to the confederated government than any
other of the Union, with the exception perhaps of the neighboring
state of Georgia, where the residents on the Savannah river, being
nearly allied to the Carolinians in their habits and general
occupations, were actuated, more or less, by the same political
opinions. But we will here let the author speak for himself.

"Such might be said to be the more popular sentiment of the state at
the time of its subjugation by Sir Henry Clinton and Lord Cornwallis.
To this common feeling there were many brilliant exceptions, and the
more brilliant because they stood, as it were, apart from the
preponderating mass of public judgment.... There were heroes of this
mould in South Carolina, who entered with the best spirit of chivalry
into the national quarrel, and brought to it hearts as bold, minds as
vigorous, and arms as strong, as ever in any clime worked out a
nation's redemption. These men refused submission to their conquerors,
and endured exile, chains, and prison, rather than the yoke. Some few,
still undiscouraged by the portents of the times, retreated into
secret places, gathered their few patriot neighbors together, and
contrived to keep in awe the soldier government that now professed to
sway the land. They lived on the scant aliment furnished in the woods,
slept in the tangled brakes and secret places of the fen, exacted
contributions from the adherents of the crown, and, by rapid movements
of their woodland cavalry, and brave blows, accomplished more than
thrice their numbers would have done in ordinary warfare.... In such
encounters or _frays_, as they might rather be called, from the
smallness of the numbers concerned, and the hand to hand mode of
fighting which they exhibited, Marion, Sumpter, Horry, Pickens, and
many others had won a fame, that, in a nation of legendary or poetical
associations, would have been reduplicated through a thousand channels
of immortal verse. But alas! we have no ballads! and many men who as
well deserve to be remembered as Percy or Douglas, as Adam Bell or
Clym of the Clough, have sunk down without even a couplet epitaph upon
the rude stone, that, in some unfenced and unreverenced grave yard,
still marks the lap of earth whereon their heads were laid."

       *       *       *       *       *

"One feature that belonged to this unhappy state of things in Carolina
was the division of families. Kindred were arrayed against each other
in deadly feuds, and not unfrequently brother took up arms against
brother, and sons against their sires. A prevailing spirit of
treachery and distrust marked the times. Strangers did not know how
far they might trust to the rites of hospitality, and many a man laid
his head upon his pillow, uncertain whether his fellow lodger might
not invade him in the secret watches of the night, and murder him in
his slumbers. All went armed, and many slept with pistols or daggers
under their pillows. There are tales told of men being summoned to
their doors or windows at midnight by the blaze of their farm yards,
to which the incendiary torch had been applied, and shot down, in the
light of the conflagration, by a concealed hand. Families were obliged
to betake themselves to the shelter of the thickets and swamps, when
their own homesteads were dangerous places. The enemy wore no colors,
and was not to be distinguished from friends either by outward guise
or speech. Nothing could be more revolting than to see the symbols of
peace thus misleading the confident into the toils of war--nor is it
possible to imagine a state of society characterized by a more
frightful insecurity."

It will here be seen at a glance that the novelist has been peculiarly
fortunate in the choice of an epoch, a scene and a subject. We
sincerely think that he has done them all the fullest justice, and has
worked out, with these and with other materials, a book of no ordinary
character. We do not wish to attempt any analysis of the story
itself--or that connecting chain which unites into one proper whole
the varied events of the novel. We feel that in so doing, we should,
in some measure, mar the interest by anticipation; a grievous sin too
often indulged in by reviewers, and against which, should we ever be
so lucky as to write a book, we would protest with all our hearts. But
we may be allowed a word or two. The principal character in the novel,
upon whom the chief interest of the story turns, and who, in
accordance with the right usage of novel writing, should be considered
the hero, and should have given a title to the book, is Brevet Major
Arthur Butler of the continental army, to whose acquaintance we are
first introduced about two o'clock in the afternoon of a day towards
the end of July, 1780. But Mr. K. has ventured, at his own peril, to
set at defiance the common ideas of propriety in this important
matter, and, not having the fear of the critic before his eyes, has
thought it better to call his work by the name of a very singular
personage, whom all readers will agree in pronouncing worthy of the
honor thus conferred upon him. The writer has also made another
innovation. He has begun at the beginning. We all know this to be an
unusual method of procedure. It has been too, for some time past, the
custom, to delay as long as possible the main interest of a novel--no
doubt with the very laudable intention of making it the more intense
when it does at length arrive. Now for our own parts we can see little
difference in being amused with the beginning or with the end of a
book, but have a decided preference for those rare volumes which are
so lucky as to amuse us throughout. And such a book is the one before
us. We enter _at once_ into the spirit and meaning of the author--we
are introduced _at once_ to the prominent characters--and we go with
them _at once_, heart and hand, in the various and spirit-stirring
adventures which befall them.

Horse-Shoe Robinson, who derives his nick-name of Horse-Shoe (his
proper _prænomen_ being Galbraith)--from the two-fold circumstance of
being a blacksmith, and of living in a little nook of land hemmed in
by a semi-circular bend of water, is fullly entitled to the character
of "an original." He is the life and soul of the drama--the bone and
sinew of the book--its very breath--its every thing which gives it
strength, substance, and vitality. Never was there a rarer fellow--a
more laughable blacksmith--a more gallant Sancho. He is a very prince
at an ambuscade, and a very devil at a fight. He is a better edition
of Robin Hood--quite as sagacious--not half so much of a coxcomb--and
infinitely more moral. In short, he is the man of all others we should
like to have riding by our side in any very hazardous expedition.

We think Mr. K. has been particularly successful in the delineation of
his female characters; and this is saying a great deal at a time when,
from some unaccountable cause, almost every attempt of the kind has
turned out a failure. Mildred Lindsay, in her confiding love, in her
filial reverence, in her heroic espousal of the revolutionary cause,
not because she approved it, but because it was her lover's, is an
admirable and--need we say more?--a truly _feminine_ portrait. Then
the ardent, the eager, the simple-minded, the generous and the devoted
Mary Musgrove! Most sincerely did we envy John Ramsay, the treasure of
so pure and so exalted an affection!

With the exception of now and then a careless, or inadvertent
expression, such for instance, as the word _venturesome_ instead of
_adventurous_, no fault whatever can be found with Mr. Kennedy's
style. It varies gracefully and readily with the nature of his
subject, never sinking, even in the low comedy of some parts of the
book, into the insipid or the vulgar; and often, very often rising
into the energetic and sublime. Its general character, as indeed the
general character of all that we have seen from the same pen, is a
certain unpretending simplicity, nervous, forcible, and altogether
devoid of affectation. This is a style of writing above all others to
be desired, and above all others difficult of attainment. Nor is it to
be supposed that by simplicity we imply a rejection of ornament, or of
a proper use of those advantages afforded by metaphorical
illustration. A style professing to disclaim such advantages would be
anything but simple--if indeed we might not be tempted to think it
very silly. We have called the style of Mr. K. a style simple and
forcible, and we have no hesitation in calling it, at the same time,
richly figurative and poetical. We have opened the pages at random for
an illustration of our meaning, and have no difficulty in finding one
precisely suited to our purpose. Let us turn to vol. i. page
112.--"The path of invasion is ever a difficult road when it leads
against a united people. You mistake both the disposition and the
means of these republicans. They have bold partizans in the field, and
eloquent leaders in their senates. The nature of the strife sorts well
with their quick and earnest tempers; and by this man's play of war we
breed up soldiers who delight in the game. Rebellion has long since
marched beyond the middle ground, and has no thought of retreat. What
was at first the mere overflow of popular passion has been hardened
into principle--_like a fiery stream of lava which first rolls in a
flood, and then turns into stone_."

