Produced by Ron Swanson





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, JUNE 1835.  [No. 10.

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




EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION.


The contents of the present number of the Messenger will be found
various and entertaining, many of them possessing uncommon merit. They
are, like those of the last preceding number, entirely original.

The continuation of the _Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell_, is highly
acceptable. The description of a Storm on the Prairies is told with
much vigor, and will compare favorably with a similar scene in Mr.
Hoffman's excellent itinerary of a Winter in the West.

Nos. XV and XVI of the "_Letters of a Sister_" are delightful. The
vivacity and elegance of the style, and the feminine grace which
breathes through the whole correspondence, are peculiarly observable
in these numbers.

The 2d and 3d chapters of "_Lionel Granby_" exhibit an improvement on
the first. But we think the writer has chosen a bad model, since he
displays sufficient ability to render his writings interesting without
imitation. Perhaps unconsciously, he has fallen into what may be
denominated the _Bulwerian_ style, one which pleases less than almost
any other in the hands of an imitator, as like that of Byron it is
essentially an egotistical style.

Our reforming friend, "_Oliver Oldschool_," has hit off with great
force some of the fashionable assemblages of the present day. Without
entertaining a zeal in the reproval of these extravagancies, quite
commensurate with his own, we are fully aware of the justness of his
strictures upon those modern customs which banish _social_ intercourse
from what are intended for social parties, and burthen the enjoyment
of pleasure with so many qualifications as to make it little better
than _pain_.

The story of "_The Sanfords_" is the production of a young girl; and
if the reader should not find in it the skill of riper years, or the
deep interest of more stirring fictions--still, we trust he will agree
with us in the opinion, that it is highly creditable to the talents of
a young lady of sixteen and promises better things, when experience
and observation shall have stored her mind with incidents, and taught
her the art of using them with effect.

"_English Poetry, Chap, II_," is highly meritorious. We scarcely
supposed that so trite a subject could have been rendered so
attractive. Our correspondent has evidently studied his subject with
great care, and, which is better, _con amore_. He does not follow in
the beaten track, but has the boldness to differ from many former
critics; and there is a freshness and originality in his remarks which
cannot fail of being admired by the classical reader.

Mr. Poe's story of "_Hans Phaall_," will add much to his reputation as
an imaginative writer. In these _ballooning_ days, when every "puny
whipster" is willing to risk his neck in an attempt to "leave dull
earth behind him," and when we hear so much of the benefits which
science is to derive from the art of aerostation, a journey to the
moon may not be considered a matter of mere moonshine. Mr. Poe's
scientific Dutch bellows-mender is certainly a prodigy, and the more
to be admired, as he performs impossibilities, and details them with a
minuteness so much like truth, that they seem quite probable. Indeed
the _cause_ of his great enterprise is in admirable harmony with the
exploits which it encourages him to perform. There are thousands who,
to escape the pertinacity of uncivil creditors, would be tempted to a
flight as perilous as that of Hans Phaall. Mr. Poe's story is a long
one, but it will appear short to the reader, whom it bears along with
irresistible interest, through a region of which, of all others, we
know least, but which his fancy has invested with peculiar charms. We
trust that a future missive from the lunar voyager will give us a
narrative of his adventures in the orb that he has been the first to
explore.

"_The Sale_" is one of Nugator's best sketches, and will be recognized
as true to the life, by those who best know the scenes and
circumstances described. The characters of the Hoe-Cake ridger and his
steed are admirably drawn.

Among our Reviews, those upon _Bancroft's History of the United
Stales_, and the _Writings of General Washington_, are from the gifted
pen of the reviewer of the orations of Messrs. Adams and Everett. The
former displays much research, and contains some highly interesting
details of our early history. The latter is the most eloquent tribute
to the character of Washington that has ever met our eye. It is not
our custom to notice our reviews; but it would have been indelicate in
us to assume for a moment, even indirectly, the authorship of two
articles of such transcendent merit.

The Poetical department in the present number is well supplied. "_The
Daughter's Lullaby_," a parody of Mrs. Hemans's Sunset Tree, but a
_parody_ only in the form of the verse, is a perfect gem. The _Lines
on Lafayette_, by Mrs. Willard, possess much merit. "_The Old Parish
Church_," will be read with feeling by the Virginia _antiquarian_--if
such a being exist among us. The stanzas to "_Estelle_," and the lines
which follow, were formerly addressed to us under the signature of
_Fra Diavolo_, and were not inserted, because accompanied by another
poem which the late editor deemed objectionable. The author has
requested us to suppress the latter, and has permitted the publication
of those pieces to which no exception was taken by our predecessor,
who was fully impressed with the spirit of true poetry which
characterizes these productions. The scene from the unpublished drama,
entitled "_Arnold and Andre_," will be read with uncommon interest.
The author is not unknown to fame, and in this fragment of a work,
which he informs us it is his intention to complete, he has given
earnest of the merit which it will possess as a whole. The description
of the battle of Princeton (the only occasion as we believe, in which
Washington drew his sword during the whole war,) is powerfully
described by the Old Officer, as also the great influence which the
father of our liberties possessed and exercised over the minds and
actions of his followers. It is with great pleasure we announce the
writer of this admirable scene, as one from whom future contributions
to the Messenger may be anticipated.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES.

[From the Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell, Esquire.]


I left the Fort early in the morning of the 28th December, accompanied
as usual by my Spaniard and a few Canadian servants. The season thus
far had been uncommonly fine, not a spot of snow was visible on the
prairies, and, as we passed along, the Elk, Antelope, and Fox, were
seen in various directions reposing with all that lazy listlessness
which the warm suns of March and April never fail to produce upon both
man and beast. There was in fact nothing to remind us of the presence
of winter, except the barren nakedness of nature, and the long range
of the rocky mountains whose snowy peaks glittered in the sun, and
whose hoary summits stretching far to the north and south, were
undistinguishable from the white vapory clouds which floated around
them. Towards evening, however, a fresh gale sprung up from the north,
and a very sensible change in the temperature was experienced. We drew
our Buffalo robes closer around us, and jogged on, talking and
laughing away the time, inattentive to the signs of the storm which
was rapidly gathering. A few flakes of snow began to descend, and the
sun became suddenly obscured. We were now sensible that a snow storm
of unusual violence was fast approaching, and we laid whip to our
horses, in the hope of reaching the shelter afforded by a spot of
timbered ground, about eight miles distant. The tempest however had
already burst upon us in all its fury; large snow-flakes came whirling
and eddying about our heads, which were caught up by the wind before
they could fall to the earth;--darkness and confusion increased every
moment, and in half an hour it was impossible to see ten paces before
us. Our horses now became blind and ungovernable, some dashing away
with their riders across the prairies, heedless of what direction they
took, and others taking a firm and immoveable position with their
heads opposite to the wind and refusing to stir an inch. Of course,
all of us became soon separated. It was of no use to call out to each
other, for our voices were drowned in the roar of the tempest, and
could not be heard twenty steps. In this emergency I dismounted from
my steed, and leaving him to his fate, endeavored to keep myself warm
by vigorous exercise. Blinded and chilled by the wind and snow, I
stumbled forward, groping my way in darkness, and regardless of the
route which I took. At length, having proceeded some distance, I
tumbled headlong into a deep ravine filled with snow, from which, with
all my efforts, enfeebled as I was by fatigue, I was unable to
extricate myself. After some rest and many unavailing trials, I at
length crawled out, and perceiving at some little distance a kind of
shelter formed by an overhanging rock, I immediately sought it, and
wrapping my cloak and blanket around me, sat down in no enviable mood,
contemplating my forlorn and apparently hopeless condition. After
remaining in the ravine about two hours, the fury of the storm
subsided, when on making a careful examination I discovered a place in
the bank which was of comparatively easy ascent, and accordingly
succeeded in gaining the level prairies. I looked around for my
unfortunate companions, but no vestige of them was to be seen. The
snow lay piled up in ridges several feet high, and the wind though
considerably abated, continued to throw its light particles into such
dense masses or clouds as to intercept the view beyond a short
distance. There was a kind of hillock or mound in the prairie, about a
half mile off, to which I directed my steps in the hope that from its
summit I might make some discovery, and I was not disappointed. I
thought that I saw a few hundred yards distant, the whole of my party
collected together, and I instantly turned to join them. Guess my
astonishment, however, when in lieu of my unfortunate comrades, I
recognized my horse standing all benumbed and shivering with cold, in
company with a few old buffalo bulls. I approached very near before
they saw me, but on reaching out my hand to seize my horse's bridle,
the buffaloes took to flight, and whether it was that my horse being a
regular hunter, followed them from habit, or clung to them in the
present instance as companions in misfortune, I do not know,--but so
it was that he scampered off with the rest, and by his ill timed
desertion greatly aggravated my distress. I was now thirty miles from
home,--the night was fast approaching and the weather intensely cold.
What was I to do? If I lay in the open prairie, without the means of
kindling a fire, I knew that the snow would at once be my winding
sheet and grave: the thought too of my companions, and their uncertain
fate, added poignancy to my reflections.

After a few moments of melancholy musing, I determined to pursue my
horse, and if he could not be reclaimed to shoot him on the spot, in
order that I might recover such articles as he carried on his back,
and which might aid me in repelling the cold. I followed for nearly a
mile, the horse and buffalo still walking off before me, when my
patience being entirely exhausted, I took deliberate aim and fired.
The ball however fell short of its mark, the buffaloes ran off at full
speed, and my horse, greatly to my surprise, instead of following the
bad example of flight, suddenly pricked up his ears and looked
inquiringly around. Whether it was that he knew the report of my gun,
which had so often brought down the buffalo, when mounted on his back,
or that he really took compassion on my desolate situation and
repented his ungrateful conduct, it is of course impossible to tell,
but so it was that he turned round and hastened to meet me at a brisk
trot. When he approached very near, he stopped and seemed irresolute,
but having reloaded my gun I was resolved that he should not again
escape. I made towards him as warily as possible, when making a sudden
spring I seized the bridle, and in a few moments was safely seated on
his back.

A moment before I could have exclaimed with the ill-fated Richard, "a
horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" but now that I had reclaimed
my own, I found my situation but little alleviated. The sun had
already sunk far behind the mountains, and the wind, which blew
directly from the north, came with such intense bitterness that in
spite of my clothing and robe, it seemed to penetrate my very vitals.
I gazed round on the boundless prairie, in the hope of descrying some
timbered spot which should serve as a place of refuge, but all was one
dreary waste. Nothing was to be seen but a broad expanse of plain,
undulated by ridges of snow--and nothing heard but the hollow and
mournful gusts which swept over the desolate scene and sounded like a
funeral dirge. My apprehensions were gloomy enough, and losing all
confidence in my own half-bewildered reason, I threw the reins on the
neck of my horse, and giving him the whip, surrendered the choice of
the route to his own better instinct. The sagacious brute seemed
conscious of his new responsibility, and as if to atone for his unkind
treatment after the storm, he gave a loud neigh, and then sprung off
at a sweeping gallop which he continued for an hour and a half. It was
now completely dark, and I was so thoroughly benumbed with cold, that
I could scarcely retain my seat. I felt indeed like one lingering on
the very brink of despair, when my horse suddenly gave another loud
neigh which was instantly returned. He sprang forward with renewed
life and spirit, and in a moment after, upon reaching the top of some
rising ground, a large fire sent up its cheerful blaze to my view; and
to my utter surprise as well as delight, I beheld my companions who
were so recently dispersed by the storm, comfortably seated around it.
With a loud shout of congratulation I hurried down the hill and joined
them. A sailor who has been wrecked at sea, and who after buffeting
the stormy billows until nature is exhausted, is at length cast on
shore by some friendly wave, never felt a more thrilling sensation of
pleasure or thankfulness, than I did at that moment. In the fulness of
my heart I most fervently thanked heaven for its protection; then
seizing my horse around the neck, I tenderly embraced him, and poured
forth my gratitude and forgiveness to his unconscious ear. Many no
doubt would be disposed to smile at this seeming folly; but let them
reflect that when the spirit has been raised from the lowest depths of
despair to the highest summit of hope and enjoyment--the man must be
cold indeed who does not evince some extravagance in feeling or
conduct, as in the case of the poor man, whose fortunes are suddenly
made by a prize in the lottery, some excuse may be given for a few
irrational freaks and absurd eccentricities. Like all excessive joy,
however, mine was but temporary--or at least not unalloyed, for I soon
discovered that one of my men was missing, having been separated from
his companions during the storm, and not since seen or heard of.

With the aid of a large fire, a sufficient number of blankets, and a
bottle of old Jamaica, we contrived to pass the night in tolerable
comfort, notwithstanding the cold, which was tremendous. Early next
morning, we proceeded to scour the prairie in search of our lost
companion. We searched until late in the evening--but all our efforts
were vain, and we returned once more to the camp. The unfortunate man
had doubtless fallen a victim to the fury of the storm,--for we never
heard of him more. His body probably lay wrapped in its snowy shroud
until spring, when at last it was revealed to the eager eyes of
ravenous birds and beasts. Death is in any shape appalling; and his
near approach will for a moment shake the stoutest heart. It will even
blanch the cheek of the hero, surrounded by the "pomp and circumstance
of glorious war." What then must be the situation of him who is
overtaken by the violence of the wintry storm, and sinks, exhausted by
cold and weariness, on the trackless prairie. For the last time he
hears the night wind, as it chants his funeral dirge,--whilst the
mournful howl of the starving wolf, or the scream of the ill-omened
raven, as he circles in the air, and watches the last vital spark as
it vanishes--disturbs the dying moments of the victim!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER FIFTEENTH.

Foundling Hospital--Hotel Carnavalet--Count de Ségur.


PARIS, ----.

This morning, dear Jane, we visited the Foundling Hospital. Being told
we should go there very early to behold the emptying of the baskets in
which the babes are deposited at the gate during the night, we
hastened there ere seven o'clock; but we had been misinformed, and
were disappointed in our wishes. The infants are carried there at all
hours; none however were received during our visit. We were conducted
through the numerous wards, and saw many forsaken little creatures--a
distressing sight, indeed! Then to behold the sufferings of such as
were diseased! Some of them lying on hard beds, with a bright light
from opposite windows torturing their eyes, which were generally
inflamed from being thus exposed. Some of the nurses too, were
exceedingly rough. For instance, in an apartment attached to the sick
wards, four or five women were occupied in _dosing_ and feeding
several babes--one of them asked another who stood by a table, to hand
her a spoon; instead of handing it, she threw it, and so carelessly,
that the poor child received a blow on the cheek. I could have boxed
the vixen! Each infant is swathed, and wears on its wrist a piece of
pewter, telling the hour, the day of the month, and the year of its
reception at the hospital; this enables a parent who may desire to
reclaim a child, to find it. About six thousand children are annually
received here, and frequently as many as twenty in the course of a
day. A considerable number are sent into the country to be nursed, and
during our stay, a half a dozen carts drove off, filled with peasant
women and their helpless charges. The destiny of these we thought
enviable, when compared with that of those who remained. At two years
of age, the children are removed to another hospital, and there
instructed until old enough to be put to some trade.

After breakfast, we visited a place of a more pleasing description;
this was the Hotel de Carnavalet, formerly the residence of Madame de
Sévigné. It is now inhabited by a Monsieur de P----, an eminent
engineer, with whom we have become acquainted, and who kindly invited
us there, to see the very chamber and cabinet occupied by that lady,
when she penned those charming letters to the Countess de Grignan. The
window of the cabinet overlooks a small garden, in which is a
flourishing yew tree, that was planted by Madame de Sévigné herself.
As I viewed it, and thought of her who reared it, Lord Byron's
beautiful lines on the cypress came forcibly to my mind.

  "Dark tree! still sad when other's grief is fled,
   The only constant mourner o'er the dead."

The charming old Count de Ségur has returned to town, and we have paid
him our respects at his residence in the Rue Duphot. He was here
yesterday, and invited us to dine with him _en famille_ to-day; we are
going, and I shall close my letter with an account of the party, when
we come back. At present I must abandon the writing desk for the
toilet table.

Eleven at night. We reached home a half an hour since, and having
changed my dress for a robe de chambre, behold me quite at my ease,
and again in possession of the pen. We spent our hours delightfully at
the Count's! On alighting there, we were for some minutes sole tenants
of the parlor, and thus had an opportunity of examining a beautiful
portrait that decorates the wall of the room, and which we afterwards
learned, is that of the late Countess de Ségur. It was painted during
her youth, and if the resemblance be a good one, she must have been a
lovely creature! Our observations were interrupted by the entrance of
the Count from his library, adjoining the parlor--and our circle was
soon increased by the addition of several French gentlemen, to whom he
introduced us, but I quite forget their names. One of them had
recently been in Greece, and described a horrible scene of carnage he
witnessed there. In the evening the Count had many visiters, this
being the time he prefers his friends to call on him. Among those who
came in, was the authoress of "Adèle de Senange," that interesting
novel we read together last winter. You may depend I heard the name of
Madame de S---- announced with great satisfaction. She entered, and we
beheld a plain looking woman, apparently about fifty years old. Then
there was Monsieur de Marbois, who wrote the history of Louisiana, one
of the United States; and Count Philip de Ségur, author of the
"Russian Campaign," who is considered the ablest military historian of
the age. I am now so sleepy I can write no more, so bid you, in the
name of all of us, a fond adieu.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER SIXTEENTH.

Saint Denis--Montmorency--the Rendezvous--the Hermitage--Enghien--Mass
at the Tuileries' Chapel--the Bourbons.