While we are upon the subject of style, we might as well say a word or
two in regard to _punctuation_. It seems to us that the volumes before
us are singularly deficient in this respect--and yet we noticed no
fault of this nature in Swallow Barn. How can we reconcile these
matters? Whom are we to blame in this particular, the author, or the
printer? It cannot be said that the point is one of no importance--it
is of very great importance. A slovenly punctuation will mar, in a
greater or less degree, the brightest paragraph ever penned; and we
are certain that those who have paid the most attention to this
matter, will not think us hypercritical in what we say. A too frequent
use of the _dash_ is the besetting sin of the volumes now before us.
It is lugged in upon all occasions, and invariably introduced where it
has no business whatever. Even the end of a sentence is not sacred
from its intrusion. Now there is no portion of a printer's fount,
which can, if properly disposed, give more of strength and energy to a
sentence than this same _dash_; and, for this very reason, there is
none which can more effectually, if improperly arranged, disturb and
distort the meaning of every thing with which it comes in contact. But
not to speak of such disturbance or distortion, a fine taste will
intuitively avoid, even in trifles, all that is unnecessary or
superfluous, and bring nothing into use without an object or an end.
We do not wish to dwell upon this thing, or to make it of more
consequence than necessary. We will merely adduce an example of the
punctuation to which we have alluded. Vide page 138, vol. i. "Will no
lapse of time wear away this abhorred image from your memory?--Are you
madly bent on bringing down misery on your head?--I do not speak of my
own suffering.--Will you forever nurse a hopeless attachment for a man
whom, it must be apparent to yourself, you can never meet
again?--Whom, if the perils of the field, the avenging bullet of some
loyal subject, do not bring him merited punishment,--the halter may
reward, or, in his most fortunate destiny, disgrace, poverty, and
shame pursue:--Are you forever to love that man?"--

Would not the above paragraph read equally as well thus: "Will no
lapse of time wear away this abhorred image from your memory? Are you
madly bent on bringing down misery on your head? I do not speak of my
own suffering. Will you forever nurse a hopeless attachment for a man
whom, it must be apparent to yourself, you can never meet again--whom,
if the perils of the field, the avenging bullet of some loyal subject,
do not bring him merited punishment, the halter may reward, or, in his
more fortunate destiny, disgrace, poverty and shame pursue? Are you
forever to love that man?"

The second of Mr. K's volumes is, from a naturally increasing interest
taken in the fortunes of the leading characters, by far the most
exciting. But we can confidently recommend them both to the lovers of
the forcible, the adventurous, the stirring, and the picturesque. They
will not be disappointed. A high tone of morality, healthy and
masculine, breathes throughout the book, and a rigid--perhaps a too
scrupulously rigid poetical justice is dealt out to the great and
little villains of the story--the Tyrrells, the Wat Adairs, the
Currys, and the Habershams of the drama. In conclusion, we prophecy
that Horse-Shoe Robinson will be eagerly read by all classes of
people, and cannot fail to place Mr. Kennedy in a high rank among the
writers of this or of any other country. We regret that the late
period of receiving his book will not allow us to take that extended
notice of it which we could desire.

       *       *       *       *       *

JOURNAL--By FRANCES ANNE BUTLER. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.
[Presented to the Editor of the Messenger, by Mr. C. Hall.]

Perhaps no book has, for many years, been looked for, long previous to
its publication, with such intense curiosity, as this record of Miss
Fanny Kemble's observations and opinions of men and women, manners and
customs, in the United States. We say Miss Fanny Kemble's
opinions--for while bearing that name, most of those opinions were
formed. Under that name she was hailed in this country, as the
inheritress of the genius of Mrs. Siddons, whose fame is connected in
the minds of Americans with all that is noble, and majestic, and
powerful in the dramatic art. Under that name she received the
admiration of thousands, was made a sharer of the hospitality of many
of the most distinguished citizens of the country--and received a
homage to which nothing but the highest genius, and the purest moral
worth could have entitled her. It is not therefore as Mrs. Frances
Anne Butler, the wife of an American citizen, that we look upon her in
her character of authoress--but as the favorite actress, applauded to
the echo, surfeited with flattery, and loaded with pecuniary
rewards.[1] It is impossible to consider this book in any other than a
personal point of view. Its very form forbids our separating the
author from the work--the opinions and sentiments, from the individual
who utters them. The idea of both exist in an indivisible
amalgamation. Nor we fear, will it be possible for nine-tenths of her
readers to weigh a single expression of Fanny Kemble the authoress,
unmingled with the idea of Fanny Kemble the actress, the star--the
"observed of all observers." Hence this Journal will have an effect
probably far beyond the anticipations of its writer. It will not only
be looked upon as the test of Mrs. Butler's ability as an author; but
it will, whether justly or not, convey to the thousands who have
already perused, and the tens of thousands who will hereafter peruse
it, a picture of her character and dispositions. The picture may, and
doubtless will be an exaggerated one--few _pictures_ are otherwise;
but still it will be received as true, because the outlines have been
traced by the original herself. We are sorry to say that the
"counterfeit resemblance" of the fair authoress, presented by her
book, displays many harsh and ill-favored lineaments, and the traces
of passions which we could wish did not disfigure its many noble and
magnanimous features. Mrs. Butler cannot claim for herself the
immunity which she awards with great justice to poetical writers, of a
distinction between their _real_ and their _written_ sentiments.[2] If
this book contains as we suppose, the faithful transcripts of her
daily observations and opinions, revised long after they were penned,
and thus exhibiting her true, unexaggerated impressions, by them must
she be judged--and in passing judgment upon her work, a candid critic
will find much, very much, to admire and approve, and much also to
censure and condemn.

[Footnote 1: We are far from wishing to convey the idea that a popular
actor of real merit is in any way placed under obligation, (especially
such an obligation as would render it improper or ungrateful for him
to speak with freedom of the communities of which his audiences formed
parts,) by the pecuniary benefits received from the public for the
exhibition of his talents. Mrs. Butler has, we think, settled that
question in her book; and it will be better for both the audiences and
the actors, whenever differences arise between them, to consider each
other on the footing of equality, which she points out as the
equitable and common-sense relation of the two parties. Nothing can be
more rational than the following:

"It may not be amiss here to say one word with regard to the
_gratitude_ which audiences in some parts of the world claim from
actors, and about which I have lately heard a most alarming out-cry.
Do actors generally exercise their profession to please themselves and
gratify their own especial delight in self-exhibition? Is that
profession in its highest walks one of small physical exertion and
fatigue, (I say nothing of mental exertion) and in its lower paths is
it one of much gain, glory, or ease? Do audiences, on the other hand,
use to come in crowds to play-houses to see indifferent performers?
and when there do they out of pure charity and good-will, bestow their
applause as well as their money upon tiresome performers?--I will
answer these points as far as regards myself, and therein express the
gratitude which I feel towards the frequenters of theatres. I
individually disliked my profession, and had neither pride nor
pleasure in the exercise of it. I exercised it as a matter of
necessity, to earn my bread,--and verily it was in the sweat of my
brow. The parts which fell to my lot were of a most laborious nature,
and occasioned sometimes violent mental excitement, always immense
physical exertion, and sometimes both. In those humbler walks of my
profession, from whose wearisomeness I was exempted by my sudden favor
with the public, I have seen, though not known, the most painful
drudgery,--the most constant fatigue,--the most sad contrast between
real cares and feigned merriments,--the most anxious penurious and
laborious existence imaginable. For the part of my question which
regarded the audiences, I have only to say, that I never knew, saw,
heard or read of any set of people who went to a play-house to see
what they did not like; this being the case it never occurred to me
that our houses were full but as a necessary consequence of our own
attraction, or that we were applauded, but as the result of our own
exertions. I was glad the houses were full, because I was earning my
livelihood, and wanted the money; and I was glad the people applauded
us, because it is pleasant to please, and human vanity will find some
sweetness in praise, even when reason weighs its worth most justly."
Vol. ii. pp. 109-110.]