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane_:--

Marcella Erisford has arrived, accompanied by her father, who returns
to Soissons to-morrow. He has been residing there eleven months, in
order to settle some business, relative to a legacy left him by an
intimate friend; in the spring he expects to re-embark for
Philadelphia, his native city. He resembles his sister, Mrs. Danville,
and appears equally amiable and desirous of contributing to the
happiness of those around him. We shall sincerely regret his
departure. Marcella is quite a beauty, with her glowing cheeks, hazel
eyes and pearly teeth, although her features are by no means regular.
She is less lively than Leonora, but just as intelligent and
accomplished; so you see I have two delightful companions to console
me (if it were _possible_) for your absence. Our brother Edgar is, I
think, desperately smitten with Marcella; certes, when she is by, he
has neither eyes or ears for any body or anything else.

Now for our peregrinations. The weather being remarkably fine on
Tuesday, and the carriages at the door by nine o'clock, according to
order, we proceeded to Montmorency and the Abbey of St. Denis. Oh, how
your pensive spirit will luxuriate in wandering through the solemn
aisles and caverns of this "hoary pile," among the sepulchres of its
mighty dead! You are aware that during the revolution, this asylum of
deceased royalty, was invaded by a barbarous populace, who dragged the
corpses from their graves, loaded them with indignities, and cast them
into ditches and other places of filth. It is related that the corpse
of the brave Louis XIV, when thus profaned, raised its arm, as if to
strike the miscreant who dared the deed, while that of the good Henri
Quatre (which was found uninjured by time) smiled benignantly on his
ungrateful subjects! The tombs have since been restored by Napoleon,
who intended for himself and his descendants the vault which is
appropriated to the Bourbons. It is secured by two massive bronze
gates, which he had made to close upon his own ashes, that now repose
under a simple stone on the barren island of St. Helena! So changes
the glory of this world and its mighty ones! The Abbey of Saint Denis
was originally a plain chapel, erected by a pious and wealthy lady
named Catulla, to shelter the remains of that martyr (St. Denis) and
his companions, after their execution. The generosity and care of
various monarchs, have transformed the humble chapel into the present
majestic cathedral. The relics of St. Denis are enclosed in a splendid
shrine, the gift of Louis XVIII; and the sumptuous altar in front of
this, with its enormous gold candlesticks, was given to the church by
Bonaparte, after his marriage with the Empress Marie Louise, on which
occasion it was first erected in the Louvre, where the ceremony was
performed. In the side aisles of St. Denis, are several superb
monuments, in memory of Francis I, Henry II, and Henry III, and their
queens. The antique sepulchres of Dagobert, and his spouse Nantilde,
are near the door, and that of Dagobert most curiously carved. In one
of the vaults we saw the stone coffin of King Pepin; it is open and
empty, and when struck upon the side, sounds like metal. Near the
mausoleum of Francis I, stands the mimic bier of Louis XVIII, canopied
and richly decorated with funereal ornaments. It will remain until
succeeded by that of Charles X, for such is the custom of France. What
gave rise to it I know not; but we may reasonably suppose that it was
intended, like the monitor of Philip of Macedon, to remind the
reigning monarch of his mortality.

At Montmorency we had fine sport riding about on donkeys to the
different points of view that merit notice for their beauty. The
little animal upon which Mr. Erisford rode, was at first extremely
refractory, and the trouble he had to force it along excited our
mirth; then my saddle girth broke, and this was another source of
merriment. After riding over the valley, we alighted at the hunting
seat of the unhappy father of the murdered Duke d'Enghien, the present
prince of Condé, who is said to be yet overwhelmed with affliction at
the untimely and cruel end of his noble son. The place is called the
"Rendezvous;" it is shady and pleasant--the house a plain stone
building: we did not enter it, but partook of some cool milk beneath
the trees, in front of the door. We purchased it of the game keeper
and his wife, who reside there. Retracing our path, (and the little
donkeys, I assure you, trotted _back_ much faster than they _went_,)
we stopped at the Hermitage. This is the most interesting object to be
seen at Montmorency, and indeed the chief attraction to that
spot--although circumstances induced us to defer our visit to it till
the last. It is a quarter of a mile from the village, and was the
residence of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and afterwards of Andrew Gretry,
the musical composer, whose family still occupy it. They are so
obliging as to allow strangers to visit this rural retreat of those
celebrated men, and have arranged in a small apartment, various
articles that were owned and used by them, and that are consequently
interesting to the spectator; for instance, the bedstead and table of
Rousseau; the cup and saucer of Gretry; his comb and spectacles, and
the antique little spinet upon which he tried his compositions. A
flower garden adjoins the mansion, and there we saw a rose bush that
was planted by Jean Jacques, and the stone bench upon which he used to
sit while writing his "Héloise." From the bay tree that shades it, I
procured a leaf for your herbarium. A rivulet meanders through the
garden, and empties into a small lake, near which is the bust of
Gretry, supported by a column, with an inscription in gilt letters.
Rousseau's bust occupies a niche in the wall, and is covered with a
glass to protect it from the pencils of scribblers, which have
disfigured it considerably. Bidding adieu to the Hermitage, we
returned to the "White Horse," an excellent inn we had selected in the
town, and having recruited ourselves with a hearty dinner, resumed our
seats upon the donkeys, and repaired to the village of d'Enghien, (a
mile distant,) to see its neat and commodious sulphur baths, and the
pretty lake of St. Gratien, on the border of which it stands. In the
centre of the water is a restaurant, to which, if you choose, you are
conveyed in a boat; but it was so late, that our parents would not
consent to make this aquatic excursion, and we therefore returned to
Montmorency, and thence to Paris. A bright moon lighted us home, where
we arrived about eleven o'clock, pleased with our day's adventures,
and so sleepy we could scarcely reach our chambers without falling
into a slumber on the way. On Sunday Mr. Dorval brought us six tickets
of admission to the Chapel of the Tuileries, where high mass is
performed every Sabbath while the king is in the city. Not a moment
was to be lost, so we hastened to array ourselves for the occasion, as
full dress is required if you sit in the gallery with the royal
family, and our billets were such as to admit us there. Marcella,
Leonora and myself had just purchased new bonnets, and these we wore.
Their's are of straw colored crape, ornamented with blond and bunches
of lilacs, and are very becoming; mine is of pink, and decorated with
blond and white hyacynths. Our party, consisting of Mamma, Papa,
Edgar, and our three ladyships, was soon ready and at the palace. The
chapel was crowded, but we found no difficulty in obtaining seats--for
on presenting our tickets, the captain of the guards handed us to
them, and the throng yielded to him without hesitation. The music was
very fine, and we had a close view of the Bourbons and their suite.
They were sumptuously clad, and the King and Duke and Duchess of
Angoulême seemed very devout. The Duchess has a most melancholy
expression of countenance, owing perhaps to the sad vicissitudes of
her youth. Neither she, her spouse or uncle are popular. The Duchess
de Berri is exceedingly so, and is considered one of the most
charitable ladies in the kingdom. She is extremely fair, has light
hair and a pleasing face. She is not sufficiently dignified, I think,
and is a terrible fidget; during service she was continually adjusting
her tucker, necklace, or sleeve. It is reported, that when the
omnibuses, or circulating carriages of the boulevards were first
introduced, she made a bet with the king that she would ride in one of
them, and actually did so, in disguise! I am summoned to the parlor to
receive visiters--so kiss my hand to you.

LEONTINE.

P. S. Our guests proved to be General and Mr. George Washington
Lafayette. They came to take leave of us ere their departure for La
Grange. The Chamber of Deputies having dissolved, they go to the
country to-morrow, where the rest of the family have already
established themselves. We have been so pressingly invited to pay them
a visit, that we have determined to do so, and anticipate great
pleasure and gratification from spending a day or two in the midst of
this charming and highly respected family. Again adieu.

L.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY DAUGHTER'S LULLABY.

Tune--"The Sunset Tree."


  Come! Come! Come!
        Come to thy Mother's breast!
          The day begins to close:
        And the bright, but fading west
          Invites thee to repose.
        The frolic and the fun
          Of thy childish sports are o'er:
        But, with to-morrow's sun,
          To be renewed once more.

  Come! Come! Come!
        Come to thy Mother's breast!
          The day begins to close:
        And the bright, but fading west
          Invites thee to repose.

  Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!
        Sweet on thy Mother's knee!
          To con thine evening prayer,
        To him who watches thee
          With a Father's tender care.
        For parents and for friends
          Then breathe thy simple vow;
        And when life's evening ends,
          Be innocent as now.

  Come! Come! Come!
        Come to thy Mother's breast!
          The day begins to close:
        And the darkening of the west
          Invites thee to repose.

  Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
        Sleep till the morning beams!
          My song is in thine ear,
        To mingle with thy dreams,
          And to tell thee I am near.
        Bright be thy dreams, my child!
          Bright as thy waking eyes,
        As the morning beaming mild,
          Or the hope that never dies.

  Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
        Sleep on thy Mother's breast!
          Thine eyes begin to close;
        And she that loves thee best
          Has lulled thee to repose.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Troy, June, 1835_.

MR. WHITE,--The very polite invitation received in yours of February
11th, (the more valuable because it in part originates with Mr. R.) to
contribute to your well conducted, entertaining and instructive
periodical, would have been sooner answered, but that I was desirous
to write something specially intended for the Messenger. But owing to
my having a work (Universal History in Perspective) now in the press,
the manuscript of which is not yet quite finished, I am obliged to
devote every leisure moment in that direction. Unwilling, however, not
to respond to the Virginian politeness which dictated your letter, I
have sent you, from my port-folio, some little poems which have not
been published.

The Messenger, as I have learned from some of our gentlemen who
frequent the reading room, is highly spoken of here. Accept my
grateful acknowledgment of your favor, in sending it to me.

Respectfully, yours,

EMMA WILLARD.


OCEAN HYMN.

Written on board the Sully, on a return voyage from France, July,
1831.


  Rock'd in the cradle of the deep,
  Father, protect me while I sleep;
  Secure I rest upon the wave,
  For thou my God hast power to save.
  I know thou wilt not slight my call,
  For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall,
  And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
  Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.

  And such the trust that still were mine,
  Tho' stormy winds swept o'er the brine;
  Or tho' the tempest's fiery breath
  Rous'd me from sleep to wreck and death,
  In ocean-cave, still safe with thee,
  The germ of immortality,
  And sweet and peaceful is my sleep,
  Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following was written soon after the intelligence of Lafayette's
death reached this country. At the public examination of the young
ladies under my charge, they appeared in mourning, on the last day,
August 5th, on account of the death of our country's father, and also
on that of the death of two of their former school companions. At the
close of the school exercises, the little poem in blank verse, was
read by one of their number, and the dirge, with a plaintive
accompaniment on the harp and piano, was sung. It may be thought
strange that I should venture to produce this, when the performances
of such eminent men as Messrs. Everett and Adams are before the
public.[1] But the incidents of the life of Lafayette are so well
known, that it appears to me only necessary to give to memory the
key-note and excite her to use her own powers; and to this end a
poetic diction gives to the writer some advantages, as it admits of
greater condensation of narrative, of thought, and feeling.

[Footnote 1: This was prepared for the Messenger before the number was
received containing the critique on those publications.]


LAFAYETTE.


    On Seine's fair banks, amidst Parisian towers,
  Gather a multitude! Slowly they come,
  And mournfully. The very children weep;
  And the stern soldier hath his sun-burnt face
  Wet with unwonted tears. And see! From forth
  The portals of a venerable church,
  The mourners following, and the pall upborne
  By white-haired ancients of the sorrowing land,
  A coffin issues. Needless task, to tell
  Whose pallid lineaments--whose clay-cold form
  They bear to his long rest. France hath but ONE
  So loved, so honored; nay, the world itself
  Hath not another.
                    Who shall fill his place?
  Who now, when suffering justice pleads, will hear?
  And when humanity with fettered hands
  Uplifted cries, who now will nerve the arm?
  Who break the silken bands of pleasure, spurn
  Ancestral pride, the pomp of courts, and sweet
  Domestic love, and bare his bosom in
  The generous strife?
                       Let us recall his acts
  And teach them to our sons. Perchance the spark
  Extinct, rekindling in some youthful heart,
  The hero's spirit, will return to bless.
  Who treads Columbia's soil, but knows his blood
  Hath mingled with it, freely shed for us.
  For injur'd France, impoverish'd and oppress'd,
  In freedom's sacred cause, he next stood forth,
  And despotism closed her long career.
  But wild misrule uprose; and murder's arm
  Was bared to strike. Lafayette interposed;--
  Chief of a distant armed host, he wrote
  And bade the legislative band beware!
  Then Jacobinic tigers growled, muttering
  A Cæsar! Slay him! At an army's head
  He dictates to the Senate! Hush! he comes--
  Alone, unarmed, save with the sword of truth,
  And beards the monsters in their very den.
  They quail, and freedom's sons arouse.
  Then thou, poor sufferer, Louis had not died,
  Nor hapless Antoinette, thy beauteous neck
  Had never fed the greedy guillotine,
  Nor yet had Olmutz' dreary dungeon held
  That noble man, had ye but trusted him.
    O'er the broad page of history, there comes
  A meteor glare. Napoleon rises!
  Other lights grow dim, or fade away;
  But plagues are scattered from the burning trail--
  Lafayette's star, tho' hid, moves on unquenched;
  O'er fair La Grange it shines with beauteous ray,
  And fosters in its beams domestic joy.
  The comet sinks beneath Helena's rocks;
  The star remains, undimmed, a guide to France.
  But hath Columbia no gratitude?
  She woos her brave deliverer to her arms!
  Again he rides the wave; not now, as once,
  The banner'd eagle droops the pensive wing,
  But proudly fluttering, o'er his favorite's head
  Bears high the starry crest.
                                He comes! resounds
  Along Manhattan's strand and o'er her waves;
  The city is unpeopled, thronged the shore,
  Gay pennons wave, and cannon roar; men shout,
  Children leap up, and aged veterans weep.
    Even here he came; within these walls we saw
  His face benign, and heard his kindly voice;
  And here we blessed him in our artless song,
  And raised our tearful eyes, and called him "father;"
  And with a father's love he looked on us
  And wept. And now HE sleeps in death, 'tis meet
  That we should mourn. Would we could seek his grave,
  With those the sorrowing ones, he loved the best,
  There too would we, the mourning flowers of France,
  And drooping willows plant, and kneel and weep.
    Take comfort ye his offspring! God's own word
  Is pledged to you; seed of a righteous man!
  Lift up your downcast hearts, and joy for this,
  That he hath died unchanged, as long he lived.
  And tho' the perils of his age, outwent
  The dangers of his youth, yet he hath stood,
  And calm and fearless, tower'd above the storms
  That scared the timid and o'erwhelmed the vile.
  His fame shall be a light to future times;
  But it shall fall in glance portentous,
  On tyrants and their leagues; on the oppressed,
  In gentle rays of pity and of hope,--
  On dark hypocrisy, that hymns the name
  Of liberty, to cheat for power, it falls,
  Revealing guilt and shame. Meanwhile it shows
  The good even as they are, not to be bought
  No sold, nor daunted. Such a man was he,
  Your father and your friend; nor yours alone;
  Whoever bears man's image, he hath lost
  A countryman, a father, and a friend!
  Thus human nature mourns, and sympathy,
  Wide as his generous heart, shall sooth your grief.


DIRGE,

Commemorative of the deaths Gen. Lafayette--of Miss Mary A. Coley, and
Miss Helen Stuart Bowers.[2]


  Sweep--slowly sweep the chords to notes of woe,
  Breathe dirge-like sounds, funereal and low;
  For sorrow flows--a strange and mingled tide,
  The Beautiful are gone--the Brave hath died!

  So good, so dauntless, generous, and kind,
  Our Country's Father leaves no peer behind;
  But ah our Sisters! must the bright and gay,
  Leave the fair earth, and moulder in the clay!

  Thus saith the Word, "Be not of little faith;"
  Prepare for life,--prepare for early death;
  So shall ye calmly part, or peaceful stay,
  Be honor'd here, or sweetly pass away.

  Sweep--slowly sweep the chords to notes of woe,
  Breathe dirge-like sounds, funereal and low,
  For sorrow still, will flow in mingled tide,
  The BEAUTIFUL are gone--the BRAVE hath died!

[Footnote 2: Miss Bowers (who was a young lady of exquisite personal
beauty) had a remarkably peaceful and happy death.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE OLD PARISH CHURCH.

MR. WHITE,--The attention of the traveller through Lower Virginia, is
often powerfully arrested by the fine old churches in a state of
dilapidation and decay, and he reverts with a melancholy feeling to
the days when they were built, and the people who worshipped within
them. During our last war with Great Britain, these churches served as
quarters for our soldiery, and sometimes as stables for the horses of
our cavalry.

NUGATOR.


  Yon ruined church! how it dimly stands
    With its windows sunk and broken--
  Of the parent scoff'd at the children's hands,
    'Tis a sad and a guilty token.

  Thou'rt a noble work and a lofty pile!
    With thy spacious, vaulted ceiling;
  These massy pillars, and long deep aisle,
    Touch the heart with a holy feeling.

  'Twas a proud, proud day, when our fathers laid
    This stone of the mould'ring corner;
  Ah! they did not dream 'twould so soon be made
    A jest for the passing scorner.

  Cold, cold in death are the hearts which throbb'd
    To view thy rising glory--
  Are we their sons, who have basely robb'd
    What Time had left so hoary?

  Long years have pass'd, now silent fane!
    Since you rang with the solemn warning,
  And years may pass, but for thee, in vain
    The return of the Sabbath morning.

  Ye slumbering dead! what a change is here,
    Where once ye worshipp'd--kneeling--
  No sound is heard but my hollow steps, near
    Where the full tones once were pealing.

  Lo! the sacred desk where your pastor read,
    While angels smiled--impending--
  There the ceaseless worm hath in silence, fed
    With your dust, 'tis slowly blending.

  God's tables torn from the sacred wall!
    What hand was so rashly daring?
  And their whiteness stain'd by the fiend-like scrawl
    Of some lost spirit--despairing.

  Oh, sight of woe!--the altar gone!
    That spot of the Christian union,
  Where once ye sought the eternal throne,
    With the cup of the lov'd communion.

  E'en soldiers here, beneath this roof,
    Have held their midnight orgies,
  And without hath tramp'd the charger's hoof,
    Till the grave well nigh disgorges.

  Adieu! adieu! lone house of God!
    I shrink from thy profaning--
  The impious foot of war hath trod
    Where the Prince of Peace was reigning.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ESTELLE.


    I'm standing at thy couch Estelle--
      Thy hand in mine--awake my love!--
    O'er silent lake and leafy dell
      Calm eve is sinking from above;
    Wilt thou not look upon the scene
      Which from yon casement woos thine eyes?
    The light shines beauteously between
  The far off mountains where its last blush dies.

    I kiss thee sweet--how cold thy lip!--
      How pale thy cheek!--thy brow how white!--
    And chill as unsunned flowers that dip
      Their colorless leaves in dews of night.
    In vain--in vain I call on thee--
      Thou answerest not that once loved call--
    Thou hast no word--no look for me--
  How heavily from mine thy hand doth fall!

    Yet dearest, while I gaze on thee,
      Whom I have loved so long--so well--
    It seems not all reality
      That I have lost thee quite, Estelle.
    I have a sense, though vague and dim,
      Of something which my heart hath stilled--
    The formless shadow of a dream
  That with oppressive thoughts my mind hath filled.

    The mist is fading--yet so fair!
      Can this be death?--this, beauteous sleep!--
    Yes!--Yes!--and they will lay thee where
      The earth is damp and worms do creep--
    Oh! God!--that reptiles--horrid thought!--
      Must banquet on those lovely limbs,
    Whose faultless outline, seemeth not
  Traced for this world of dark and sullen dreams.

    It must be so--the grave--the grave
      Relentless swallows all we love,--
    Mind--Beauty--Virtue--naught can save--
      And yet there is a God above!--
    I only know--I only feel
      Thou'rt doomed to be the earthworm's prey,
    The newt will o'er thy bosom steal,
  And loathsome things through thy rich tresses stray.

       *       *       *       *       *

       *       *       *       *       *

    I hear the sound of many feet--
      A moment more, they will be here--
    One kiss--one more.--Farewell my sweet,
      Let others weep around thy bier,
    Who loved thee well--yet loved thee less--
      I cannot weep--the fount is dry
    In sorrow's utter wilderness--
  And with a tearless voiceless thought I die.[1]

[Footnote 1: But as it is, I live and die unheard,
             With a most voiceless thought sheathing it as a sword.
                         [_Childe Harold_, Canto III. Stanza xcvii.

Not a plagiarism but a _coincidence_; a softer term, and more in
vogue.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

----through the vigils of the joyless day and the broken dreams of the
night, there was a charm upon his soul--a hell within himself; and the
curse of his sentence was never to forget.--_Falkland_.


  There is a thought that still obtrudes in lone and festive hours;
  It falls upon my withered heart like desert winds on flowers:
  Oh! read it in my altered brow and in my sunken eye,
  I cannot speak it, for the words upon my lips would die.

  At evening when I muse alone and calmer visions rise,
  Such as will sometimes swim before the veriest wretch's eyes,
  That thought will start up suddenly, like spectre from the graves,
  And rend the fragile web of joys poor Fancy idly weaves.

  In scenes of mirth and revelry I mingle--'tis in vain--
  My spirit finds no Lethe in the cup I madly drain;
  And when I strive to laugh, like those whose hearts are light and
        free--
  What ghastly echo of their mirth!--what bitter mockery!

  Alas! the silver chord is loosed--the golden bowl is broken;
  Remembrance strews my blighted path with many a bitter token;
  And on my heart a fearful sign is set forever more--
  A burning seal like that they say the wandering Hebrew bore.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FAREWELL TO ROSA.


  Rosa, Rosa, first and fairest,
  Best beloved and ever dearest,
  How shall I tear myself away,
  Nor all the tender thoughts convey,
  Which my swoll'n bosom bursts to tell
  At bidding thee this last farewell.

  But mark not thou the changing cheek,
  The swimming eye, and accent weak,
  The quivering lip, and pallid brow,
  These signs of grief, oh! mark not thou,
  Nor see my vain attempt to hide
  Love's softness in the look of Pride.

  My gloomy look, my mournful sigh,
    Thou must not see, thou must not hear,
  Nor, Rosa, must thou ask me, why
    I brush away the gathered tear;
  Thou must not seek the veil to move,
  Which honor throws o'er hopeless love.

  I know 'twould grieve they gentle heart
    To feel that thou art all the cause,
  That these unnumbered tears now start
    In eyes which were, while hope yet was,
  As bright as ever Love lit up,
  To beam on Pleasure's sparkling cup.

  My peace of mind forever fled,
    My hopes of future fame destroyed,
  My only tree of promise dead,
    Its fruit all blighted ere enjoyed,
  And gone the light that cheered my morn
  Of life, ere half its hours were worn.

  Live thou unconscious of the grief
    A hopeless passion wakes in me;
  It would not yield my heart relief
    To know its pangs were shared by thee;
  Let me but feel thy bliss secure,
    And know no sorrows threaten thee,
  And I can unsubdued endure
    All Fortune's malice heaps on me.

  But when some wild secluded spot
    Shall mark my life's eventless round;
  And when an humble lonely cot
    My once ambitious hopes shall bound;
  Oh! Rosa, let one sigh regret
  The hours that I can ne'er forget.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. II.

  For scarcely entering on my prime of age,
  Grief marked me for her own.
                                 [_Camoens, by Lord Strangford_.


My education had been superintended exclusively by my mother. Under
her intelligent control I had mastered the common rudiments of
learning, and had acquired, from my intellectual association with her,
a taste for poetry and light philosophy. I read every thing with an
earnestness which knew no satiety. In my fifteenth year, my mind was a
rude mass of incongruous erudition; possessing learning without
accuracy, and information without wisdom. My character derived a
rudeness from the unbroken solitude of my studies, taking, like the
insect of the forest, the hue of the leaf on which it lived and
banqueted. The "Book of Martyrs," awakened into melancholy the
sympathies of my heart, and lashed into bitterness the fierce
intolerance of my passions. I was religious only in the vengeance of
persecution! How often have I felt, beneath the prayers of my mother,
the gentleness of a hallowed contrition stealing over my proud heart.
Alas! that this contagious sympathy should leave no impression; for I
would return to my favorite feast of blood, and arise from its
enjoyment a tyrant and a bigot.

The day on which I was sent to school, is deeply marked on my memory.
The preparations for my departure, the advice of my mother, the
remonstrances of my nurse, and the tears of Scipio, were the gloomy
heralds of my utter desolation of heart. Our slaves, as I passed them
in the chariot, left their work and ran to bless me. Many of them bade
me farewell with struggling emotion, while several of the old ones
told me to be of stout heart, and never forget that I was a Granby. I
sobbed aloud in the fulness of my heart, when I gave them my hand. The
sternness of manhood has never blushed for those tears.

My teacher was a native of Scotland, and officiated as the minister to
the parish in which he resided. Like most scholars, he could turn to
the example of Socrates for resignation under the rule of the
shrillest of all Xantippes. It was the principal weapon he used in his
marital patience, but with that success which always made him doubt
his own victory. He was a curious compound of pedantry, simplicity,
and erudition. His existence was a verb, and his whole life was a dull
routine of plain theology and pompous verbosity. He was under many
ties of gratitude to our family, and my arrival was greeted by him
with demonstrations of pleasure and affection.

I was now almost alone in the world. The silken luxury, the
aristocratic pride, and the unsubdued temper in which I had been bred,
utterly disqualified me for the democracy in which I was placed. In
the solitude of my pride I turned to the resources of study, and by a
severity of character I chilled into cold contempt the incipient
friendship of many a noble and ingenuous heart. I made but one friend,
and to him I clung with affectionate enthusiasm. To Arthur Ludwell I
disclosed the secret feelings and desires of my nature. He could
reprove me without inflicting pain, and excite me to labor without
flattery. His heart was the chosen citadel of every virtue under
heaven, and he was wont to bear the whirlwind of my passions without a
murmur of resentment. On one occasion I had treated him with excessive
rudeness. He bore my pride with his accustomed fortitude; and that
night, after I had retired to bed, he entered my room, and thinking me
asleep, he bent over my face and wept like a child. Could I ask a
keener reproach? Could I demand a better proof of the purity and
delicacy of his affection?

In this school there was a student named Pilton, the only son of one
who had been many years before my birth, an overseer on the plantation
of my father, and who had amassed, by economy and industry, a large
fortune. He was a rude, vulgar, and unfeeling boy, with a harsh
countenance and coarsely built frame. His hair was a dingy red, and
his frame uncouth and repulsive; yet he possessed a genius which could
grasp every difficulty, and an intellect which could master the
asperities of every science. I hated him with a vindictive and
uncompromising energy. I did not envy him, for I could not so far
disgrace the dignity of that passion (the cousin-german of school-boy
emulation) as to extend its malevolence to such a being. My feelings
towards him, were disgust and unalterable contempt. He was frank
without liberality, and candid without honor. Deceit flung its patched
mantle over the chronic vice of his character, and duplicity ruled a
heart in which nature had thrown neither fire, delicacy, nor
elevation. From the influence of his mind he had attached to himself a
considerable party of the timid, irresolute, and indolent; yet he
shrunk from the merciless venom of my scorn. Though a coward he could
display the courage of necessity, and would sometimes retort my
sarcasms with severity and firmness. Shortly before our separation, we
had quarrelled with implacable fierceness. I called him a coward, and
an ill-bred vagrant. He replied to my attack in these words, which
ever in after-life, writhed around my memory in a cold and
scorpion-like embrace:

"Mr. Granby! I know the history of your proud family. You are
seventeen years of age. Do you not dread the mystery of that number,
which made your grandfather a premature dotard? Beware! I am revenged.
You will live a lunatic and die a driveller."

I was silent under this fearful curse. The narrative of my
grandfather's precocious youth and imbecile adolescence, his lofty
chivalry and stubborn pride, which I had often drank from the
garrulity of my nurse, was borne before me in a full and freshening
tide. I controlled my struggling passions, and quitted my adversary
humbled more by the agony of my own feelings, than excited by the
bitterness of his retort. This scene constituted an era in the history
of my hate. Revenge hourly lashed itself into frenzy; and amid the
bustle of the day and the solitude of the night, I never ceased from
the pursuit of an opportunity to gratify the deeply seated passion of
my heart. I never forgave him! I banqueted on that merciless revenge,
which dripping in a steady and uniform course through the recesses of
my heart, formed a cold and impenetrable stalactite of withering
malignity. It was a treasured, honored, and hoarded hate which planted
itself firmly in my bosom, and which eagerly longed for its time of
fruition. Even now, when time has worn down the fierceness of my life
and softened into resignation the frown of destiny, this passion
blooms on, with more freshness and constancy than the mistletoe which
scatters its wild luxuriance around the blasted and ruined oak.

The period now approached when I was to quit school. I had never
returned home, but the pains of absence had been alleviated by the
monthly visits of Scipio, always laden with letters of reproof from my
mother, love from Lucy, ambition from my brother, and scraps of Horace
and quaint gallantries from my uncle. I had learned rapidly and
accurately, mastering the spirit and elegance of the Latin language,
and acquiring that measure of Greek literature which enables the
Virginian scholar to play the pedant on it for one year, and
authorises him to forget it in two.

Arthur Ludwell had promised to accompany me home; and in a short time
the Chalgrave chariot, with its massy doors, conceited driver, tangled
harness and gazing postilion, brought the glad tidings of my return to
the home of my fathers. I quitted school without regret, for there I
had spent some of the most miserable hours of my existence. With how
much delusive philosophy do we dwell on the vapid pleasures of our
schoolboy days! and when tired of the poor farce of cheating ourselves
into a little happiness, we labor to coax ourselves into tenderness by
invoking the remembrance of some shadowy and negative dream. Our
cares, vexations and disappointments, as men, make us envy the
apparent tranquillity of the boy, while we forget that youth, though a
smaller circumference of mortality, has yet the same centre of
passion, hope and disappointment. In the spring-time of life we are
full of elastic anticipation; and over the brilliant horizon which it
creates, each cloud drifts rapidly by and none sojourns to darken the
brilliant outline. We fondly believe that all beyond is a candid and
generous world, eager to applaud our genius or reciprocate our
sympathies. How soon is this gossamer fabric crushed beneath the
rugged grasp of reality, and how truly do we find that anticipation is
folly, and retrospection an utter foolishness of heart.

On a laughing morning in spring I quitted school for home, with all my
buoyant feelings of filial and fraternal love chastised into
wretchedness by the curse of Pilton.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAP. III.

Even the pine forests in which he rambled in boyhood, are still
hallowed in his recollection.--_Farmer's Register_.


There is a bright and glowing loveliness in the climate of Virginia.
Its sudden vicissitudes, like the smiles of the coquette, bring with
them all the excitements of pleasing variety, and we half forget its
momentary frowns in the constancy of its brightness. Spring dallies
away all its freshness and gentleness among the hills, the flowers and
the forests of Virginia; at this season of the year the cloudless sky,
the exhilarating luxury of the noontide sun, the dark yet bright green
of her woods and meadows, and the busy hum of animated nature, steal
over the heart with a holy and impassioned sympathy. Habit, with all
its deadening attritions, cannot wear off that admiration and rapture
with which we revel in the softness of a Virginian day. Italy's
burning sky awakens into ecstacy the sluggish native of England, and
he breathes in polished verse the brilliancy of that clime which
stands in bold relief against the gloomy fogs of his own sea-girt
isle. We catch the delusive truth which poetry whispers, and forget
that the climate of Italy is saddened, even in its brightness, by a
tedious monotony which falls on the sated appetite. It is a spirit
without animation, and burns on with the steadiness and glare of a
sepulchral lamp. In Virginia it is diversified by endless and varied
blushes of gentleness and beauty. The laziest cloud seems to roll away
in voluptuous ether. The breeze murmurs through the forest, and
lingers there to gather all its swelling fragrance. Every thing is
redolent of that freshness of nature which fancy would invoke for the
bridal of the earth and sky.

      "And all the scene in short, sky, earth and sea
  Breathes like a bright-eyed face--that laughs out openly."

It was in this beautiful season of the year that, on turning an angle
of the forest, the Chalgrave plantation with its stately mansion,
extensive champaign and numerous cottages, broke upon our anxious
view. The last rays of the setting sun poured their struggling light
over the broad bosom of the Chesapeake, which reflected in trembling
obscurity the shadowy outline of the forest, hill and plain. One bound
from the chariot, placed me in my mother's arms. She was dignified
even in her tenderness; and disengaging herself from me with a kiss,
she left me to the affectionate salutation of Lucy, the warm greeting
of Frederick, and the smiles of my uncle. A scuffle now ensued among
the negroes who should be the first to grasp my extended hand; for in
the fulness of my joy, I had offered this simple politeness with more
of feeling than generally characterizes this striking indication of
the well-bred Virginian. My old nurse sobbed, and laughed aloud in the
rapture of her pleasure; the ostler commenced a tedious history of the
pedigree, form, and swiftness of every colt on the estate; while the
dining room servant told me that he was (Je-oh) delighted I had not
learned to chew tobacco or wear striped pantaloons. For every
salutation I gave, I received a compliment remarkable for its wildness
of metaphor and for the affection which accompanied it. "Mass Lionel
(said one) is a true Diomed, every inch of him." "He is born like the
eagle, (cried another) a gentleman, and a man of spirit." "He is
prettier (exclaimed a third) than all Miss Lucy's flowers!" I laughed
outright at their odd and curious courtesy, and dismissing them with a
promise that I would visit the aged and infirm in the morning, I
lingered at the door, listening to their light and frolic laugh, which
mingled and lost itself in the murmuring breeze which was now dancing
over the Chesapeake.

And this was slavery! That heart must be torpid--that sensibility
obtuse, which could experience such a display of unbought affection,
without emotion. This devotion disarms slavery of half its gorgons
dire, and leaves us the gratifying consolation, that its abstract vice
is softened into gentleness by the humanity of its practice. Laws are
not always the truest indications of the moral tone of society. They
are the heartless creations of policy, necessity and faction, and take
their pride of place from the darkest passions of human nature. Power
and obedience are the necessary components of their being; penalty and
punishment the active spirit of their existence. Fully armed, they
spring into the conflict of virtue and depravity, and bear an iron
front, independent of season, time and circumstance. Policy may rivet
their fetters, yet they fall inoperative and harmless beneath the
silent force of that gigantic lever of society--public opinion.
Slavery, considered with reference to the laws of Virginia, is a state
of penalty, degradation and suffering. Viewed in relation to its
practical existence, it is a condition of ease, tranquillity and
protection. There is no misery where there is no complaint; no
wretchedness where all is peace; and if happiness arise from
comparative situation, the Virginian slave eminently enjoys it. He is
far removed from the starvation and nakedness of European pauperism.
He is a being who invites kindness by acknowledging gratitude; who
excites humanity by the noiseless virtue of his life; and who awakens
protection by the constancy of his fidelity. The master feels the
pride of protection expanding into a chivalry of defence; the slave,
in confiding in it, makes no other offering than that of fidelity.
These blended feelings invigorate and form the strength and harmony of
social life, and eloquently argue to us the truth of that simple
maxim, that there can be no fear where all is confidence--no treachery
where there is no oppression. The Virginian slave becomes a member of
the family in which he was born, and what mutation soever of fortune
attend him, his heart is never recreant to the scenes of his
childhood. Proud in the prosperity of his "_family_," yet never
faithless in its adversity, he is the living chronicler of its rise
and elevation, and cannot--will not, believe that it can fall. He is
the greatest aristocrat on earth; and the surest avenue to his
friendship, is made by that vanity which induces him to believe that
the family in which he was _raised_, is noble, prosperous and proud.
Quick to perceive vulgarity, and constant in his hatred of it, he
wears his pride gracefully, and his dignity with calm tranquillity.
Public opinion will suffer no master to use him inhumanly. Undisturbed
by the cares and vexations attendant on the support of a family, he is
clothed with comfort, and has enough of finery to be a Sunday
exquisite; and though he be degraded in the order of society, he feels
and believes himself to be an important link in the chain of life.
Claudian's beautiful lines convey no paradox when applied to the
slavery of Virginia:

  "Nunquam gratior, extat libertas
   Quam sub pio rege."