[Footnote 2: "Moore talks about Byron's writing with the same pen full
of ink, 'Adieu, adieu, my native land,' and 'Hurra, Hodgson, we are
going.' It proves nothing, except what I firmly believe, that we must
not look for the real feelings of writers to their works--or rather
that what they give us, and what we take for heart feeling, is head
weaving--a species of emotion engendered somewhere betwixt the bosom
and the brain, and bearing the same proportion of resemblance to
reality that a picture does--that is--like feeling, but not
feeling--like sadness, but not sadness--like what it appears, but not
indeed that very thing: and the greater a man's power of thus
producing _sham realities_, the greater his qualification for being a
poet." _Journal_, vol. i., pp. 21-22.]

We have read Mrs. Butler's work with untiring interest--indeed the
vivacity of its style, the frequent occurrence of beautiful
descriptions, of just and forcible observations, and many sound views
of the condition of society in this country--the numerous
characteristic anecdotes, and some most discriminating criticisms of
actors and acting, must stamp her work as one of no ordinary merit.
And these attractions in a great measure neutralize, although they
cannot redeem, her innumerable faults of language, her sturdy
prejudices, her hasty opinions, and her ungenerous sarcasms--These
abound in the Journal, and yet it is more than probable that her
censorious spirit has to a great extent been suppressed, as almost
every page is studded with asterisks, indicating, we may presume, that
her sins of hasty censure have been greatly diminished to the public
eye, by the saving grace of omission.

The defects of the work are not confined to the exhibition of
prejudices and the expression of unjust opinions: the style and
language is often coarse, we might say vulgar; and her more
impassioned exclamations are often characterized by a vehemence which
is very like _profanity_, an offence that would not be tolerated in a
writer of the other sex. We cite a few, from among the many passages
which we have noted, as specimens of undignified, unfeminine and
unscholarlike phraseology: The word "_dawdled_" seems a great favorite
with Mrs. Butler--as, for instance: "Rose at eight, _dawdled_ about,"
&c. vol. i. p. 18. "Rose at half past eight, _dawdled_ about as
usual," p. 21. "Came up and _dawdled_ upon deck," p. 47. "Came home,
_daudled_ about my room," p. 97.--And in numberless other instances
this word is used, apparently, to signify loitering or dallying,
spelled indiscriminately da_w_dled, or da_u_dled. Indeed so much does
our fair authoress seem to have been addicted to the habit which the
word implies--be it what it may--that in the second volume she speaks
of having "dressed for once without _dawdling_," as an uncommon
occurrence. She is also fond of the word "gulp," and uses it in
strange combinations, as--"My dear father, who was a little elated,
made me sing to him, which I greatly _gulped_ at," p. 61. "I _gulped_,
sat down, and was measured," (for a pair of shoes,) p. 103--"on the
edge of a precipice, several hundred feet down into the valley: it
made me _gulp_ to look at it," &c.

At page 97, she tells us, that "when the gentlemen joined us they were
all more or less 'how come'd you so indeed?'" and shortly after, "they
all went away in good time, and we came to bed:

  ------------------------------------To bed--to sleep--
  To sleep!--perchance to be bitten! aye--there's the scratch:
  And in that sleep of our's what bugs may come,
  Must give us pause."

She thus describes the motions of persons on ship-board, in rough
weather: "Rushing hither and thither in all directions but the one
they purpose going, and making as many angles, fetches, and ridiculous
deviations from the point they aim at, as if the _devil had tied a
string to their legs_, and jerked it every now and then in spite." p.
18.

At page 99: "Supped, lay down on the floor in absolute _meltiness
away_, and then came to bed." "When I went on, I was all but tumbling
down at the sight of my Jaffier, who looked like the apothecary in
Romeo and Juliet, with the addition of some _devilish_ red slashes
along his thighs and arms," p. 107. "Away _walloped_ the four horses,"
&c. p. 131. "How they did _wallop_ and shamble about," &c. p. 149.
"Now I'll go to bed; my cough's enough to kill a _horse_," p. 153.
"Heaven bless the world, for a _conglomerated amalgamation_ of fools,"
p. 190. "He talked an amazing quantity of _thickish_ philosophy, and
moral and sentimental _potter_." In truth, "_potter_" and
"_pottering_," seem to be favorites equally with _daudling_, and she
as frequently makes use of them. For instance, "He sat down, and
_pottered_ a little," p. 58. They "took snuff, eat cakes, and
_pottered_ a deal," p. 182. "After dinner _pottered_ about clothes,"
&c. p. 220. "Sat stitching and _pottering_ an infinity," p. 230--and
many other varieties of the same word. But of the infinite number of
literary novelties of this sort, it would be impossible, within the
limits we have prescribed to ourselves, to give more than a few
specimens. We will take two or three more at random: "My feet got so
perished with the cold, that I didn't know what to do," p. 230. "He
was most exceedingly odd and _dauldrumish_. I think he was a little
'_how come'd you so indeed_.'" p. 195; "yesterday began like May, with
flowers and sun-shine, it ended like December, with the _sulks_, and a
fit of crying. The former were furnished me by my friends and Heaven,
the latter by myself and the _d----l_." p. 198. "At six o'clock, D----
roused me; and _grumpily_ enough I arose." _1b._ "At one o'clock, came
home, having danced myself fairly off my legs." p. 227.