Home, with all its endearments of early association and present
enjoyment, was now within my eager embrace, and my affections poured
out their suppressed enthusiasm, in the expanded circle of tranquil
rapture, even as a bold stream which gushes up to the full fountain
which gave it life. This was _home!_--that ideal abstraction which
takes the deepened hue of reality, and which leaps into existence,
independent of all control. Strange, powerful, unconquerable passion!
It asks no aid from the sternness of reason; it demands no support
from the habits or pursuits of life. The heart is its chosen dwelling
place; and around this hallowed altar, memory invokes her active
drama, and fancy scatters its opiate dreams. It burns on amid the
eternal snows of the poles, and glows with unextinguishable ardor
under the sunny skies of the equator. It breathes its soft melody to
the slumbers of the child--stimulates the energy of virtue--nerves the
arm of courage--chequers with light the gloom of despair--invigorates
the hope of the exile--chastens into patriotism the wild riot of
ambition--and while it is the first passion of our nature, it is the
last vital fragment in the wreck of mortality.

The history of one day at Chalgrave, was the history of the year. Its
portals were ever open to the neighbor and stranger, and a constant
throng of company, attracted by its easy hospitality, rendered it gay,
social and animated. Each morning the old bell summoned the household
to prayers, which by their simplicity, awakened religious awe, without
melancholy, and excited humble piety, without fanaticism. Breakfast
was a feast, where the mongrel compound of dinner and supper appeared
like the relics of a banquet for giants. Earth, sky and sea produced
their tributary luxuries; and we were left not to wonder at its
extravagance, but at that generous hospitality which found its honor
in profusion. This important hour, so useful in dividing the day,
having passed, the old chariot was regularly wheeled to the door;
ponies for the ladies, blooded horses for the gentlemen, and colts for
the boys, were brought out, and the whole household prepared for a
ride. Any route would suffice--any highway would be agreeable; but the
ride was as necessary to a Virginian's existence, as sedentary
grumbling is to an Englishman's. He is then happy--for early and
unbroken habit has made him for one half of his life a perfect
centaur. On horseback he experiences no solitude, and in its
exhilarating exercise, he can forget his much loved politics. The
excursion being finished, the company to please their own feelings as
much as the pride of their host, would gather around the stables, and
for hours critically examine, and earnestly dispute the merits and
points of every blooded colt. Dinner was the feast of a caravan. At
its close, my mother would retire, followed by the ladies--and at the
door she would make a curious old fashioned court'sy, which my uncle,
graceful as he was, uniformly returned by a bow, equally aboriginal
and grotesque. The pure wine of Madeira now sparkled on the board, and
awoke flashes of wit from the indolent, and started from its dream of
torpor that spirit-stirring eloquence which sleeps in the intellectual
quiescence of the Virginian character. Festivity was never prolonged
to debauch, and a firm step carried the gentlemen into the parlor,
where the ladies, chess and newspapers, beguiled the lethargy of time.

Arthur Ludwell had resolved to pursue his studies at the College of
William and Mary, and his determinations had influenced my mother to
send me to the same institution. In a few days I was summoned into the
library, where my mother and Frederick were prepared to persuade me
into the scheme,--she by the resistless weapon of maternal tenderness,
and he by the deceitful logic of ambition. I heard with patience their
advice and flattery; and first learned to dread, from an intimation of
my brother, that fiend-like spectre, which in the guise of a chancery
suit, greets the rising opulence of every family in Virginia--lends a
hue of melancholy to its prosperity, and never quits its iron grasp,
until it shriek a requiem over the utter ruin and despair of its
victim.

"You are affluent," said Frederick, "but whether we gain or lose one
chancery suit, it is highly probable that you may yet be forced to
engage in some profession which can ensure an honorable support. Can
you object to the practice of law? It is a profession full of profit
and honor--the highway to intellectual distinction and political
advancement. Enter then diligently on its study, and how rude soever
may be its details, you will quickly find that its pursuit will
imperceptibly fashion your mind into a passionate love for its wisdom
and philosophy. Look on it as a jealous coquette; give it all your
attention or none; and success will be as honorable to your genius as
it is gratifying to your pride."

"Go! my dear boy," said my uncle, who now entered the room, "for we
all belong to William and Mary--it is the cradle of our genius, and
the nurse of our chivalry. I care naught about your profession, but
for God's sake, learn something about the mystery of this fatal
chancery."

I might have been stubborn! My indolence reeled under the fear of this
dark suit, and I instantly resolved to propitiate the demon by
becoming a priest in his temple.

THETA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS,

_During the Summer of 1834_.

NO. II.

SALT AND RED SULPHUR.


Having engaged a seat in the best line, I took a last look at the
beauties of the White Sulphur, and soon found myself rolling away for
the Salt. The morning was dark and cloudy, with occasional showers,
and having shut up our splendid coach, we were left to our own
reveries except when disturbed by an occasional "long yarn" from an
ex-gentleman of the box, narrating his adventures among the mountains
of North Carolina, or ever and anon by the nasal melody from the
olfactory organs of some fellow traveller, who had resigned himself
into the arms of Morpheus. Our whole company, however, seemed to
partake somewhat of the gloom which the aspect of the day was
calculated to inspire, whilst our driver, on the contrary, with all
imaginable glee, took advantage of the smooth turnpike and a noble
team, to whirl us at a jehu rate over the first part of our journey.
The joys of a good road and rapid travelling, were, however, very soon
terminated, for our way left the turnpike and led us for several miles
up the rough, stony bed of a creek, and over long and rugged hills,
much to the annoyance of one or more fair fellow passengers. The day
began to brighten as we approached Union, the seat of justice of
Monroe county, and a neat village, containing a wealthy and
intelligent population. Most of the country, after leaving the White
Sulphur, had been wild and uncultivated, although it had the
appearance of natural fertility; but now some of the large grazing
farms, for which this section of Virginia is so celebrated, spread out
their clovered fields in rich luxuriance before us. The general aspect
of this region is that of a newly settled country; most of the farm
houses, even of men of wealth, being the log tenements erected in the
rude style of the frontier settlements. Occasionally, however, there
are handsome edifices, built in accordance with a more modern and
refined taste. Large numbers of cattle are annually taken from this
and the adjoining counties, to the northern markets. The natural
growth of grass, found even in the forests, offers great facilities
for amassing fortunes by speculations of this description.--After
arriving at Union, there remained but three miles of our journey
before us; and having taken leave of the worst of the rocks and hills,
we forgot the unpleasantness of the morning, in the enjoyment of the
beautiful scenery, and the fine, clear day, with which we were
blessed, as we drew near the Salt Sulphur. On our right lay a
continued range of mountains, upon one of the spurs of which could be
seen the residence of a gentleman of South Carolina, who has erected a
showy summer retreat upon this airy peak, which commands a view of the
springs, the village of Union, and the adjoining country. On our left,
was pointed out as we passed, amongst other attractions, the "royal
oak," an immense and most noble tree, to which Mr. Jefferson has given
this title in his "Notes on Virginia." The valley of the Sweet Sulphur
opened to our view as we approached, but its beauties were forgotten,
as through its further extremity we caught a glimpse of our place of
destination, and especially as we soon plunged through the "creek,"
and into the gate at the Salt Sulphur.

A stranger who takes the White Sulphur, as a specimen, as to external
appearance, of the other springs, would be disappointed, when, after
the first glance, he gets a full view of the Salt Sulphur. Nature has
not been so lavish of her gifts as at the White Sulphur, and art has
as yet added but little to its outward charms. The Salt Sulphur is
situated in a ravine, between two small mountains. One of these,
slopes very gradually, and upon its side at the distance of some two
hundred paces from the base, a row of cottages has been erected.
Parallel with these, at the base of the hill, is a similar range, both
fronting the level in the valley. Then on the same ascent, and in the
direction of the gate, through which you enter upon the spring's
premises, is a small hollow square, the farther side of which is
connected with the range at the base of the hill, and runs up the
acclivity at right angles to that range. Most of these buildings are
constructed, according to the early fashion of the country, of hewn
logs: many of them have piazza's, and all are close and comfortable.
We understand that the proprietors will soon erect ranges of two-story
stone buildings in their stead. The hotel is a noble building; the
main body of the edifice is near two hundred feet in length, the
entire lower floor of which is used as a dining room. A double piazza
extends along the whole front, and the upper story is occupied as a
dancing saloon, lodging rooms, &c. At right angles to this building,
at the western extremity, and facing the long ranges on the opposite
side of the level, are a few framed cottages, and a two-story stone
building, affording very comfortable and pleasant accommodations. The
spring, which is some hundred paces higher up the ravine, is protected
by a temple somewhat similar to that at the White Sulphur, from the
floor of which flights of cut stone steps lead down to the reservoir.
The reservoir is a square of about two feet, and is also constructed
of hewn sand-stone.

At the White Sulphur, the fairest prospects greet the visiter at his
arrival, and every succeeding day of his sojourn only serves to make
disclosures, such as mar the first impressions. At the Salt Sulphur,
on the contrary, first appearances are rather unpropitious, but there
is every thing to gain; we know of no more delightful place in the
southern country for spending the sultry months of summer. Indeed we
believe, that several families from the Carolinas, and one or more
from the north, are accustomed to establish themselves here for the
whole season. The proprietors are intelligent gentlemen, and more
thoroughly skilled in the art of accommodating, than any men I have
ever seen. Their table, which is so justly celebrated, is perhaps the
finest in this country. The great danger, however, from this source,
is, lest the refined luxuries of the culinary department, should
destroy the medicinal effects of the waters. Every attention which
could reasonably be required at such an establishment, is here
received. All the arrangements are made with the most perfect system.
During the last season, the visiters, generally, were of the very
first order, and there was a smaller proportion of low characters than
was to be found at perhaps any of the other springs. There was also
much sociability and true Virginia feeling.

In the evenings, a fine band sent its notes over the still valley, and
the more gay portion of the company passed the hours in the ball room.
Among the visiters at this place also, was the Rev. Dr. Johns, of
Baltimore, and other eminent ministers, and those disposed to enjoy
the more abiding pleasures of religion, met, with the close of every
day, and were led in their devotions by these men of God. On the
Sabbath, too, there were always interesting and appropriate services.

The proprietors have provided for the visiters means of amusement and
recreation, which serve to give a zest to the hours which sometimes
hang heavily at these watering places, at the same time that they
afford a substitute for those pernicious games which are so frequently
resorted to in weary moments. Many of the younger visiters gratify
their taste for horsemanship, by taking excursions along the wild and
romantic roads, which wind through the country, on the fine Virginia
steeds, which are found in this region.

The Salt Sulphur water has been particularly efficacious in affections
of the stomach. It possesses most of the active, without the
stimulating properties of the White Sulphur. On this account the Salt
Sulphur water would probably be a more suitable preparative, in
pulmonary cases, for those waters which act more directly upon the
respiratory system. Indeed, some instances are mentioned where the use
of this water alone has effected the cure of individuals subject to
hemorrhage from the lungs. With an occasional use of the blue pill,
its effect upon the liver is also very pleasant, although not so
beneficial as the White Sulphur water. With dyspeptics, in addition to
its other action, it has the peculiar property of neutralizing by its
alkaline matter, the distressing acidity, to which they are subject.
Cold and tepid sulphuretted baths, can be obtained at any time, so
that the patient can have the combined effects of the external and
internal action of the water upon his system at the same time.

At the distance of less than a mile, in the direction of Union, there
is another spring called the Sweet Sulphur, which is also the property
of the proprietors of the Salt Sulphur. This spring was a place of
considerable resort, until the Salt Sulphur was discovered and
improved: no separate accommodations are now provided, but it can be
conveniently used by visiters at the Salt Sulphur. It is said to
possess less sulphuretted hydrogen, and greater tonic properties than
the latter spring.

We must now bid adieu to the Salt Sulphur, leaving with it our best
wishes. The enterprising proprietors are continuing their
improvements, so that this spring will, in every point of view, soon
merit the praise of being the most inviting resort among the
mountains.


RED SULPHUR.

After taking a lunch, we sat off early in the afternoon, with a
crowded stage, for the Red Sulphur, seventeen miles west of the Salt.
Our road wound by a very circuitous route, to the summit of the small
mountain, in the rear of the Salt Sulphur. On our left, as we
ascended, the mountain's side became quite precipitous, and at the
base and immediately beneath us, lay the valley of the springs--its
green lawn and white cottages presenting a most interesting and
beautiful scene. This is one of the favorite strolling spots of
visiters, since the view which it affords of the springs and the
adjoining country, fully compensates for the labor of climbing the
mountain. We believe, however, that most of our company would have
preferred a situation on _terra firma_, to that which they occupied in
the stage coach, which ever and anon, as it slowly grated over the
rough and rocky way, gave fearful symptoms of carrying us down the
dizzy steep which we had gained.

A great part of the road between the Salt and Red Sulphur, leads over
long hills and continuous ridges, out of the sides of which it has
been in many places cut, in order to obtain the proper inclination.
From some reason, most probably a scarcity of funds, the road is so
narrow as to render it often dangerous, and entirely unsuitable for so
public a thoroughfare. The reflections of the traveller, as he dashes
down these narrow descents, are by no means pleasant. He involuntarily
transfers himself to the upper side of the stage, as he gets a glimpse
from the window, of the deep ravine, along the verge of which he is
rolling at so furious a rate. The anticipation too, as well as the
actual fact, of meeting other vehicles in these passes, is not at all
agreeable. The driver of the coach, however, obviates, as far as
possible, the difficulty from this source, by sounding his horn as he
approaches and travels through these narrow parts of the road.
Perhaps, however, we are conveying rather too unfavorable an
impression of the way between the Salt and Red Sulphur. If, however,
the traveller wishes to avoid all unpleasant reflections on account of
his personal safety, it may be as well for him to adopt one of the
expedients of the hero of "Sleepy Hollow," as he trod its gloomy
paths, amidst the tortures of a fertile imagination, and shut his
eyes, at least, if the presence of fellow passengers will not admit of
one's raising his voice in a consolitary _solo_. We can, however,
present to our readers, the prospect of a resource, which will be a
more satisfactory expedient than this. Arrangements were making during
the last summer, for the immediate construction of a turnpike over
this ground; then the trip would present many attractions. The country
is wild and generally uncultivated, and often delightfully romantic.
About half way between the two springs, we saw the wreck of the family
carriage of a gentleman from South Carolina. This accident, however,
was not, at least, the _immediate_ consequence of the roughness of the
road; for it occurred on a perfect level, and on, perhaps, the
smoothest part of the whole way. Carriages constructed for the
Carolina sands, are badly adapted to the mountains of Virginia.

Our driver quickened his speed as the distance before us diminished,
and we reached the Red Sulphur just after night had drawn his sombre
curtains around the silent hills. Our first impressions of this
spring, were very favorable: the effect was exceedingly imposing. On
our arrival the whole establishment had been lighted up, and from
every range of buildings, streams of light were pouring across the
area. The large hotel presents at any time a beautiful appearance. The
whole building has a light and airy piazza connected with each story,
and on the flank of the edifice most conspicuous on approaching the
spring, the upper floor is open and surrounded by a balustrade. The
first story of this building contains a large dining room, connected
with which is a drawing and reading room. When we approached, these
piazzas were all lighted up, and from the doors and windows of the
halls and apartments of the hotel, the chandeliers were pouring forth
their brilliant streams. Two long and handsomely set tables, were
visible through the doors of the dining room, and every thing had the
aspect of comfort and even of luxury. The lower piazza was thronged
with cheerful groups of visiters, eagerly awaiting the arrival of our
coach, which on that evening was rather behind its usual time.

For the last hour our meditations had been excited only by the gloom
and wildness of the dark mountain hollows, and the song of the frogs
from the neighboring creeks, or the cry of the screech owl as the
rattling of our coach echoed through his dark domains. In the midst of
the pensive reveries incident upon such circumstances, the buildings
of the Red Sulphur burst upon us in all their brilliancy. The scene of
light, and life, and bustle, came over us like enchantment. The valley
before us presented a picture of brightness and refinement, whilst on
each side the venerable peaks of the Alleghany rose in all their
wildness, and spoke to our hearts in silent sublimity, as we discerned
their rugged outline against the evening sky. One might have found it
almost difficult to convince himself, that he was not taking for
reality the romantic visions of his sleeping hours. This impression is
not diminished by the winding of the post horn from the "western
stage," as it rattles over the crags of the mountain above, or by the
plaintive notes of "Home, sweet home," wafted from the band stationed
in the drawing room.

The Red Sulphur has recently been purchased by Mr. Burke, an
intelligent and enterprising gentleman, who has already given to the
place an almost entirely new aspect. Many of the old houses have been
removed--a large and beautiful building, in addition to the hotel, has
been constructed, and most of the log cabins have been exchanged for
neat white cottages. The irregularity occasioned by the projection of
the mountain spurs, has prevented the arrangement of the buildings in
the order calculated to produce the most pleasant effect. The Red
Sulphur is completely enclosed by mountains, except a narrow space by
which you enter the circumscribed valley. On each side they rise
almost perpendicularly to a considerable height. One of these, we
understand, the proprietor intends laying out with terraced walks, so
that you can with ease ascend to the summit, and enjoy the extensive
prospect. The buildings are erected close under the base of the
mountains. The intermediate area will be set in green sward, with
gravelled walks and shrubbery. The temple at the spring is very
similar to those at the White and Salt Sulphur. There are, however,
two springs, and two separate and beautiful reservoirs. One of these
is about four, and the other about two feet square. They are
constructed of white marble, which agrees beautifully with the lilac
and peach blossom sediment, and the clear limpid water of the springs.

The Red Sulphur, though but lately improved for the comfortable
accommodation of visiters, has been for some years known as a place of
considerable resort by pulmonary patients. The company bears much more
the aspect of sickness, than that at the other springs. Their
death-like countenances can be seen on every hand; and the deep hollow
cough, which is heard almost incessantly, has at first a tendency to
affect the sympathies and to throw an air of melancholy over the
feelings. Many in the last stages of consumption, are taken to the Red
Sulphur as the final resort, and many, during almost every season,
find their long, last home, among the hills near the Red Sulphur. The
funeral of Gen. Alston, of South Carolina, was attended on the day of
our arrival, and another individual soon followed him to the tomb. The
Red Sulphur is well calculated to remind a reflecting man of his
mortality.

Many cases are also mentioned of astonishing cures, which have been
effected by the use of these waters. Their properties are singular,
and apparently contradictory. They deplete and strengthen the system
at the same time: they reduce the quantity of blood, and still act
with all the power of a tonic. The most peculiar property, however, is
that which effects an almost immediate reduction of the pulse.
Instances are known where the pulsations have been reduced from one
hundred and twenty to eighty in the space of twenty-four hours. The
effect of these waters, is at first apparently unfavorable. They
frequently, and perhaps generally occasion a feverish excitement, and
an unpleasant sensation of fulness throughout the whole system. I have
been informed, however, by those who attribute the renovation of their
constitutions to the Red Sulphur, that this excitement ceases after
perhaps ten days or two weeks, and often much earlier, and then, if at
all, unless the ravages of disease have been excessive, they begin to
produce the desired effect. I met with a gentleman, in returning from
the Red Sulphur, who had been pronounced past recovery by the most
eminent physicians in this country, from a chronic affection of the
lungs, but who, at the time I saw him, was enjoying excellent health,
and as he believed, was entirely free from any pulmonary symptoms. He
attributed his restoration solely to a residence during several
seasons at the Red Sulphur.

We must, however, in closing this brief notice of the Red Sulphur,
record some complaints against that establishment. We do it, however,
with a spirit very far from that of reproach. Our object is rather the
comfort of the public, and the more extensive encouragement of the
gentlemanly proprietor. The great defect at the Red Sulphur arises
principally from the want of system. The irregularity in the
arrangements is exceedingly unpleasant to the visiters, and especially
to those who are invalids. There is also a great want of proper
attention, on the part of those who have charge of the establishment,
and particularly from the servants. We must also express the same
opinion of the manager of the Red Sulphur, which we have advanced in
relation to the person who holds the same office at the White Sulphur.
He may be admirably adapted for some other situation, but, in our
opinion, he is not suited for that which he now occupies. Both of
these gentlemen have certainly seen enough of the world to know, that
something more substantial than promises, is necessary to satisfy the
wants of men. We again affirm, that we have spoken nothing in ill
will, either toward the White or Red Sulphur, nor to the gentlemen to
whom we have alluded. Our remarks have reference to them only as
_managers_ of extensive public establishments, and not as private men.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CONVERSATION PARTIES, SOIREES AND SQUEEZES.


MR. WHITE,--If I may be permitted to imitate in _my_ exordium, the
happy brevity of the time-saving merchant in auditing _his_ letters, I
will begin by expressing the hope, that "my last of ---- date has been
received and contents duly noted." The excuse for following it up so
speedily with another, is not so easily found. Indeed I know of none,
unless you will accept as such the old plea--"in for a penny, in for a
pound." Even this implies a less risk of censure than I fear my
rashness may very possibly bring upon me. Methinks I already hear some
of your younger readers demand--"what the deuce has such an old
croaker as this impertinent Oliver Oldschool to do with the inroads
that _we_, his juniors and therefore his betters, may choose to make
on any or all of those antiquated manners, customs and fashions which
seem to be the gods of his idolatry? Age, which stamps their value
upon wine and ardent spirits, is precisely _that very thing_ which
renders fashion of no value at all. In _this_, novelty and
unexpectedness are our _grand_, and often our sole desiderata; and for
_their_ attainment, we want neither grey headed matrons, nor grey
bearded old men to advise _us_. What they call _their experience_! (of
which they are so fond of boasting,) if listened to at all, serves
only to cramp and to trammel _our youthful inventions_. Therefore, to
all such we say:--Ladies and Gentlemen, both hands and tongues off, if
you please; _laissez nous faire_--let us alone."

The bare expectation of any such flouting, you will probably say,
should keep me silent, if I was a man of only a moderate degree of
prudence. But like many other obstinate people, my inclination to
persist seems to augment inversely to my chances of success. Maugre
then the danger and forlornness of my undertaking, I must go on. But
before I come to the main purpose of the present letter, pray have
patience with me, while I offer a few more remarks in anticipation of
another still more serious charge, which I expect will be made against
me. I must make them too, with the perfect recollection of the maxim,
that "he who begins to plead before he is accused, knows himself to be
guilty."--True, however, as this may be in general, _my case_, I hope,
will be excepted, after you hear me. The charge to which I allude
is,--the odious one of being _a Cynic_. With _you_, sir, I am very
sure my bare denial would suffice; but you have many readers who know
nothing of me. In deference to _them_ therefore, I feel bound to offer
some stronger proof of my innocence; if that which is of a negative
character (and it is all I can adduce,) will be accepted. Be it known
then, to all whom it may concern, that I, Oliver Oldschool, have
always denied, and do hereby deny, the truth of the most important,
prominent and offensive of all the cynical dogmas, which is,--that
"_men are nothing but monkeys without tails!_" and furthermore, that I
hold myself bound and always ready to make battle in this behalf,
"_pugnis et calcibus, unguibus et rostro_:" and all this too,
notwithstanding the following most startling and humiliating
resemblances which have been traced by the true Cynics between the two
species. For instance--"Man" (say they) "is a biped"--so is a monkey;
at least so nearly one, that his anterior legs serve him admirably
well for arms, and accordingly it is still a mooted point, a much
vexed question among naturalists which to call them, _arms_ or _legs_.
Man generally walks erect, although sometimes, when _top-heavy_, he
moves quadruped fashion. The monkey, at least the kind called the
ourang outang only reverses the practice, by going more frequently on
his two certain and his two quasi legs, than on the two first alone.
Man has a facial angle by which those curious, prying fellows, called
craniologists, measure the degree of his intelligence and infer the
nature of his dispositions. Monkeys also have this angle, often so
nearly the same, (mathematically speaking,) with that which we discern
in many of our race, that few things are more common than to hear the
exclamation "such a one has a monkey face." Lastly, man is most
decidedly and conspicuously _an imitative animal_, so is a monkey, and
in a degree so very striking, that there is scarcely an outward
movement, action, or gesture of ours which his mimetic talents do not
enable him to take off to the life. This is especially true of all
those peculiar airs indicative of self-complacency and vanity which
mark these two races of animals in contradistinction to all others,[1]
and may be termed an idiosyncracy of intellect. The coxcomb's
ineffable smile of fascination; the witling's pert and sudden smirk of
self-conceit; the vain pedant's awkward cachination at his own
ill-timed, out-of-place strokes of classic humor; the despicable
miser's self-gratulating chuckle at inordinate gain; the _great man's_
gracious grin to his supposed inferiors, and the _little man's_
side-shaking, obstreperous laugh at the abortive joke of some superior
from whom he is courting favors; all these and more, your true monkey
can enact with such perfect verisimilitude, that if properly dressed
for the occasion, he might pass off for the real man in each case,
instead of his counterfeit, without the least danger of detection.
_His mimickry_, in addition to its fidelity, has this other remarkable
circumstance about it, that in applying it, he seems to have no
particular choice of objects, but imitates all external actions alike,
whether they be praiseworthy or the reverse. Man, on the contrary, in
the exercise of _his_ imitative propensities, shows too often a
stronger inclination for the bad than the good--for the faulty than
the commendable--for the fantastical and the ridiculous rather than
the becoming. In nothing is this more remarkable, than in the greedy,
ever restless perseverance with which he seeks foreign fashions and
customs, and the reckless pertinacity, under all possible
discouragements, with which he strives to imitate and adopt them. Of
this assertion I have already endeavored to furnish you with some
proofs, which to _me at least_ appeared irrefutable. But I will now
attempt to supply a few more. These also shall consist of remarks on
certain foreign fashions, which may be said to be still under the
process of naturalization, having proved so entirely uncongenial to
our principles, habits and opinions, as not yet to be firmly
established. They may, therefore, be considered as still within the
reach of that exterminating power--public opinion.

[Footnote 1: Goldsmith is the only natural historian, I believe, who
has urged the claim of the goose to a participation in this enviable
human quality, vanity. In his "Animated Nature" he has the following
remark in his natural history of the goose, of which I can give only
the substance, not having the volume before me. Speaking of the action
commonly called "the strutting of the gander," he says: that in _this
situation_, there is probably no animal on the face of the earth more
important in the eyes of another, than a gander in the eyes of a
goose!! Verily, I think, (with due submission) he is mistaken; for a
fully whiskered, well mustached beau, with all his bristly honors
thick upon him, is to a belle, as far above the gander in the
estimation of a goose, as imagination can possibly conceive.]

At the head of these fashions or customs, pre-eminent above the rest,
we find the Conversation Party, the _Soiree_, and the Squeeze. The
first is admitted to be an emigrè from Italy, although the term is
here anglicised; the second is from France, and the third from ----
nobody knows where, unless from our mother country Great Britain; for
Johnson gives both a Saxon and a Welsh etymology to it, both meaning
_to press or crush between two bodies_; which meaning their American
derivative (much to its honor,) has most faithfully preserved.

The conversation party would naturally be deemed by one not in the
secret, a party particularly formed for the pleasures of conversation;
for imparting and receiving agreeable thoughts; for blending amusement
with oral instruction; in a word, for such a voluntary and talented
reciprocation of ideas as would improve the taste, gratify the
feelings, and heighten the mental enjoyment of all the parties
concerned. _Is it this or any thing that bears the slightest
resemblance to it?_ I ask an answer from any individual who has ever
been to one of them, no matter with how much care it might have been
selected. To these parties, such as they really are, I have no
intention here to object. All I wish or aim at now, is, to have them
called by their right names, as every thing ought to be, if we really
desire to confine language to its proper use, which is, to make
ourselves, at all times, clearly understood. But in styling these
things _Conversation Parties_, before persons who had never been at
them, we should practice the grossest deception. For instead of such
an assemblage as the current meaning of the term would lead them to
expect, and might induce them to seek, they would soon find themselves
surrounded by a Babel-like confusion of tongues, where all sorts of
odds and ends of unconnected exclamations and eliptical sentences are
uttered simultaneously, and in the highest vocal key, by every member
of the company--_the mules only_ excepted. Why _they_ should ever
frequent such uncongenial spots, is more, I believe, than any one can
tell. But certain it is that some of them will always be found there,
although as much out of place as the Alumni of the Deaf and Dumb
Asylums would be in Congress Hall, attempting to take a debating part
in that _other_ Tower of Babel, as John Randolph, with his customary
felicity of conception, used to call it.

Of the _Soirée_, I may truly assert that it is an exotic, still so
uncongenial, so illy suited to our people, and even to their organs of
speech, that not one in a thousand has learned so much as to pronounce
its name correctly. Some, even of those who are so far Frenchified as
to have been to France, and consequently to interlard their mother
tongue with unintelligible French phrases, by way of authenticating
the extent of their travels, call it "_Swar-ree_;" as if it were a
place where all the attendants were to have oaths of some sort or
other administered to them, so as to entitle them to be designated
_Sware-rees_. Others again, in a more sportsmanlike manner, pronounce
it _So-ree_, which (as Mr. Jefferson has told us,) is the true Indian
appellative for the Rallus, or water-rail. Such orthoepists, we may
suppose, if asked where they had been, on returning from a party of
the kind, might well answer, in the Virginia sportsman's dialect, "we
have been _so-russ-in_;" for this twistification of the term from its
original meaning would be nothing comparable to many that have been
made by etymologists of the highest reputation. For instance, all
Virginia sportsmen, living near fresh water marshes, know well, that
at _so-russ-in parties_, (as they universally call them,) the great
object is _to kill and eat fat birds_. But a principal object of a
_soirée_ party being _to catch and use_ what may well be figuratively
called _fat birds_, the substitution of the term "_so-russ-in party_"
for a "_soirée party_" is amply justified upon all etymological
principles. I therefore take the liberty of strongly recommending it,
unless our _soirée_-giving gentry would suspend their operations long
enough, at least to learn from some native French teacher how to
invite a French gentleman to their parties, in language that he
himself would understand; since to ask him to a swàr-ree or sò-rée
would be quite unintelligible.

To gratify the curious I have consulted a friend as to the literal
meaning of the French word "_soirée_," (being no French scholar
myself) and find that the term, like thousands of others in all
languages, has been pressed from its original signification into its
present service, by a sort of metonymy, as the rhetoricians call it;
and instead of being applied to designate that portion of the
twenty-four hours which we call _evening_, is now used to express the
receiving of short evening visits on any named day, by one's friends
and acquaintance. This, according to one of Leontine's letters,
published in your February number, seems to be the French fashion. But
we Southerners of these United States, either from ignorance or
design, have so innovated upon the foreign practice, that it would
puzzle a much more experienced man than myself in such matters, to
explain what is to be understood, in Virginia parlance, by _swar-ree_
or _so-ree_, or whatever other barbarous pronunciation they choose to
give the French word. I can only say, that I myself have seen a few
thus variously called, each of which proved a kind of olla podrida or
dish of all sorts; fish, flesh and fowl in _one_ place; a
non-descript, desultory kind of dancing in _another_; all
talking-and-no-listening politicians battling in a _third_; and card
playing, drinking and uproarious mirth in a _fourth part_ of the
general assemblage, wherein were gathered together, as many as could
be, of all sizes and sorts of persons, "ring-streaked, speckled and
spotted" to the full, as much as Laban's flocks themselves. Take
notice, good Mr. Editor, that I am not now daring to _censure_, but
only to _describe_, as well as I can, what my own eyes have beheld. I
am not now "telling tales out of school;" for my school going days
furnished me with no such secrets, however "the march of mind" may
have since disclosed them to other tyroes in the pursuit of education.

The _Squeeze_ I shall endeavor more particularly to describe; since my
reminiscences, although "few and far between," are still so vivid,
that I can venture to delineate them without fear of their suffering,
at least from forgetfulness. It is true that I cannot say, as Æneas
did to queen Dido, of _his_ sufferings at and after the siege of
Troy--"quorum pars _magna_ fui;" as one or two experiments quite
sufficed for me; but I can truly apply the same line to myself, could
I only substitute the word _patiens_ for "_magna_," without too much
offence against the measure of the poetry, and I could then give in my
experience, as the Trojan hero did, in perfect sincerity and good
faith.

Know then, sir, that in the year and month ----, and on a certain
night, I was seduced by curiosity--that fell destroyer of our race--to
go, for the first time, to a party called a Squeeze, in the city of
Washington, denominated by some "the Grand City of O," after the
capital in Cunningham's amusing fiction of "_The World without
Souls_." Being accompanied by one of the initiated, my debut was
readily made as others made theirs. Without material obstruction we
were ushered through the passage by the escorting valet; but when we
reached the door of the principal pressing and crushing room, _hic
labor, hoc opus est!_ here commenced that series of efforts and
struggles which was not soon to end, as I afterwards found, to the no
small detriment of various parts of my body and limbs. Through this
door also, my entrance was at last effected; for what obstacle may not
perseverance overcome? A strong effort of my own in the van, and the
unsolicited aid in the rear of those who, like myself, wished to see
all that was to be seen, very soon protruded me "_in medias res_,"
which I beg leave to render in idiomatic English--"up to the hub" in
the business. Not many minutes however elapsed, before the pressing
and crushing became so intense as to excite an earnest desire for a
change both of place and posture. Accordingly I bent my course towards
another room, having understood there were several prepared for _the
accommodation!_ (strange misnomer, thought I,) of the company. This
joint removal of body and limbs, which I had a particular fancy should
not be disunited, having kept company with each other from my birth, I
found toilsome and oppressive in no ordinary degree. For the instant I
began to move I was met by a strong counter-current composed of a
compact mass of my co-squeezers and squeezees--many of whom were of
such "breadth and heft" as would verily have done great honor to a
Massachusett's cattle show of the highest grade, had the subjects only
been quadrupeds instead of bipeds, and in equal condition for market.