Such blemishes as these, apparently uniting the slang of the boarding
school and the green room, deform the work of Mrs. Butler, and are
much to be lamented, became they may have the effect of blinding the
hasty, prejudiced or fastidious reader, to the many beauties which are
to be found in its pages. Indeed the work has already encountered the
severest criticisms from the newspaper press, imbittered by the many
censorious remarks of Mrs. B. upon the manners and institutions of the
country; her severe, and in many instances just strictures upon the
state of society in the cities in which she sojourned; and the
supercilious sneers which she has uttered against the editorial
fraternity, "the press gang," as she uncourteously denominates that
numerous and powerful body. The censures of her book, are doubtless,
in the main, well deserved; but in their excess, the merits which the
"Journal" unquestionably possesses in great abundance and of a high
order, have in many cases been passed by unheeded by her indignant
critics. And here we cannot refrain from the utterance of a remark
which has frequently occurred to us, and which is brought forcibly to
mind by the reception which Mrs. Butler's criticisms upon America have
met with: we think that too much sensitiveness is felt by our
countrymen, at the unfavorable opinions expressed by foreigners, in
regard to our social, political, and moral condition--and that the
press, as the organ of public sentiment, is prone to work itself into
a superfluous frenzy of indignation, at what are generally considered
"foreign libels" upon us. To be indignant at gross misrepresentations
of our country, is an exhibition of patriotism in one of its most
laudable forms. But the sentiment may be carried too far, and may
blind us to evils and deficiencies in our condition, when pointed out
by a foreigner, which it would be well for us rather to consider with
a view to their amendment. It may so far blunt our sense of the
justice of the maxim "_fas est, ab hoste doceri_," as to induce us to
entertain jealousy and aversion for the most judicious suggestions, if
offered by others than our own countrymen. Entertaining these views,
we have read Mrs. Butler's work, with a disposition to judge of it
impartially; and while we have perceived many instances of captious
complaints in regard to matters of trifling importance in themselves;
and frequently a disposition to build up general censures upon
partial, individual causes of disgust, displeasure or
disappointment--we feel bound to say, that, taking the work as a
whole, we do not think a deliberate disposition to misrepresent, or a
desire to depreciate us, can be discovered in it. The strictures upon
our modes of living, our social relations, &c. are often unworthy the
writer. She complains for instance, that "the things (at the hotel in
New York,) were put on the table in a slovenly, outlandish fashion;
fish, soup, and meat, at once, and puddings, and tarts, and cheese, at
another once; no finger glasses, and a patched table cloth--in short,
a want of that style and neatness which is found in every hotel in
England. The waiters too, remind us of the half-savage highland lads,
that used to torment us under that denomination in Glasgow--only that
they were wild Irish instead of Scotch." vol. i. p. 49.

Frequently too, she complains of the audiences before whom she
performed, with occasional reproof of their ungracious conduct in not
sufficiently applauding her father or herself: She says, of the first
appearance of the former at the Park Theatre:

"When he came on they gave him what every body here calls an immense
reception; but they should see our London audience get up, and wave
hats and handkerchiefs, and shout welcome as they used to do to us.
The tears were in my eyes, and all I could say was, 'they might as
well get up, I think.'" Vol. i. p. 93.--And on another occasion: "The
people were stupid to a degree to be sure; poor things, it was very
hot. Indeed I scarcely understood how they should be amused with the
School for Scandal; for though the dramatic situations are so
exquisite, yet the wit is far above the generality of even our own
audiences, and the tone and manners altogether are so thoroughly
English, that I should think it must be for the most part
incomprehensible to the good people here,"--p. 110.

At the Philadelphia audiences, she grumbles as follows:

"The audiences here, are without exception, the most disagreeable I
ever played to. Not a single hand did they give the balcony scene, or
my father's scene with the friar; they are literally immoveable. They
applauded vehemently at the end of my draught scene, and a great deal
at the end of the play; but they are nevertheless intolerably dull,
and it is all but impossible to act to them,"--p. 157.

Of the ladies of this country, she seems to have formed a low estimate
in many respects, and to look upon them generally with no little
contempt. Of those in New York, she says: "The women dress very much,
and very much like French women gone mad; they all of them seem to me
to walk horribly ill, as if they wore tight shoes."--And again: "The
women here, like those in most warm climates, ripen very early, and
decay proportionably soon. They are, generally speaking, pretty, with
good complexions, and an air of freshness and brilliancy, but this I
am told is very evanescent; and whereas, in England, a woman is in the
full bloom of health and beauty, from twenty to five and thirty; here,
they scarce reach the first period without being faded, and looking
old. They marry very young, and this is another reason why age comes
prematurely upon them. There was a fair young thing at dinner to-day,
who did not look above seventeen, and she was a wife. As for their
figures, like those of the French women, they are too well dressed for
one to judge exactly what they are really like: they are, for the most
part, short and slight, with remarkably pretty feet and ancles; but
there's too much pelerine and petticoat, and 'de quoi' of every sort
to guess any thing more,"--p. 88.

This is a delicate subject, and one on which we should be averse to
enter the lists with Mrs. Butler, prejudiced as she most probably is.
But some of her observations on the mode of nurturing females, strike
us as exhibiting good sense: In the following note to the above, we
apprehend there is much truth:

"The climate of this country is made the scape-goat upon which all the
ill looks, and ill health of the ladies is laid; but while they are
brought up as effeminately as they are, take as little exercise, live
in rooms heated like ovens during the winter, and marry as early as
they do; it will appear evident, that many causes combine with an
extremely variable climate, to sallow their complexions, and destroy
their constitutions."

We are sorry to be forced to say, that there is also much sound sense
and unwelcome truth in her remarks upon the situation of married
females in our fashionable circles generally, (although the picture is
overwrought and is more peculiarly applicable to northern females,)
which we quote from Vol i. p. 160.

"The dignified and graceful influence which married women among us
exercise over the tone of manners, uniting the duties of home to the
charms of social life; and bearing, at once, like the orange tree the
fair fruits of maturity with the blossoms of their spring, is utterly
unknown here. Married women are either house-drudges and
nursery-maids, or, if they appear in society, comparative cyphers; and
the retiring, modest youthful bearing, which among us distinguishes
girls of fifteen or sixteen is equally unknown. Society is entirely
led by chits, who in England would be sitting behind a pinafore; the
consequence is, that it has neither the elegance, refinement, nor the
propriety which belong to ours; but is a noisy, racketty, vulgar
congregation of flirting boys and girls, alike without style and
decorum."

This view of manners is drawn from the society of the cities of New
York and Philadelphia;--appended to the above extract, is a note,
entering more into the details of her impressions regarding their
fashionable circles, which we give entire:

"When we arrived in America, we brought letters of introduction to
several persons in New York; many were civil enough to call upon us,
we were invited out to sundry parties, and were introduced into what
is there called the first society. I do not wish to enter into any
description of it, but will only say, that I was most disagreeably
astonished; and had it been my fate to have passed through the country
as rapidly as most travellers do, I should have carried away a very
unfavorable impression of the _best_ society of New York. Fortunately,
however, for me, my visits were repeated and my stay prolonged: and in
the course of time I became acquainted with many individuals whose
manners and acquirements were of a high order, and from whose
intercourse I derived the greatest gratification. But they generally
did me the favor to visit me, and I still could not imagine how it
happened that I never met them at the parties to which I was invited,
and in the circles where I visited. I soon discovered that they formed
a society among themselves, where all those qualities which I had
looked for among the self-styled _best_, were to be found. When I name
Miss Sedgewick, Halleck, Irving, Bryant, Paulding and some of less
fame, but whose acquirements rendered their companionship delightful
indeed, amongst whom I felt proud and happy to find several of my own
name; it will no longer appear singular that they should feel too well
satisfied with the resources of their own society, either to mingle in
that of the vulgar _fashionables_, or seek with avidity the
acquaintance of every stranger that arrives in New York. It is not to
be wondered at, that foreigners have spoken as they have, of what is
termed fashionable society here, or have condemned, with unqualified
censure, the manners and tone prevailing in it; their condemnations
are true and just as regards what they see: nor perhaps, would they be
much inclined to moderate them, when they found that persons
possessing every quality that can render intercourse between rational
creatures desirable, were held in light esteem, and neglected, as
either bores, blues, or dowdies, by those so infinitely their
inferiors in every worthy accomplishment. The same separation, or if
anything a still stronger one, subsists in Philadelphia, between the
self-styled fashionables, and the real good society. The distinction
there, is really of a nature perfectly ludicrous; a friend of mine was
describing to me a family whose manners were unexceptionable, and
whose mental accomplishments were of a high order; upon my expressing
some surprise that I had never met with them, my informant replied,
'Oh, no, they are not received by the Chestnut street _set_.' If I
were called upon to define that society in New York and Philadelphia,
which ranks (by right of self-arrogation,) as first and best; I should
say it is a purely dancing society, where a fiddle is indispensable to
keep its members awake; and where their brains and tongues seem, by
common consent, to feel that they had much better give up the care of
mutual entertainment to the feet of the parties assembled, and they
judge well. Now, I beg leave clearly to be understood, there is
another, and a far more desirable circle; but it is not the one into
which strangers find their way generally. To an Englishman, this
_fashionable_ society presents, indeed, a pitiful sample of lofty
pretensions without adequate foundation. Here is a constant endeavor
to imitate those states of European society, which have for their
basis the feudal spirit of the early ages; and which are rendered
venerable by their rank, powerful by their wealth, and refined, and in
some degree respectable, by great and general mental cultivation. Of
Boston I have not spoken. The society there, is of an infinitely
superior order. A very general degree of information, and a much
greater simplicity of manners render it infinitely more
agreeable,"--pp. 161-2.