A forcible entry having been made into another room, I found myself
standing within a few inches of a strange but very lovely young lady.
She also was standing, apparently to execute _her_ part of a
cotillion, within a circle which the united pushing and shoving of the
eight operatives required for the dance, had not been vigorous enough
to enlarge beyond a diameter of some six or seven feet. Being
compelled to stand immediately behind her, my eyes naturally fell upon
her shoulders, which the dominant fashion then required to be
literally half naked. With equal pain and wonderment I observed, that
by some invisible machinery, the circulation of the blood was so
checked on the visible side of the shoulder strap, as to give a livid
appearance to the contiguous skin; while the opposite edges of the
_scapulæ_ (I would not for the world, in such a case, say
_shoulder-blades_,) were forced as near touching as they could be
without dislocation. _This_, thought I to myself, must surely be a
fashion invented by some bright etherial genius, regardless of bodily
suffering, for a squeeze; since its adaptation to _that_ object could
not admit of a doubt--an adaptation, by the way, more complete, beyond
comparison, than the present much admired, although evidently
incompatible fashion of the bishop sleeves.[2] True, there seemed to
be no small loss in shoulder comfort; but the manifest gain in bodily
compression, that grand desideratum in a squeeze, to which all else
must be sacrificed, appeared far to overbalance it, since according to
the best off-hand calculation I could make, ten bodies with their
appendant limbs thus prepared, could readily be wedged into a space
which before would suffice only for nine, dressed after any previous
fashion. But what is there too arduous, too great, for the matchless
genius of our fair countrywomen, when stimulated by an adequate cause,
and exercised upon a suitable subject!!

[Footnote 2: Most, if not all of our fair countrywomen, have vainly
supposed _this_ to be quite a modern fashion; but that it is nothing
more than an old one revived, and as ancient as the days of the
Prophet Ezekiel, when it was all the rage, is indisputably proved by
the 18th verse of his 13th chapter. There, the good old man, in all
the bitterness of his heart, exclaims--"Wo! to _the women that sew
pillows to all arm holes_, and make kerchiefs upon the head of every
structure, to hunt souls!!"]

Although I felt much for the poor girls thus trussed, thus
cross-hobbled, I resolved to wait a few moments to witness the "_modus
operandi_" of this exhilarating dance, which, judging by all the
methods that I had ever seen, required for its performance a circle at
least three times as large as the one then before me. I knew too,
enough of the prevalent fashion of dancing cotillions to be aware,
that its most stylish mode then consisted in a kind of alert vigorous
movement, which was most truly but somewhat coarsely called, "kicking
out." This, it was manifest, could not _there_ be executed according
to the law "in that case made and provided," without imminent danger
to the anterior tibiæ of the legs--in vulgar parlance, the
"shin-bones" of the parties concerned. It was therefore with much
apprehension of the danger, at least to "the woman kind," that I
awaited the incipient gesticulations of this cotillion party. My fears
were soon relieved, by perceiving that the _operatives_ had
substituted, with admirable ingenuity, a kind of lackadaisical
slipping, sliding, flat-footed motion, which completely guarded them
from the danger I had most ignorantly and unnecessarily anticipated.
To be sure it no more resembled the lively animating exercise, called
_dancing_ in my boyish days, than the dreamy motions of the
somnambulist do the elastic springs of the wide awake tight rope
dancer. But it possessed the rare merit of perfectly adapted means to
ends, and I could ask no more; for Harlequin himself could hardly have
done better under similar duresse. By the way, Mr. Editor, I have been
told that this somnambulizing motion has now become the very "tip-top"
of the mode in all kinds of dancing,--the waltz and the
horse-galloping dances only excepted. In this change the arbiters and
reformers of our fashions seem to have displayed much more wisdom than
we usually find exerted in matters of the kind, since it is the all
levelling political principle carried out into our social amusements;
for it places the active and the clumsy on a footing (if you will
pardon a pun,) of perfect equality, the smooth and even tenor of which
is never disturbed; unless when some credulous sexagenarian is
over-persuaded to perpetrate the folly of turning out to dance among a
party of girls and boys. _They_ make a laughing stock of him, while
_he_, in the sincerity of his heart, and with all the fast perishing
vigor of his limbs, _caricatures_ (for he can do nothing more,) the
athletic cuts and shuffles of the by-gone century, to which nothing
could possibly do anything like justice but an uncommon degree both of
youthful vigor and activity. That you, sir, who are quite too young to
have any personal knowledge of these important matters, may be sure
that I do not exaggerate in making this last assertion, it will
suffice to inform you, that the most celebrated steps of that
time,--steps, which if perfectly executed, always stampt the
performers as first rate dancers--were styled, in the metaphorical
language of those merry making days, "forked lightning" and "chicken
flutter" for the gentlemen, and "heel and toe" and "cross-shuffle" for
the ladies. The first I confess, was rather "a far-fetched metaphor,"
to say the least of it; but the other three appellations were as
perfectly appropriate as could well be conceived. It might also be
truly affirmed of all, that there was nothing in any of them, in the
slightest degree indecorous, as in the waltz and gallopade; for it
seemed not then to have been imagined that _dancing_ could be
perverted to any such purpose as the excitation of highly culpable
sentiments.

If you will pardon this digression, sir, in consideration that old men
will be garrulous and prosing, I will now squeeze you back from the
dancing-room to the one first entered, and with somewhat less
difficulty, I hope, than I myself encountered.

There I was immediately attracted by a conspicuous gathering of
_heads_; of bodies I could see none, except those in juxtaposition. It
was drawn together, as I conjectured, by something rather beyond the
common spectacles of the night. Being determined to have my share of
the sight, I forced my way near enough to behold, in the midst of a
circle not much larger than a hogshead hoop, a tall young lady,
elegantly dressed, (that is as far as perfect conformity to the
fashion could make her so) and quite a good figure, but too much
"drawn" (as the racers say) in the waist. And what, think you, was her
employment? Why--attitudinizing and thumping away most theatrically
upon a tambourine! This was the finishing stroke--the finale of my
squeeze-going days, or rather _nights_; and I hastened to squeeze
myself _out_, with much more alacrity than I had squeezed myself
_in_--marvelling all the way as I rode home with my equally surfeited
companion, at the frequency with which we call actual and severe
toils, _pleasures_; and at the innumerable contrivances to which the
devotees of the latter resort intentionally, as we must presume, to
gain, but in reality to mar, their object. Of these contrivances I had
just swallowed my first and last dose, as I then designed it to be, of
the one called _a Squeeze_; a contrivance which seemed to me
altogether matchless in its unsuitability of means to ends; that is,
if it was really designed for _a party of pleasure!_ for after one or
two hours most diligent search, I had utterly failed in finding a
single spot, where even one individual could either _sit_, _stand_ or
_walk_, with the slightest degree of convenience or comfort!!

To give you a still better idea of the supreme folly justly
attributable to such plain country folks as myself, for venturing into
places so entirely unsuitable to us, I will conclude this long epistle
by relating a real incident once told to me by a gentleman who had it
from the sufferer himself.

Some years ago a kind of "Hickory Quaker," (as he called himself,) but
whose real name it is needless to mention, found his way, "par
hazard," from one of the middle States to Congress. Being thus ranked
among the honorables of the land, it was not long before he received
an invitation to a _Squeeze_. His intense curiosity to see something
of which he could not, from the name, form the slightest conception,
got the better of his prudence, and he very rashly determined to go;
although, as he afterwards confessed, in relating his mishaps, not
without many misgivings which he with difficulty suppressed. On
consulting one or two of his friends, who were already initiated into
all the mysteries of squeezes, as to the proper time to go, the only
information given was, "_be sure not to be the first of the company_."
This injunction relieved him of much of his apprehension, being very
confident of his power to fulfil it. His confidence however, proved
too overweening, for having waited and waited until his usual bed hour
at home, the sudden fear seized him of erring in the contrary extreme,
and finding the party broken up. Under this impression he hurried off,
in his best Quaker dress, as fast as his _legs_ could carry him, for
taking _a hack_ was out of the question. Having soon arrived, he
knocked loudly at the door with his knuckles, not being yet cognizant
of the bell-bolt contrivance,--demanding, at the same time, in his
customary way, "who keeps the house?" The opening of the door
immediately followed, and he was about to enter; but the finely
dressed servant whom he mistook for the master of the house,
manifesting, not only much surprise, but some strong symptoms of
resistance, friend Ephraim (as I beg leave to call him,) deemed it
best to say--"I have some particular business with the lady, who sent
for me herself." This at once proved an "_open sesamè_," and in he
marched, putting as bold a face on the matter as he could, and
anxiously hoping to find, in a few minutes, some friends to keep him
in countenance. But alas! it is not in man that liveth, to form hopes
which shall not be disappointed; for upon being ushered into the
lady's presence, he found her, to his utter astonishment, entirely
alone, and looking at him as a perfect stranger; and well she might,
having never cast eyes on him before. This most unexpected occurrence,
this jumping, as it were, out of the frying-pan into the fire, so
utterly confounded him, that he was very near taking to his heels with
all possible speed, and escaping by the way he came, if he could find
no shorter exit. Luckily however, he bethought him of producing his
credentials for admission, which he had most fortunately slipped into
his pocket, being yet ignorant of the fashion of leaving it in his
room, as if through carelesness, but in reality to display the extent
of his honors, so far as these depend upon the number of one's
visiting acquaintance. The exhibition of his ticket instantly put
matters to rights; the lady's countenance brightened up with smiles
ineffable; he was overwhelmed with apologies for not knowing him,
although greatly did he marvel how she should; and so much pleasure
and happiness was expressed at his having honored her party by his
presence, that he began to ask himself, with infinite
self-complacency, whether there might not _really be_, as he had heard
when a boy, such a thing as "_love at first sight_." The repetition
however, of nearly the identical expressions to every gentleman who
afterwards entered, brought to his mind the mortifying conviction,
either that the boyish tale was false, or that his hostess must be in
love with every gentleman of the company, which he at once pronounced
impossible.

Until more company arrived, our quaker friend found himself in a sad
predicament; for having no plausible excuse for escape, and deeming
himself bound, at least to try to entertain the lady with some kind of
conversation, he sat many minutes pondering over the few topics on
which he thought himself able to converse, but finding none that
exactly pleased him, he at length resolved to hazard something about
cabbages, and peas, and poultry; shrewdly imagining that such matters
would be more amusing, as well as instructive to her, than any
contained in his "knowledge box." Great was his pleasure and
wonderment to find her perfectly at home as to all these mysteries; so
much so, indeed, that he could hardly suppress the exclamation, "Oh!
that my old woman knew half as much." All things, however, must have
an end, although friend Ephraim began to fear that the tête à tête
between the lady and himself never would; and when their chat was fast
dying away, like the flickering blaze in the nearly empty socket of a
candlestick, suddenly the doors were thrown open, and in rushed
pellmell, such a mixed multitude, as struck him with speechless
astonishment. Very soon (as he himself described the scene,) he had to
abandon his seat; and according to his notions of politeness, was
every moment making room, first for one stranger and then for another,
without having time so much as casually to shake the hand of an
acquaintance, before they were thrust apart. Thus elbowed, and shoved,
and bumped about on every side, and not knowing how to keep out of
every body's way, which seemed a physical impossibility, he found
himself, at last, most unexpectedly squeezed into the midst of a party
altogether of ladies, whose united voices raised such an
unintelligible din, as brought to his recollection what he had read in
his Bible, about the confusion of tongues at the tower of Babel.
Resolutely bent, however, upon "seeing the show out," he determined to
persevere. But, at the same time, having the accommodation of others
much at heart, he resolved to try a yet unessayed position, by way of
making himself as small as possible. This was to thrust his hands
behind him, the first moment space enough was given for the purpose;
at the same time straightening his arms as much as practicable, and
grasping one wrist with the other hand, to secure their union. He had
but a few seconds for self-congratulation upon so ingenious a device,
before some sudden, undesigned impetus in front, forced him back, so
that his hand was pressed against something hard. Of this he
involuntarily took hold, but without turning his head; that indeed
being impracticable. He mistook this hard article (as he afterwards
found to his cost,) for the end of a narrow shingle, although for the
life of him he could not imagine why, or how it got there, as he had
seen nothing like building going on about the premises. Scarcely,
however, had he taken hold of it, before it was forcibly jerked from
his grasp, and his hands were once more disengaged. His conjectures as
to what it could possibly be, were still puzzling his brain, when a
fierce Pendragon sort of a fellow, whiskered and mustached to the very
tip of his nose, forced his way to him through the dense mass by which
he was surrounded, and in a very authoritative, menacing tone, told
him that Mrs. ---- desired to see him. He obeyed the mandate as
speedily as possible, but in mortal dread and astonishment as to the
cause of it. The moment he reached his hostess, she demanded, with a
look of indescribable indignation, "how he dared to insult a lady in
her house?" Thunderstruck, as it were, at the accusation, for a few
moments he was deprived of speech. But at length recovering the use of
his tongue, he averred and protested, and affirmed, that he was
utterly unconscious of having committed any such outrage; an outrage
which he was altogether incapable of perpetrating. This so far
appeased the lady's wrath, as to produce an awkward and embarrassing
explanation on both sides, by which it was discovered, that the
supposed shingle end had been, in reality, the projecting end of a
lady's corset bone, unluckily squeezed out of place, in the general
pressing and crushing of the crowd. The conference ended in the lady's
being satisfied, and in our worthy quaker resolving from the very
bottom of his heart, never again to trust himself in any place under
the sun, be the temptation what it might, wherein he could not find a
safe place, even for his hands!

OLIVER OLDSCHOOL.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SANFORDS.

  "Some wild desire, some sad mistake has cast
   Severe remorse and sorrow for the past;
   Some former fault shall present solace curb,
   Or fair occasion lost, his peace disturb;
   Some fatal chance has ruined every scheme,
   And proved his brightest prospect all a dream."


About the year 18--, there lived in a populous neighborhood, in the
state of Virginia, a lady and gentleman named Sanford. They possessed
considerable wealth, which was to be inherited by their only son, whom
they called Hugh. The life of this worthy couple, was as quiet and
easy as an unruffled stream, save when some slight differences of
opinion would occasionally arise, respecting the management of Hugh.
But one point on which they always agreed, was, that he should never
be thwarted in any wish of his heart.

At the time our story commences, Hugh Sanford was twenty, and had just
left college. Whether he ever distinguished himself there, I have not
been able to ascertain. However, I know with certainty, that he was by
nature gifted with good sense, and he had many fine qualities of the
heart. I know not whether the reader will think so, from the sketch I
am about to write, but he must bear in mind, that Hugh's natural
disposition was so warped by continual indulgence, that not until the
fever of youth had subsided, was it truly developed.

A large party had been invited to spend several days at Mr. Sanford's,
and his wife had promised them a little dance. We shall pass over the
preparations which were made for the party, and which, in the country,
always produce so much bustle and excitement; we will even say nothing
of the more important business, (to the girls at least) of the
_toilette_; but shall follow them all to the drawing room, which was
brilliantly lighted.

Among the girls, Mary Linden, was the most commanding; her splendid
dress and jewelry, gave her quite a _magnificent_ air. She was the
daughter of a _rich_ widower. Ellen Lorval (the only child of a _poor_
lawyer,) was also much admired. Her light muslin dress and simple
wreath of wild flowers were peculiarly becoming.

"My dear Hugh," said Mrs. Sanford, "I wish to speak with you a moment
before the dancing commences. Does not Mary look beautiful? Do go and
engage her as your partner immediately."

"Not so fast mother," said he smiling.

"My son," said she, "I love Mary as my daughter: could I but think
that she would be one to me." She looked at him intently, but he
appeared not to understand her meaning, and turning the conversation,
he went to join a group of young men.

The scene changes. The enlivening sound of the violin is heard; the
couples are beginning to take their places on the floor, when Hugh, to
the dismay of his parents, is seen leading out Ellen Lorval. Mary
Linden is surrounded by beaux, and it seems has capriciously given her
fair hand to the least deserving of them, a would-be-wit, whose whole
conversation consists of long words and jests, which have been in
print for ages. The party went off well, and all seemed to enjoy
themselves, except some few unfortunate _wall-flowers_, for whom,
however, Mrs. Sanford procured partners towards the close of the
evening.

Hugh would probably never again have thought of his attentions to
Ellen, had not his mother kept him _in custody_ the next morning,
while she spoke _her_ mind on the subject. She represented to him "the
folly of falling in love with her, when Mary Linden was in the house;"
and she even went so far as to say that "there would be a _great
impropriety_ in his falling in love with Ellen."

Hugh was greatly astonished at hearing all this, for the idea of
falling in love had never entered his imagination. He was sorry to see
his mother pained, but since she had put such notions into his head,
he could not but see, that if he could be so fortunate as to fall in
love, and meet with opposition, it would give a peculiar zest to the
monotony of his country life. So he stalked off to the drawing room,
and _began_ to think Ellen very interesting. The few succeeding days
were passed as they usually are by a large party in the country. They
read, talked, rode and played at battledoor; but at length the guests
departed, and Mr. and Mrs. Sanford returned to the enjoyment of their
usual tranquillity; but Hugh did not feel quite at his ease, as he was
conscious that he had pained his parents, not so much by his
attentions to Ellen, as by failing to fall in love with Mary Linden.
Weeks passed on;--Hugh continued to meet Ellen at all the dinners and
parties in the neighborhood, and to pay her attention. Mr. and Mrs.
Sanford had seen all their hopes respecting Mary Linden laid low, and
they had fretted themselves into ill humor about Ellen: a calm was now
ensuing, they began to look on the bright side of things, and even to
fancy that Ellen was to be their future daughter.

"My son," said Mr. Sanford, "I wish you to consult your own happiness
in every thing. You love Ellen; you have now the consent of your
parents to address her."

"Really father, I----." He stammered out something that was
unintelligible.

"Say no more, I see you are embarrassed."

"Hear me father----."

"Not a word more at present; good bye."

There is an old saying, that "competition is the life of trade," and I
think it is no less true, that "opposition is the life of love," or of
something that is frequently mistaken for it by _greenhorns_, and very
young ladies just from school. Now that all opposition was at an end,
Hugh was somewhat surprised to find himself entirely OUT of love with
Ellen; and indeed, he shrewdly suspected he had never been IN love
with her. The gentle girl had seemed pleased with the attentions of
the handsome Hugh Sanford, though she acted with the most perfect
delicacy, nor have I ever found out whether she imagined him to be
serious. I am sorry to say, that the utmost partiality cannot throw a
veil over the conduct of Hugh in this instance; and many will say that
he does not deserve the title of a _hero_. "Pshaw!" says a little
girl, "I thought all heroes were perfect!" And so they are, in English
novels, but not in Old Virginia!

Mrs. Sanford had a widowed sister living in the southern part of the
state. Her name was Harrington, and she was the mother of two
daughters, who were dashing belles and beauties. Thither Hugh now
went, to pay a visit. On a bright evening, he came in sight of his
aunt's dwelling. It was situated on a smooth green hill, which
gradually sloped to the river ----, which was not very wide here. A
tiny canoe was presently visible in the middle of the stream, and much
to his surprise he perceived in it a single female figure. "Can that
be one of my cousins?" said he; "what mad freak could induce her to go
alone?" But, when he arrived at the house, he found both of his
cousins and his aunt sitting together. They received him cordially,
and while he was answering their inquiries, a light step was heard in
the passage, and an eager voice exclaimed: "Oh, Mrs. Harrington, my
pigeon flew away from me to the other bank, and I was so much afraid
of losing it, that I went over for it by myself." The speaker entered
the room, holding the bird triumphantly in her hand; but perceiving a
stranger, she was retreating, when Mrs. Harrington recalled her, and
she was introduced to Hugh by the appellation of Amy Larone. She was
bright as a sunbeam, and beautiful as the roses of spring. Her hazel
eyes were large; a delicate carnation bloomed on her cheek, and her
brown hair was parted over her smooth brow, and gracefully twisted at
the back of her head. She was below the middle size, and the plainest
suit of mourning was neatly fitted on her slender shape. Hugh's
interest was strongly excited by the air of mystery with which he
fancied she was surrounded, and he seized the first opportunity to
inquire who she was. Her simple story was soon told. She was nearly
sixteen, and was the orphan child of poor and obscure, though honest
parents. Her mother died when she was four years old, and she was left
to the care of her father, an illiterate, although well-meaning man,
who had no idea that education was at all necessary: if he could see
his daughter neatly dressed, and hear the neighbors say how beautiful
she was, he cared for nothing more. Her beauty and modesty were talked
of by rich and poor. Her father had not been dead more than seven or
eight months; and Mrs. Harrington pitying her forlorn condition, had
taken her to her house. Maria and Theresa Harrington were kind to her,
and were anxious to repair somewhat the total neglect of the education
of the warm hearted Amy. She was grateful, but as her taste for study
had not been formed in childhood, it was with reluctance that she now
attempted the _drudgery_ of learning, and, so far as concerned
herself, she wished that the makers of books had never existed.

She seemed, however, to possess an instinctive knowledge of what was
right and proper to be said or done, even on occasions that were
perfectly novel to her; and when a subject was started of which she
was ignorant, she acted _wisely_, and said _nothing_; or if in the
course of conversation a few errors were committed by her, her
transcendent beauty was sufficient to atone for all. True, her beauty
was not of the spiritual kind, "the rapt soul _beaming_ in the eyes;"
but it was just such as is always admired by enthusiastic young men.

Company came in, and Hugh obtaining a seat near Amy, entered into
conversation with her, in which to do her justice, she supported her
part quite well. He rallied her upon her excursion after her truant
bird. She replied--"It was the last thing my father ever gave me, and
I love it for his sake."

Several weeks had been passed by Hugh at his aunt's, and he had become
deeply interested in the orphan. Amy appeared dejected, and very
rarely joined the family party in the sitting room. This conduct only
strengthened Hugh's interest. He was now really in love--"fairly
caught," as the young ladies express it. Walking out one evening by
himself, he encountered Amy unexpectedly, and a gleam of joy lighted
up his handsome features.

"Miss Larone," said he, "why have you deserted us; the time has been
too, too long since we met."

"Three days, sir," said Amy, slightly smiling.

"I can hardly believe it possible," said he, "for it seems almost as
many months to me."

Amy assumed a look of coldness, and said she did not understand him;
but her countenance betrayed that she did.

They walked on in silence to the bank of the river, and Hugh looking
on the beautiful stream and its romantic banks, said, "Could I but
think that you would walk here after I am gone, and think of me--Amy,
I will confess that from the first moment I saw you, I felt the
strongest interest in you. Nay more, that I do now love you most
ardently. Will you give me your heart?" She remained silent and
agitated, and at length tears came to her relief. "Oh, why do you
weep? Say to me Amy, that I may at least hope you love me!" She raised
her mild tearful eyes, and that glance betrayed that her heart was
his.--"Now, heaven bless you Amy, let us record our vows, and you will
be my bride ere long." "Mr. Sanford," she said, "'tis true that I love
you, but yet I can never be yours. Your parents would never receive me
as their daughter." "Hush Amy," said he, "my parents love me too well
to withhold their consent." Struggling with her emotion, she said,
"There are other weighty reasons why I cannot be your wife. No, no, it
cannot be." "Amy, you distract me; whatever those reasons are, they
_shall_ be overcome." She shook her head, and darted off from him ere
he was aware of her determination. Hugh was bewildered; but he
resolved to seek another interview with Amy. The next day he entreated
her as a last favor, to walk with him. So _reasonable_ a request could
not be refused. He told her that unless she changed her determination,
on the morrow he would depart, whither he neither knew or cared. Her
_compassion_ was so much excited, that before their return to the
house, she had permitted him to hope. He told her he would set off
directly for his home, and that he would return in a few
weeks,--adding that he would write to her immediately. It was not
until after much entreaty, that she consented to receive his letters;
but when he requested her to _answer_ them, her agitation knew no
bounds. Poor Amy!

The next day he took leave of all; and ere long, a letter fraught with
expressions of the most tender regard, was handed to Amy. _She did not
answer it._ Another soon followed, gently chiding her for her silence.
After this, _all were answered_. Mrs. Harrington and Maria _were in
arms about the match_. His parents yielded a reluctant consent; and at
the appointed time they were married. Hugh wrote to his mother to
apprize her of it, and to appoint a time for their arrival at the home
of his childhood--he now thought himself perfectly happy. The
_honey-moon_ was nearly past, when, one day as he was gazing with
rapture on the loveliness of his young bride, Mrs. Harrington entered,
saying, "Here is a letter directed to 'Mrs. Hugh Sanford,' from my
sister, I think." She handed Amy the letter, with a look of peculiar
significance. Amy broke the seal mechanically, blushed deeply, and
bent her eyes on the ground.--"Amy," said Hugh, "why do you not read
my mother's letter?" She sank down, and could only say, "Forgive
me--oh, forgive me!" "For what, dearest? You that never in thought or
word offended. Look up, Amy," said he, smiling, "you have no need of
forgiveness." "Oh, you do not know; I--" She could scarce articulate;
but at length came the terrible confession, that she could scarcely
read, and _could not write!_

We have mentioned the total neglect of her education, and the
"_weighty_ reasons" which she told Hugh would prevent her from
marrying him. All is now explained. But how, you may ask, did she
manage to answer his letters, when she was unable to write? She made
Theresa Harrington her confidant; and _she_, without thinking of the
consequences, answered them in Amy's name. The deception was cruel;
but Amy's conduct is not entirely without some palliation. Her love of
Hugh, and the shame of her ignorance, combated fiercely in her bosom;
and _she did refuse him--partly_.

Hugh had first been won by her beauty and her destitute condition; her
refusal of his offered hand had only added fuel to the flame. Absence,
"making the heart grow fonder," and the letters he received, all
conspired to blind him. Sincerely was he to be pitied, for he
possessed many fine qualities, and was nobly disinterested. The veil
was now removed from his eyes, and the dream of love was fast
deserting him, like shadows of the morning, when the bright sunlight
rises o'er the hills. They went to his parents. We shall pass over the
various mortifications which Hugh had to endure. Amy idolized her
husband, and he was too kind-hearted to be proof against her fondness.
He exerted himself day after day to instruct her, but I do not believe
she went much beyond learning to read and write legibly. His parents
lived only a few years after these events, and his beautiful wife was
attacked about four years after they were married with a slight cough,
which was soon followed by that bright flush, which is too frequently
the harbinger of death. A southern climate, and every possible means
were resorted to, for her restoration to health, but in vain! Her last
prayers were offered up for her husband, and a daughter then two years
old. Hugh never married again. He continued to live at the family
mansion, occupied almost entirely with the education of Eva. When she
was ten years of age, she was sent to New York to school. Her life has
been attended with circumstances which are not without romance. Should
any curiosity be felt on the subject, I may at a future time give a
sketch of the life of Eva Sanford.

Years have passed since these events transpired, and the once young
and handsome Hugh Sanford is now an old man. His appearance is very
much changed, and his faults and foibles have been lost in his
progress through life, or have become softened by the hand of time.
Certain it is, he is now a very estimable man, and is looked up to
with reverence both in public and private life.

A.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SCENE FROM "ARNOLD AND ANDRE,"

An unpublished Drama, by the author of "Herbert Barclay," and
translator of Schiller's "Don Carlos."


ACT I. _Scene 2_. New York, towards the end of the summer of 1780.

Sir Henry Clinton. Colonel Robinson. An Old British Officer.

SIR H. CLINTON.
  Rebellion's tatter'd banner droops at last,
  Wanting the breath of stirring confidence.
  Discord, twin-brother to defeat, now lifts
  Within the Congress walls her grating voice--
  Fit sound for rebel ears--and in their camp,
  Lean want breeds discontent and mutiny:
  The while o'er our embattled squadrons waves
  High-crested victory, and flaps her wings,
  Fanning the fire of native valor. Soon
  Shall peace revisit this oppressed land,
  So long bestrid by war, whose iron heel
  With her own life-blood madly stains her sides.

ROBINSON.
  Our arms' success upon the southern shore,--
  Whose thirsty sands are saturate with streams
  From rebel wounds,--and the discomfiture
  Of new-born hopes of aid from fickle France,
  Brought on by Rodney's timely coming, have
  Ev'n to the stoutest hearts struck black dismay.

OLD OFFICER.
  Cast down they may be, but despair's unknown
  To their determin'd spirits. Washington's
  The same as when in seventy-six he pass'd
  The Delaware, and in a darker hour
  Than this is, rallied his dishearten'd troops,
  And by a stroke of generalship, as shrewd
  As bold, back turn'd the tide of victory.

ROBINSON.
  But years of fruitless warfare, sucking up
  Alike the people's blood and substance, weigh
  Upon th' exhausted land, like heaped debts
  Of failed enterprise, that clog the step
  Of action.

OLD OFFICER.
        Deem ye not the spirit dull'd,
  Which first impell'd this people to take arms
  And brave our mighty power; nor yet the hope
  Extinct which has their roused energies
  Upheld against such fearful odds. The blood
  They've shed, is blood of martyrs--precious oil--
  Rich fuel to the flame that's boldly lit
  On Freedom's altar, and whose dear perfume,
  Upward ascending, is by heroes snuff'd,
  Strength'ning the soul of patriotic love
  With ireful vengeance.

SIR H. CLINTON.
        Whence, my vet'ran Colonel,
  Comes it, that you, whose scarred body bears
  The outward proofs of inward loyalty,
  Do entertain for rebels such regard?

OLD OFFICER.
  Custom of war has not so steel'd my heart,
  But that its pulse will beat in admiration
  Of noble deeds, ev'n though by foemen done.
  Nor does my sworn allegiance to my king
  Forbid all sympathy with men, who fight--
  And fight too with a valiantness which naught
  But conscious justice could inspire--for rights
  Inherited from British ancestors.

SIR H. CLINTON.
  Their yet unconquer'd souls, and the stern front
  They have so long oppos'd in equal strife
  To our war-practis'd soldiery, attest
  Their valor: and for us to stint the meed
  Of praise for gallant bearing in the field,
  Were self-disparagement, seeing that still
  They hold at bay our far-outnumb'ring host.
  But for the justice of their cause,--the wrong,
  Skill'd to bedeck itself in garb of right,
  Oft cheats the conscience broad credulity,
  And thus will vice, with virtue's armature
  Engirt, fight often unabash'd. Unloose
  The spurs, wherewith desire of change, the pride
  Of will, hot blood of restless uncurb'd youth
  Wanting a distant parent's discipline,
  And bold ambition of aspiring chiefs,
  Do prick them on to this unnatural war;
  And then, how tam'd would be their fiery mettle,
  Heated alone by patriotic warmth.

OLD OFFICER.
  My General, I know this people well.
  And all the virtues which Old England claims,
  As the foundations of her happiness
  And greatness,--such as reverence of law
  And custom, prudence, female chastity,
  And with them, independence, fortitude,
  Courage and sturdiness of purpose,--have
  Been here transplanted from their native soil,
  And flourish undegenerate. From these,--
  Sources exhaustible but with the life
  That feeds them,--their severe intents take birth,
  And draw the lusty sustenance to mould
  The limbs and body of their own fulfilment,
  So that performance lag not after purpose.
  They are our countrymen. They are, as well
  In manly resolution as in blood,
  The children of our fathers. Washington
  Doth know no other language than the one
  We speak: and never did an English tongue
  Give voice unto a larger, wiser mind.
  You'll task your judgment vainly to point out
  Through all this desp'rate conflict, in his plans
  A flaw, or fault in execution. He
  In spirit is unconquerable, as
  In genius perfect. Side by side I fought
  With him in that disastrous enterprise,
  Where brave young Braddock fell; and there I mark'd
  The vet'ran's skill contend for mastery
  With youthful courage in his wondrous deeds.
  Well might the bloody Indian warrior pause,
  Amid his massacre confounded, and
  His baffled rifle's aim, till then unerring,
  Turn from "that tall young man," and deem in awe
  That the Great Spirit hover'd over him;
  For he, of all our mounted officers,
  Alone came out unscath'd from that dread carnage,
  To guard our shatter'd army's swift retreat.
  For years did his majestic form hold place
  Upon my mind, stampt in that perilous hour,
  In th' image of a strong-arm'd friend, until
  I met him next, as a resistless foe.
  'Twas at the fight near Princeton. In quick march,
  Victorious o'er his van, onward we press'd;
  When, moving with firm pace, led by the Chief
  Himself, the central force encounter'd us.
  One moment paus'd th' opposing hosts--and then
  The rattling volley hid the death it bore:
  Another--and the sudden cloud, uproll'd,
  Display'd, midway between the adverse lines,
  His drawn sword gleaming high, the Chief--as though
  That crash of deadly music, and the burst
  Of sulphurous vapor, had from out the earth
  Summon'd the God of war. Doubly exposed
  He stood unharm'd. Like eagles tempest-borne
  Rush'd to his side his men; and had our souls
  And arms with two-fold strength been braced, we yet
  Had not withstood that onset. Thus does he
  Keep ever with occasion even step,--
  Now, warily before our eager speed
  Retreating, tempting us with battle's promise
  Only to toil us with a vain pursuit--
  Now, wheeling rapidly about our flanks,
  Startling our ears with sudden peal of war,
  And fronting in the thickest of the fight
  The common soldier's death, stirring the blood
  Of faintest hearts to deeds of bravery
  By his great presence,--and his every act,
  Of heady onslaught as of backward march,
  From thoughtful judgment first infer'd.

ROBINSON.
        If that
  You do report him truly, and your words
  Be not the wings to float a brain-born vision,
  But are true heralds who deliver that
  Which will in corporal doings be avouch'd,
  Then was this man born to command. And shall
  Ingrate revolt be justified by fate,
  And Britain's side bleed with the rending off
  Of this vast member; they will find it so,
  Who seek to gain a greater liberty
  Than does befit man's passion-guided state.
  Jove's bird as soon shall quail his cloud-wet plumage,
  Sinking his sinewy wafture to the flight
  Of common pinions,--or the silent tide
  Break its mysterious law at the wind's bidding,
  Remitting for a day its mighty flood
  Upon this shore,--as that, one recogniz'd
  To have all kingly qualities, shall not
  Assert his natural supremacy,
  And weaker men submit to his full sway.
  Power does grow unto the palm that wields it.
  The necks that bend to make ambition's seat,
  Must still uphold its overtopping weight,
  Or, moving, be crush'd under it.

OLD OFFICER.
        And heads
  That quit the roof of shelt'ring peace, and bare them
  To war's fierce lightning for a principle,
  Do crown the limbs of men, each one a rock
  Baffling with loftiness ambition's step,
  Whose ladder is servility. Were they
  Susceptible of usurpation's sway,
  This conflict had not been; and then the world
  Had miss'd a Washington, whose greatness is
  Of greatness born. Him have they rais'd because
  Of his great worth; and he has headed them
  For that they knew to value him. Had he
  Been less, then they had pass'd him by; and had
  Their souls lack'd nobleness, his tow'ring trunk,
  Scanted of genial sap, had fail'd to reach
  Its proper altitude. No smiling time
  Is this for hypocritical ambition
  To cheat men's minds with virtue's counterfeit.
  What made him Washington, makes him the chief
  Of this vast league,--and that's integrity,
  The which his noble qualities enlinks
  In one great arch, to bear the sudden weight
  Of a new cause, and, strength'ning ever, hold
  Compact 'gainst time's all-whelming step.

SIR H. CLINTON.
        What now
  You speak, you'll be reminded of, belike,
  Ere many weeks are past. And well I know,
  Your arm will not be backward, if there's need,
  To prove your own words' falsity. Meanwhile,
  Hold you in readiness for sudden march.