As few matters, worldly or spiritual, escaped the observation of our
authoress, it is not wonderful that her pen was occasionally dipped in
the political cauldron. But as her ideas are in most instances tinged
with her own national prejudices, we shall not dwell upon them longer
than to say that she sees already a decided aristocratic tendency
among us, and to quote the following summary of her opinion as to the
permanence of our institutions and government:--"I believe in my heart
that a republic is the noblest, highest, and purest form of
government; but I believe that according to the present disposition of
human creatures, 'tis a mere beau ideal, totally incapable of
realization. What the world may be fit for six hundred years hence, I
cannot exactly perceive--but in the mean time, 'tis my conviction that
America will be a monarchy before I am a skeleton." p. 56. If argument
with a lady on such a subject could be reconciled to the precepts of
gallantry, it would certainly be unprofitable where the causes of her
belief are so vaguely stated. And we think she has furnished the best
argument against herself in her frequent comparisons of the condition
of the mass of the people of this country to that of the laboring
class in England, in which she constantly decides in favor of America.
It will scarcely be argued that a people enjoying such blessings as
she ascribes to the condition of the mass of American citizens, could
easily be induced to change their government, and yield up a certain
good for a doubtful improvement--far less that they would willingly
submit to a form of government which they look upon as particularly
odious. The following passage shows what are her views of the
condition of the laboring classes among us:

"I never was so forcibly struck with the prosperity and happiness of
the lower orders of society in this country, as yesterday returning
from Hoboken. The walks along the river and through the woods, the
steamers crossing from the city, were absolutely thronged with a
cheerful, well-dressed population abroad, merely for the purpose of
pleasure and exercise. Journeymen, laborers, handicraftsmen,
tradespeople, with their families, bearing all in their dress and
looks evident signs of well-being and contentment, were all flocking
from their confined avocations, into the pure air, the bright
sunshine, and beautiful shade of this lovely place. I do not know any
spectacle which could give a foreigner, especially an Englishman, a
better illustration of that peculiar excellence of the American
government--the freedom and happiness of the lower classes. Neither is
it to be said that this was a holiday, or an occasion of peculiar
festivity--it was a common week-day--such as our miserable
manufacturing population spends from sun-rise to sun-down, in
confined, incessant, unhealthy toil--to earn, at its conclusion, the
inadequate reward of health and happiness so wasted--the contrast
struck me forcibly--it rejoiced my heart; it surely was an object of
contemplation, that any one who had a heart must have rejoiced in."

We had intended to make several additional extracts from what we think
the better portions of the Journal, such as would exhibit the
authoress in her most favorable light. But we have "_daudled_" so long
on the way, that those extracts must be brief, and will probably fail
to do the justice we proposed to the fair writer. As however, we have
not selected the _worst_ of the passages from those which we deemed it
our duty to censure, we may be forgiven, if we should fail to quote
the _best_ of those which exhibit her good sense and ability as a
writer.

Of the fate of the aborigines of this country, she says:

"The chasing, enslaving, and destroying creatures, whose existence,
however inferior, is as justly theirs, as that of the most refined
European is his; who for the most part, too, receive their enemies
with open-handed hospitality, until taught treachery by being
betrayed, and cruelty by fear; the driving the child of the soil off
it, or, what is fifty times worse, chaining him to till it; all the
various forms of desolation which have ever followed the landing of
civilized men upon uncivilized shores; in short, the theory and
practice of discovery and conquest, as recorded in all history, is a
very singular and painful subject of contemplation.

"'Tis true, that cultivation and civilization, the arts and sciences
that render life useful, the knowledge that ennobles, the adornments
that refine existence, above all, the religion that is its most sacred
trust and dear reward, all these, like pure sunshine and healthful
airs following a hurricane, succeed the devastation of the invader;
but the sufferings of those who are swept away are not the less, and
though I believe that good alone is God's result, it seems a fearful
proof of the evil wherewith this earth is cursed, that good cannot
progress but over such a path. No one, beholding the prosperous and
promising state of this fine country, could wish it again untenanted
of its enterprising and industrious possessors; yet even while looking
with admiration at all they have achieved, with expectation amounting
to certainty to all that they will yet accomplish; 'tis difficult to
refrain from bestowing some thoughts of pity and of sadness upon
those, whose homes have been overturned, whose language has past away,
and whose feet are daily driven further from those territories of
which they were once sole and sovereign lords. How strange it is to
think, that less than one hundred years ago, these shores, resounding
with the voice of populous cities--these waters, laden with the
commerce of the wide world, were silent wildernesses, where sprang and
fell the forest leaves, where ebbed and flowed the ocean tides from
day to day, and from year to year in uninterrupted stillness; where
the great sun, who looked on the vast empires of the east, its
mouldering kingdoms, its lordly palaces, its ancient temples, its
swarming cities, came and looked down upon the still dwelling of utter
loneliness, where nature sat enthroned in everlasting beauty,
undisturbed by the far off din of worlds 'beyond the flood.'"

There is eloquence and good feeling in the following:

"In beholding this fine young giant of a world, with all its
magnificent capabilities for greatness, I think every Englishman must
feel unmingled regret at the unjust and unwise course of policy which
alienated such a child from the parent government. But, at the same
time, it is impossible to avoid seeing that some other course must,
ere long, have led to the same result, even if England had pursued a
more maternal course of conduct towards America. No one, beholding
this enormous country, stretching from ocean to ocean, watered with
ten thousand glorious rivers, combining every variety of climate and
soil; therefore, every variety of produce and population; possessing
within itself every resource that other nations are forced either to
buy abroad, or to create substitutes for at home; no one, seeing the
internal wealth of America, the abundant fertility of the earth's
surface, the riches heaped below it, the unparalleled facilities for
the intercourse of men, and the interchange of their possessions
throughout its vast extent, can for an instant indulge the thought
that such a country was ever destined to be an appendage to any other
in the world, or that any chain of circumstances whatever, could have
long maintained in dependance a people furnished with every means of
freedom and greatness. But far from regretting that America has thrown
off her allegiance, and regarding her as a rebellious subject, and
irreverent child; England will surely, ere long, learn to look upon
this country as the inheritor of her glory; the younger England,
destined to perpetuate the language, the memory, the virtues of the
noble land from which she is descended. Loving and honoring my
country, as I do, I cannot look upon America with any feeling of
hostility. I do not only hear the voice of England in the language of
this people, but I recognize in all their best qualities, their
industry, their honesty, their sturdy independence of spirit, the very
witnesses of their origin, they are English; no other people in the
world would have licked us as they did; nor any other people in the
world, built upon the ground they won, so sound, and strong, and fair
an edifice.

"With regard to what I have said in the beginning of this note, of the
many reasons which combined to render this country independent of all
others; I think they in some measure tell against the probability of
its long remaining at unity with itself. Such numerous and clashing
interests; such strong and opposite individuality of character between
the northern and southern states; above all, such enormous extent of
country; seem rationally to present many points of insecurity; many
probabilities of separations and breakings asunder; but all this lies
far on, and I leave it to those who have good eyes for a distance."
Vol. i. pp. 187-8.

From her description of a voyage up the Hudson river, which is one of
the most beautiful portions of the work, we can give but two brief
passages:

"We passed the light-house of Stoney Point, now the peaceful occupant
of the territory, where the blood in English veins was poured out by
English hands, during the struggle between old established tyranny and
the infant liberties of this giant world. Over all and each, the
blessed sky bent its blue arch, resplendently clear and bright, while
far away the distant summits of the highlands rose one above another,
shutting in the world, and almost appearing as though each bend of the
river must find us locked in their shadowy circle, without means of
onward progress." Vol. i. p. 207.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Where are the poets of this land? Why such a world should bring forth
men with minds and souls larger and stronger than any that ever dwelt
in mortal flesh. Where are the poets of this land? They should be
giants, too; Homers and Miltons, and Goethes and Dantes, and
Shakspeares. Have these glorious scenes poured no inspirings into
hearts worthy to behold and praise their beauty? Is there none to come
here and worship among these hills and waters, till his heart burns
within him, and the hymn of inspiration flows from his lips, and rises
to the sky? Is there not one among the sons of such a soil to send
forth its praises to the universe, to throw new glory round the
mountains, new beauty over the waves? is inanimate nature, alone, here
'telling the glories of God?' Oh, surely, surely, there will come a
time when this lovely land will be vocal with the sound of song, when
every close-locked valley, and waving wood, rifted rock and flowing
stream shall have their praise. Yet 'tis strange how marvellously
unpoetical these people are! How swallowed up in life and its daily
realities, wants, and cares; how full of toil and thrift, and
money-getting labor. Even the heathen Dutch, among us the very
antipodes of all poetry, have found names such as the Donder Berg for
the hills, whilst the Americans christen them Butter Hill, the Crow's
Nest, and _such like_. Perhaps some hundred years hence, when wealth
has been amassed by individuals, and the face of society begins to
grow chequered, as in the old lands of Europe, when the whole mass of
population shall no longer go running along the level road of toil and
profit, when inequalities of rank shall exist, and the rich man shall
be able to pay for the luxury of poetry, and the poor man who makes
verses, no longer be asked, 'Why don't you cast up accounts?' when all
this comes to pass, as _perhaps_ some day it may, America will have
poets. It seems strange to me that men such as the early settlers in
Massachusetts, the Puritan founders of New England, the 'Pilgrim
Fathers,' should not have had amongst them some men, or at least man,
in whose mind the stern and enduring courage, the fervent,
enthusiastic piety, the unbending love of liberty, which animated them
all, become the inspiration to poetic thought, and the suggestion of
poetical utterance. They should have had a Milton or a Klopstock
amongst them. Yet after all, they had excitement of another sort, and
moreover, the difficulties, and dangers, and distresses of a fate of
unparalleled hardship, to engross all the energies of their minds; and
I am half inclined to believe that poetry is but a hothouse growth."
Vol. i. pp. 212-13.

Our friends, _Oliver Oldschool_ and _Anthony Absolute_, will be
pleased to observe that Mrs. Butler abjures the _Waltz_, and agrees
with them in objecting to its tendency:

"Dr. ---- called, and gave me a sermon about waltzing. As it was
perfectly good sense, to which I could reply nothing whatever, in the
shape of objection, I promised him never to waltz again, except with a
woman, or my brother.... After all, 'tis not fitting that a man should
put his arm round one's waist, whether one belongs to any one but
one's self or not. 'Tis much against what I have always thought most
sacred,--the dignity of a woman in her own eyes, and those of others.
I like Dr. ---- most exceedingly. He spoke every way to my feelings of
what was right to-day. After saying that he felt convinced from
conversations which he had heard amongst men, that waltzing was
immoral in its tendency, he added, 'I am married, and have been in
love, and cannot imagine any thing more destructive of the deep and
devoted respect which love is calculated to excite in every honorable
man's heart, not only for the individual object of his affection, but
for her whole sex, than to see any and every impertinent coxcomb in a
ball room, come up to her, and, without remorse or hesitation, clasp
her waist, imprison her hand, and absolutely whirl her round in his
arms.' So spake the Doctor; and my sense of propriety, and conviction
of right, bore testimony to the truth of his saying. So, farewell,
sweet German Waltz! next to hock, the most intoxicating growth of the
Rheinland. I shall never keep time to your pleasant measure again!--no
matter; after all, anything is better than to be lightly spoken of,
and to deserve such mention." Vol. i. pp. 227-28.

Mrs. Butler seems to have no great love of the dramatic _art_--that
is, the art of stage performance. Several pages in the second volume
are devoted to this subject, (pp. 59, 60 and 61) in which she argues
with great force in support of the position, that acting is "the very
lowest of the arts." Like all her criticisms of subjects connected
with the stage, it is an admirable passage; but it is too long for
quotation. A shorter one conveys the same idea, in eloquent language:

"I acted like a wretch, of course; how could I do otherwise? Oh,
Juliet! vision of the south! rose of the garden of the earth! was this
the glorious hymn that Shakspeare hallowed to your praise? was this
the mingled strain of Love's sweet going forth, and Death's dark
victory, over which my heart and soul have been poured out in wonder
and ecstacy?--How I do loathe the stage! these wretched, tawdry,
glittering rags, flung over the breathing forms of ideal loveliness;
these miserable, poor, and pitiful substitutes for the glories with
which poetry has invested her magnificent and fair creations--the
glories with which our imagination reflects them back again. What a
mass of wretched mumming mimickry acting is. Pasteboard and paint, for
the thick breathing orange groves of the south; green silk and oiled
parchment, for the solemn splendor of her noon of night; wooden
platforms and canvass curtains, for the solid marble balconies, and
rich dark draperies of Juliet's sleeping chamber, that shrine of love
and beauty; rouge, for the startled life-blood in the cheek of that
young passionate woman; an actress, a mimicker, a sham creature, me,
in fact, or any other one, for that loveliest and most wonderful
conception, in which all that is true in nature, and all that is
exquisite in fancy, are moulded into a living form. To _act_ this! to
_act_ Romeo and Juliet!--horror! horror! how I do loathe my most
impotent and unpoetical craft!" Vol. ii. pp. 16-17.

In another and sadder strain, there are many beautiful portions, from
which we can only select the following--and with this our extracts
must end:

"'Tis strange, that Messenger Bird threw more than a passing gloom
over me. If the dead do indeed behold those whom they have loved, with
loving eyes and fond remembrance, do not the sorrows, the weariness,
the toiling, the despairing of those dear ones rise even into the
abodes of peace, and wring the souls of those who thence look down
upon the earth, and see the wo and anguish suffered here? Or, if they
do not feel,--if, freed from this mortal coil, they forget all they
have suffered, all that we yet endure, oh! then what four-fold trash
is human love! what vain and miserable straws are all the deep, the
dear, the grasping affections twined in our hearts' fibres,--mingled
with our blood!--how poor are all things--how beggarly is life. Oh, to
think that while we yet are bowed in agony and mourning over the
dead,--while our bereaved hearts are aching, and our straining eyes
looking to that heaven, beyond which we think they yet may hear our
cries, they yet may see our anguish, the dead, the loved, the mourned,
nor see, nor hear; or if they do, look down with cold and careless
gaze upon the love that lifts our very souls in desperate yearning
towards them." Vol. ii. pp. 54-55.

We have thus endeavored to give our readers an idea of this very
remarkable book--a task of no little difficulty from its variable
features, its mixture of sense and silliness, of prejudice and
liberality--almost every page bearing a distinct and peculiar
character. There are many things which have elicited censure, on which
we have not laid any stress, and among these are the frequent
exhibitions of attachment to her native country, and preference of its
people, its customs, its laws, &c. to those of America. We cannot find
fault with her for so noble and so natural a sentiment, even though it
should lead her to depreciate and underrate us. Besides, she
acknowledges the blindness of her partiality to England, and speaks of
it with great candor, as a national characteristic:

"How we English folks do cling to our own habits, our own views, our
own things, our own people; how in spite of all our wanderings and
scatterings over the whole face of the earth, like so many Jews, we
never lose our distinct and national individuality; nor fail to lay
hold of one another's skirts, to laugh at and depreciate all that
differs from that country, which we delight in forsaking for any and
all others." Vol. i. p. 90.

The chief fault of the work will be found in the dictatorial manner of
the writer. A female, and a young one too, cannot speak with the
self-confidence which marks this book, without jarring somewhat upon
American notions of the retiring delicacy of the female character. But
the early induction of Mrs. B. upon the stage, has evidently given her
a precocious self-dependence and a habit of forming her own opinions.
There is perhaps no situation in which human vanity is so powerfully
excited, as that of the favorite actor. The directness of the applause
which greets his successful efforts is most intoxicating, and mingles
so much admiration of the performer with delight at the performance,
that he or she, whose vanity should resist its fascinations, must be a
stoic indeed.[3] The effects of this personal homage, added to the
advantages of her birth, and her really masculine intellect, are
apparent in Mrs. B's Journal. But she also displays some fine feminine
traits, which the flatteries of delighted audiences, the admiration of
ambitious fashionables, and the consciousness of being the chief Lion
of the day, could not destroy. Her sympathy for a sick lady, lodging
in the same house in Philadelphia, is frequently and delicately
expressed; and various other incidents shew that kindness and
generosity are among her prominent qualities. Many pages are devoted
to the subject of religion, and as appears from them, she was
attentive to the performance of her devotions: Yet we cannot but think
her religion as displayed in this book, more a sentiment than a
principle; rather the imbodying of a poetical fancy, than that
pervading feeling of the heart which enters into and characterizes the
actions of those who feel its influence.--In conclusion, we will
repeat what we have said before, that there is much to admire and much
to condemn in this work--enough of the former to render it one of the
most attractive (as it is one of the most original) that has recently
issued from the press; and in censuring its faults it will be but
justice to bear in mind a sentiment of Mrs. B.; "After all, if people
generally did but know the difficulty of doing well, they would be
less damnatory upon those who do ill." p. 114, vol. i.

[Footnote 3: This position has been beautifully illustrated by some
modern English writer, but by whom we have forgotten. Mrs. Butler is
fully aware of the intoxicating nature of the applause bestowed on
actors, and speaks most sensibly on the subject, although she is
probably unconscious of its full effects upon her own feelings, and
manner of thinking and writing.

"Excitement," says she, "is reciprocal between the performer and the
audience; he creates it in them, and receives it back again from them:
and in that last scene in Fazio, half the effect that I produce is
derived from the applause which I receive, the very noise and tumult
of which tends to heighten the nervous energy which the scene itself
begets."

The idea is farther carried out in the following striking passage:

"The evanescent nature of his triumph, however an actor may deplore
it, is in fact but an instance of the broad moral justice by which all
things are so evenly balanced. If he can hope for no fame beyond mere
mention, when once his own generation passes away, at least his power,
and his glory, and his reign is in his own person, and during his own
life. There is scarcely to be conceived a popularity for the moment
more intoxicating than that of a great actor in his day, so much of it
becomes mixed up with the individual himself. The poet, the painter,
and the sculptor, enchant us through their works; and with very, very
few exceptions, their works, and not their very persons are the
objects of admiration and applause; it is to their minds we are
beholden; and though a certain degree of curiosity and popularity
necessarily wait even upon their bodily presence, it is faint compared
with that which is bestowed upon the actor; and for good reasons--he
is himself his work. His voice, his eyes, his gestures, are his art,
and admiration of it cannot be separated from admiration for him. This
renders the ephemeral glory which he earns so vivid, and in some
measure may be supposed to compensate for its short duration. The
great of the earth, whose fame has arisen like the shining of the sun,
have often toiled through their whole lives in comparative obscurity,
through the narrow and dark paths of existence. Their reward was never
given to their hands here,--it is but just their glory should be
lasting." Vol. ii. pp. 61-62.]




EDITORIAL REMARKS.


In presenting the ninth number of the Messenger to our readers, we
take occasion to make some brief references to its contents. Besides
contributions from old friends, to whom we have been formerly
indebted, it contains _seven_ prose articles from new correspondents,
some of whom are entirely unknown to us, all of whom are welcome to
our pages.

Of the sixth number of "_Sketches of the History of Tripoli_," it is
only necessary to say that it is worthy of and sustains the character
of the preceding numbers. The same may be said of the "_Letters of a
Sister_," in which the vivacity that has elicited so much praise of
the former numbers, is not diminished.

The descriptions of Virginia scenery, in the article on "_The House
Mountain_," and the "_Visit to the Virginia Springs_," are highly
attractive. The former is remarkable for its graphic delineations and
glowing imagery--the latter abounds with useful information, conveyed
in an attractive style; and its writer describes the scenes he visited
with great clearness.

The third number upon the "_Fine Arts_," is an admirable article. The
writer warms as he progresses with his subject.

We would particularly recommend the article on the "_National
Importance of Mineral Possessions_," &c. The application of general
truths to our own peculiar situation, is made with much force in that
article.

Our stranger correspondent, _Anthony Absolute_, has very delicately
satirized the opposers of the amusement of dancing. His style is
evidently modelled after that of some of the numbers of the Spectator,
and he is uncommonly happy in keeping up a vein of quiet humor
throughout. His grave irony is highly amusing.

The writer of an article on "_Recent American Novels_," seems to us to
have expressed some opinions hastily, and to estimate the merits of
some of our native writers incorrectly. He has surely overlooked the
author of _Calavar_, in classing the successors of Cooper and Irving,
as "dwarfish," and their efforts as "puny." He was not in fault in
passing over the author of "_Horse-Shoe Robinson_," as that work had
not appeared when his article was penned; and _Swallow Barn_ does not
rank as a novel. We believe that Mr. Kennedy and Dr. Bird will prove
themselves worthy successors to Cooper and Irving (so far as the
latter may be considered a novel writer,) when the mantles shall fall
from their shoulders--nor will Mr. Sims, the author of Guy Rivers and
the Yemassie, (either of which, we apprehend, are superior to the
Insurgents,) be far behind. The reviewer seems to us rather
inconsistent in his allusions to Cooper, Irving, Paulding and Miss
Sedgewick: But we have not room to particularize. With regard to the
two former, the opinions of a _Young Scotchman_, in the interesting
letter which we publish in this number, are worthy of attention. We
are happy to say, that extracts from his "_Letters on the United
States_," will be continued in the Messenger. We doubt not they will
be read with avidity.

"_Lion-izing_," by Mr. Poe, is an inimitable piece of wit and satire:
and the man must be far gone in a melancholic humor, whose risibility
is not moved by this tale. Although the scene of the story is laid in
the foreign city of "_Fum Fudge_," the disposition which it satirizes
is often displayed in the cities of this country--even in our own
community; and will probably still continue to exist, unless Mrs.
Butler's Journal should have disgusted the fashionable world with
_Lions_.

The prominent article for this month, we have not yet alluded to; it
is the "_Dissertation on the Characteristic Differences between the
Sexes; the Influence of Woman_," &c.--a subject of great and abiding
interest, treated in a masterly manner. The comprehensive views taken
by the writer, of the whole subject; the copiousness of his
illustrations, and the happy manner in which they are brought to
sustain his various positions, are striking features in this able
article. We think we incur no risk in expressing the belief, that this
Dissertation when completed, will be the most perfect essay on the
subject, in the whole range of English literature.

"_The Grave of Forgotten Genius_," and "_Lionel Granby_," will have
their attractions, we doubt not, for many of our readers. The writer
of the latter possesses powers of description of no mean order. He
paints objects and characters skilfully, though at times his style is
somewhat overloaded with words. We shall receive his future chapters
with pleasure.

The poetical contributions for this number are generally excellent. We
are constrained to forbear any particular notice of them, by the
briefness of the space which we have to occupy.




TO CORRESPONDENTS.


The humorous strictures on modern fashions, by our friend "_Oliver
Oldschool_," did not reach us in time for insertion in the present
number; he will appear in our next. We have received two tales from
"an inexperienced girl of sixteen," entitled "_Lucy Carlton_" and
"_The Sanfords_," which, although they exhibit considerable talent,
are very deficient in incident. The sketching of character is mostly
good, but the author fails to make effectual use of the materials
which she brings together. We shall insert "The Sanfords" in our next,
as the best of the two. The story entitled "_Remorse_," is
inadmissible. The narrative presents some dramatic scenes and
situations, of which the writer has but partially availed himself; but
defects of language form the principal objection to his story. In
answer to _Octavian's_ inquiry, we must say that his lines are by no
means equal to those from his pen formerly inserted in the Messenger.
And as it would be impossible to publish all the contributions
received, unless the Messenger were twice its size, we are constrained
to leave out some which are even passable. "_English Poetry_, Chap.
II," and further extracts from the _MSS. of D. D. Mitchell_, will
appear in the next No. "_The Curse of the Betrayed One_" possesses
considerable merit, but is deformed by faults of metre, easily
amendable. With the author's consent we will make a few corrections in
his poem, and insert it in our next number. We will exercise the same
pruning prerogative upon the tale of "_The Reclaimed_." The poetical
contributions of Mrs. Emma Willard, of Troy, are welcome, and will
appear as early as possible; also some beautiful effusions of a
deceased lady of Matthews county, Virginia. "_Extracts from the
Autobiography of Pertinax Placid_, Chap. I," will have an early
insertion.

In addressing the numerous correspondents whose favors have not yet
appeared in our numbers, we avail ourselves of the opportunity to make
a few general remarks, which are due both to ourselves and to those
who write for the Messenger.

Although our poetical contributions have in general met with high
approbation, and though many effusions which we have had the honor to
present to the public, have received the just praise due to the lofty
promptings of the muse--we have noticed some strictures upon certain
articles which we had considered it our duty to insert in that
department. We do not purpose to defend all our poetical contributions
from censure. It is far from us to claim for them the merit of uniform
excellence. But we wish to show our readers, that to look for such
uniformity in the contents of a work like ours, would be unreasonable,
and to inform them of the principle upon which our selections are made
from the mass of materials placed before us.

It must be held in mind that the Messenger is a new enterprise, in a
section of country where such a work has never before been sustained
for any considerable length of time--that one of its leading objects
is to draw forth and encourage literary talent, and to build up in the
south a literature distinct and separate from that which shines in the
legal forum or the arena of politics. In order to carry into effect
this object, (which we think laudable in itself,) it is necessary that
we should display a greater degree of forbearance with inexperienced
aspirants to literary honors, than would be expected from a
discriminating editor, placed in other circumstances. Had we merely
the task before us to amuse our readers, it would not be difficult to
select from other sources the materials for our work, and abandoning
all editorial responsibility, render the contents of our pages
unexceptionable, by a choice of the best productions from other
publications. But would this course fulfil the great object of the
Messenger?--would it compensate our readers for the suppression of the
many noble productions which we have already presented to them--works
which, although in a minor form, we trust those who have perused them
"would not willingly let die?" The duty we have assumed, is to foster
the productions of native writers--to awaken, especially in the south,
a literary spirit, an ambition to excel in the cultivation of polite
learning--and to give our humble aid in stimulating the ambition of
our youth, by offering a fit repository for the offspring of taste and
genius. Whether we collect and place on permanent record the fugitive
productions of men already known to fame in other walks, or bring
forward to public applause the first efforts of youthful talent, we
equally fulfil the main object of our labors, by exciting the
admiration and awakening the ambition of others, possessing latent
powers perhaps unknown to themselves, until struck forth by a natural
and praiseworthy emulation.

In the performance of the duty which this object enjoins upon us,
there are many sources of perplexity of which our readers can scarcely
be aware. Our judgment in regard to the numerous contributions which
we receive from all quarters, leans, as it ought, to "mercy's side."
The exhibition of ability, although qualified by many faults of
conception or manner, claims our attention and favor. We look to the
future; and if in the most faulty production we find promise of
improving excellence, or redeeming traits which counterbalance the
writer's errors, we think it our duty to afford him an opportunity and
stimulus for improvement. For these reasons articles are not seldom
inserted in the Messenger, which exhibit defects of conception and
style, which it is no part of our duty to amend, but which we believe
to be counterbalanced by beauties or merits indicating that their
authors are capable of better things.

One complaint that we have to make of our contributors, regards the
carelessness with which they write; for this want of correctness,
mostly verbal it is true, but frequently extending to the sense,
rendered obscure by faulty construction of language, imposes upon the
editor the constant task of revision, and the responsibility of
correcting manuscripts at his own discretion. The labor we do not
grudge; but it should be performed by the writers themselves; and we
cannot too strenuously urge upon our friends greater care than in many
instances they have thus far bestowed upon the finishing of their
articles. Their own careful revision would no doubt lead to the more
perfect amendment of inaccuracies than could be made by an editor, who
in most instances cannot be supposed to share the full views of the
writer on the matters in hand. Our own relief from the labor of
revision is a secondary consideration, and one which we should not
urge; but by relieving us from much of that labor, the writers would
greatly increase the value of their contributions.




DEFERRED ARTICLES.


Among the numerous articles for which room could not be found in the
present number, are, reviews of Lee's Napoleon, Bancroft's History of
the United States, Sparks's Washington Correspondence, The Infidel, a
novel, by Doctor Bird, and a notice of the excellent Inaugural Address
of President Vethake, of Washington College.