[_Exit Old Officer_.]

ROBINSON.
  A better soldier than a prophet.

SIR H. CLINTON.
        Yet,
  Scarce does his liberal extolment stretch
  Beyond its object's merits; for, were he
  Not rooted in his compeers' confidence,
  And in his generalship unmatched, this league
  Had long since crumbled from within, and o'er
  Its sever'd bands our arms had quickly triumph'd.
  In all his mighty spirit's ordinant,
  The while his warriors, rang'd in council round him,
  Listen to plans of learned generalship.
  Within the Congress is his voiceless will
  Potential as the wisest senator's.
  Ever between their reeling cause and us,
  Comes his stern brow to awe fell Ruin's spirit.
  'Tis a grand game he plays, and, by my soul,
  Worthy the game and player is the stake.
  A fair broad continent is't for a kingdom:
  If he can win't, he's welcome to't.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ENGLISH POETRY.

CHAP. II.


I have heard it remarked, that the study of our early poets was like a
journey through a country of rich groves and pleasant gardens. There
surely _is_ something pleasing in the study of old poetry. A ripeness
of feeling meets us on the yellow and stained page, which, gradually
mingling with the legitimate feelings of our own hearts, "makes us to
glow with a rich fervor."

But this pleasure, like all other exquisite pleasures, is rather of
the inexpressible kind. To impart it, condensation is necessary: and
to condense it, is like bottling fragrance, or gathering foam into a
beaker.

The reader may therefore prepare himself for nothing more than a
straight forward story--broken in upon at intervals, by such rambling
episodes of "remark" as I may think suitable.

I. Geoffry Chaucer, the poet

  "That made first to dystylle and rayne
   The gold dewe dropys of speche and eloquence,
   Into our tunge thrugh his excellence."[1]

has ever stood first among the writers who have drunk at "the well of
English undefiled."[2] He has been called the father of English verse,
and properly. He travelled several times into the countries of the
south, and, as great minds are seldom idle ones, we might infer,
without the proof which exists in so many shapes, that he became a
pupil to the Italian masters.

[Footnote 1: Lydgate.]

[Footnote 2: The term "well of English undefiled," was applied to
Chaucer by Spenser, because he arranged and settled the
language--stripping it of many barbarisms and foreign incumbrances. I
am aware that he introduced as many foreign words as he cast out; but
the rejected were corrupt fragments of the Norman French, which yet
(though soft compared with the Saxon,) bore in part a mark of its
parentage; and the selections made for the purpose of replacing them,
were from the _Langue D'Oc_--the most beautifully musical of all
tongues. He consequently did not _defile_ the English language.]

He was a student, and returned to England laden with the fruits of his
study. It was his fate to come between the scholars of that and
preceding ages, who worked their religious and scientific instructions
into _heavy_ Latin metre, and the court minions, who sang to their
mistresses and patrons in Norman French, and lay a solid foundation
out of the scattered fragments of real English poetry. With little
fancy, less imagination, and the little of the first clipped, by his
matter-of-fact employment as _wool inspector_, he has succeeded in
story-telling better than any of his successors. In a tale, the more
vivid the picture drawn, the more interesting the tale. To be minute
and particular in description, is to beget a vivid picture: and this
is the secret of Chaucer's popularity. He writes as if he were taking
an inventory of, rather than describing, things around him. Ages
after, when this same talent for descending skilfully into
particulars, was used in the description of natural scenery and of the
workings of the human breast, it gave Spenser's Pastorals, and the
tragedies of Shakspeare and poor Shelly, a beauty which in the first
two, men have long ago learned to appreciate, and which in the course
of time, will place the last on the seat to which he is entitled. The
whole secret of Chaucer's charm is, as I have said, particularity. If
he had used this talent in describing the many workings of the human
heart, he would probably have failed--for no man can describe that of
which he is ignorant.[3] If he had turned his attention to pastoral
poetry, he _might_ have succeeded; and indeed, in the descriptions of
nature scattered throughout his various poems, he has succeeded
admirably. But something more is wanting than this power of
description, in the song of a shepherd. From his wild and unrestrained
life among the hills of a legendary country--surrounded as he is, by
"kids and lambs, and blithe birds," we not only look for minuteness of
description, but affecting plaintiveness and imaginative imbodyings.
This last is one great aid to Spenser's pastoral poetry. But I am
anticipating my subject.

[Footnote 3: Chaucer has the reputation of being a great "painter of
characters;" but he excels in describing manner, bearing, dress,
&c.--not in picturing the workings of the "human heart."]

Chaucer was the founder of a style which after poets have often
attempted to imitate. Dryden and Pope have paraphrased his works; and
Keates tells us that he is too weak to do other than "stammer where
Dan Chaucer sung." The Canterbury tales were modelled after, and for
the most part copied from the Decameron of Boccacio. The prologue to
these is the most perfect thing of its kind extant. His satires are
strong, and chiefly aimed against the enemies of Wickliffe, and his
patron John of Lancaster. Chaucer was a philosopher too--a great one
for his age. His treatise on the Astrolabe, intended for the benefit
of his son, manifests more information than we would look for in the
reign of Edward III. His satires against the opponents of Wickliffe
are rather political than religious. In religious matters he seems to
have possessed a praiseworthy spirit of toleration--a quality unknown
for ages after to the "agents elect" of a peace-loving Christ.[4]
Altogether, Chaucer was a wonderful man, and certainly, for his time,
a poet as "parfite" and as "gentil" as his own knight.[5] His
Canterbury tales are his _great_ works: they gave a tone to English
poetry. In these days, when all literature has lost its freshness, it
would be a pleasant thing if we could

  "Call up him that left half told
   The story of Cambuscan bold,
   Of Camball and of Algarsife,
   And who had Canacè to wife,
   That owned the virtuous ring and glass,
   And of the wondrous horse of brass
   On which the Tartan king did ride."[6]

I should like to believe in the Pythagorean doctrine, if only for the
pleasant consciousness that old Geoffry Chaucer had left his spirit
behind him. He died on the 25th of October, (the same day of the same
month on which died King Alfred,) in the year 1400; and was buried in
Westminster Abbey, where for a long time these words were upon his
tomb:

  "Galfridus Chaucer, vates et fama poesis
   Maternæ hac sacra sum tumulatis humo."

[Footnote 4: It is in a letter to his son, where he is remarking upon
the merits of the different sects that we find this odd
similitude--"There are many roads leading to Rome." He was not narrow
brained enough to believe that there was but one.]

[Footnote 5: "He was a veray parfite gentil knight."--_Prol. Can.
Tales._]

[Footnote 6: Milton's Il Pensoroso, in allusion to the Squire's tale
in Chaucer.]

II. Before passing on to the celebrated poets of the time of Henry
VIII, I will make a few remarks upon the ancient ballad of "Chevy
Chase."

Little or nothing more than the name of the author of this fine old
heroic ballad, is at present known. Dr. Percy's conjecture with regard
to the date of its composition, may or may not be correct. But I will
assume it as an accurate one. The manuscript copy belonging to the
Harleian Library, has the name of Richard Sheale attached to it.
Sheale perhaps lived in the reign of Henry VI, and as probably was
from the north country. He may indeed have been a minstrel in the
Percy family; but this is mere conjecture. In reference to some of the
characteristics of this ballad, it strikes me that Sir Philip Sidney's
remark, in his "Apology for Poetry," is in very bad taste. After
regretting that so fine and stirring an old song should be "apparelled
in the dust and cobwebb of that uncivill age," he asks, "what would it
not work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindar?" Dr. Percy
speaks of the song as one "recommended to the most refined, and
endeared to the most simple reader, by genuine strokes of nature and
artless passion." Are gorgeous eloquence and nature fit comates? Would
the natural and manly simplicity, for which the greatest works of man
are so renowned, be well exchanged for the diffuse and ornate style of
a Grecian lyric poet? I think not. As for this old ballad's roughness,
I think _that_ rather a merit. Bating some uncouthness, I think the
language really better, much better adapted to the subject than our
own more polished diction might be possibly. Dr. Johnson, in a paper
of the Rambler, treats of the adaptation of sound to meaning; and
quotes many examples illustrating his ground, from Greek, Latin and
English poetry. He certainly is correct to a certain extent, if not
wholly, and I will apply his rules to the present case.

"Through the hunt and battle, the author's style is fiery and severe,
with the exception of a stanza or more, in which Percy and Douglass
rest upon their swords, and after the manner of Homer's heroes,
applaud each the other's gallantry. The poet in this place, seems to
pause in the same graceful rest which he has given his heroes. But the
battle renews; and his metre _personates_ its stormy vigor. At last
the minstrel sinks from his high place into the hollows of grief; for
the 'weeping widows' are before us, with 'birch and hazel biers,'
carrying the dead men to their burial. And then with what skill does
he shake off individual tenderness, and proclaim the 'national
regret!'"

All in all--beauty on beauty-- Chevy Chase has never been matched, and
does much better "unapparelled in the gorgeous eloquence of a Pindar."
Truly, the obscure author of this one ballad stands alone--the father
of English heroic poetry.

  "Res gestæ, regumque, ducumque, et tristia bella,
   Quo scribi possent numero monstravit Homerus."

But he has attained excellence, without following the path which Homer
"has shown;" and without using Homer's "numbers," has sung a great
song.

III. Next on the list of those poets to whom the English language and
English literature are indebted, stand Wyatt and Surrey. With regard
to the first, I will hardly say more than that he was an Anacreon
compared with his contemporaries. Rather gentle in his genius, he
wrote love verses intuitively, and added in no slight degree to the
melody of the language.

But Surrey added more. His love for the fair haired Lady Geraldine
sent him "knight-erranting" among the romances and romantic grounds of
Italy; and he is said to have been so well acquainted with the Tuscan
tongue, and so well read in Italian authors, as to be a marvel, even
in the days when Venice was the Paris of young English noblemen, and
the Appenines their Switzerland. It may be as well to quote a few
lines from Surrey's poems, as he has the reputation of having
introduced much of the southern softness into English verse.

"_Lines writ by Henry Howard Lord Surrey--being a complaynt that hys
Ladie, after she knew of hys love, kept her face always hydden from
hym._

  "I never sawe my ladie laye apart
   Her cornet blacke, in colde, nor yet in heate,
   Sith first she knew my griefe was growen so greate,
   (Whyche other fansies dryveth from my harte,
   That to myself, I do the thought reserve,--
   The which, unwares, did wound my woful brest;)
   But on her face, mine eies mote never rest:
   Yet synce I knew I dyd her love and serve,
   Her golden tresses--cladd allway with blacke,
   Her smyling lookes, that had thus evermore,
   And that restraynes which I desire so sore:
   So doth this cornet governe me alacke!
   In sommer sunne, in winter's breathe, a frost
   Wherebye the lyghte of her fayre lookes I lost."

The reader will recognize this as a paraphrase, or indeed almost
literal version of one of Petrarch's _canzoni_. He may, if curious
enough, amuse himself by studying it with the original, not for the
purpose of detecting the very visible theft, but for comparing a
specimen of English verse, while not nearly escaped from its rudeness,
with the Tuscan of perhaps the most musical of all bards.

The sonnet, so frequently used by Surrey, and after him by Shakspeare
and nearly every other English poet, was (according to Sir W. Jones,)
introduced from Arabia into Italy: thence, with other stanzaic
structures into England by Chaucer, who in one of his visits to the
south, is reported to have met Petrarch and made his friendship, in
Genoa. Surrey was doubtless the most skilful sonnet-weaver of his day,
and though too fond of the inversion, for which Milton is so much
blamed, for the most part pleases both ear and understanding. His end
was an unfortunate one. Henry VIII added the poet lover to the list of
those whom tyranny brought to the scaffold. He was beheaded in the
year 1500.

IV. Sir Philip Sidney was famous throughout all Europe for his
intellectual and personal accomplishments. He was spoken of as a
candidate for the throne of Poland on the death of Sigismond Augustus,
but Elizabeth was unwilling to lose the "prime jewel of all England,"
and retained him at the English court. It is more than probable that
he would have been defeated; for the claim of a Duke of Anjou, pleaded
by so wily an advocate as Montluc, "the happy embassador," would have
been more than strong enough to vanquish that of an honest,
open-minded British gentleman.

The character of Sir Philip Sidney was without reproach. Not unlike
Lord Surrey in his renown, he was yet more a hero than his illustrious
precursor. Lord Surrey was an accomplished and illustrious patrician,
the first of his age; but Sidney was a refinement upon nobility. He
was like the abstract and essence of romantic fiction, having the
courage (but not the barbarity) of the _preux chevaliers_ of ancient
time--their unwearied patience--their tender and stainless attachment.
He was a hero of chivalry, without the grossness and frailty of the
flesh. He lived beloved and admired, and died universally and
deservedly lamented. He is the last of those who have passed into a
marvel; and he is now remembered almost as the ideal personification
of a true knight.

Sir Philip Sidney's poetry was not without the faults of his time. It
abounds with conceits and strained similes, and the versification is
occasionally cramped. Nevertheless, many of his sonnets contain
beautiful images and deep sentiment, (such as the 31, 82, 84, and
others,) though a little impoverished by this alloy. But Sidney's
reputation was won upon crimson fields, as well as upon poetic
mountains. He wooed Bellona, as well as the Muses; and his last great
act, when dying at Zutphen, is of itself enough to justify the high
admiration of his countrymen.[7]

[Footnote 7: Vid. article "_Poetry_," in No. LXXXIII of Edin. Review,
April 1825.]

V. Edmond Spenser--Dryden's "father," and Southey's "dear master"--the
poet who "threw a rainbow across the heaven of poetry," was born in
London. He found, at the age of eighteen or thereabout, that a cousin
whom he loved would not receive his suit, and went into Cumberland,
where, to pour out his sorrow, he wrote the most mournful portions of
the "Shepherd's Calendar." He was for some time Secretary in
Ireland,[8] under Lord Grey de Wilton, where his Fairy Queen was
conceived and partly written; and died A.D. 1598, aged forty-five
years.

[Footnote 8: If I mistake not, Edmund Burke spent a portion of his
boyhood within sight of the garden where Spenser composed much of his
Fairy Queen. What better spot could there be for the education of
genius? This life, among scenes constantly exciting associations of
the most poetical and refined nature, may have assisted in giving
Burke's mind the poetic coloring for which it was so remarkable.]

Spenser and the other "fathers" of the English schools of poetry
should rather be called "masters of ceremonies," for they certainly
did not _beget_ their different orders of composition. Italy was the
cradle of these orders, not England. I will however adopt the first
and common title, and call Spenser father of the English allegorical
and pastoral poetry. And on these I will say a few words before I
proceed to his more striking excellencies.

The ancients were particularly fond of allegory. A field as vast as
could be desired was here opened for their poets. The whole heathen
mythology was a splendid allegory. Virgil's Ænead may be called an
allegory. As Eneas conducted the remnant of his countrymen from the
Trojan ruins to a new settlement in Italy, so Augustus, from the ruins
of the aristocracy, modelled a completely new government. I have not
leisure to pursue the parallel. Homer has in the Odyssey many
allegorical fables; as for instance those of Circe and Calypso. In
imitation of these, Virgil introduced his Dido. Going farther on we
find the love of allegory increasing in Italy. Ariosto's Alcina and
the Armida of Tasso are "copies from the copy" of Virgil; and coming
on English ground we find Spenser stealing from Tasso. As for the
kinds of poetry in which allegory should be used--In an epic, persons
of the "imaginary life," such as Virgil's

             "_Strife_ that shakes
  Her hissing tresses, and unfolds her snakes,"

and Spenser's "gnawing JEALOUSY sitting alone and biting his bitter
lips"--should by no means enter into the action of the poem. Virgil
knew this and made them nothing more than "_gate posts to his entrance
into Hades_."[9] The introduction of allegorical personages into the
drama is unpardonable. Even in ages when men were laid open by
superstition to the insinuating beauty of allegory; when the ignorant
imagined every rock to be the pent-house of some spirit; when the
timid walked abroad in fear and trembling, and when in consequence of
this feeling allegorical paintings even of a wild sort seemed natural
and agreeable to truth, its introduction into the drama met with but
little applause. Æschylus has often been criticised severely for his
frequent errors of this sort; one of which is his introduction of
STRENGTH, as a character who assists Vulcan in binding Prometheus to
his rock.

[Footnote 9: All lavish embellishment--such as Tasso's description of
the bower of bliss, in his "Jerusalem," which the reader will find
transplanted into the second book of Spenser's Fairy Queen--should
likewise be excluded from the epic. This species of poem--the grandest
of _all_ species--should be superior to such embellishment.]

Though excluded from epic and dramatic poetry, it may be used with
great aptness in poems of a descriptive nature. We thus find that
pastoral poetry often admits of an allegorical vein. Spenser knew
this, and has given us a happy instance in that eclogue of his
Shepherd's Calendar, in which he represents the union of the rivers
Briqoq and Mulla. He has still happier instances in _Æcloga tertia_
and in _Æcloga quinta_.

Spenser likewise acted as master of ceremonies to pastoral poetry in
its introduction to English literature. The great father of this order
was Theocritus. His follower was Virgil, who combined very skilfully
the _merum rus_ of the Idyllia with his own courtly grace. Tasso in
his Aminta imitated Virgil, and was in turn imitated by a host of
contemporary and subsequent poets among his countrymen. Without
copying Tasso in this as in other things, Spenser became the head of
English pastoral poetry, and has never yet been excelled.

Mr. Pope's remarks in the preface to his pastorals are evidently
correct. "The simplest states of life and feeling best suit this style
of poetry." Spenser's early pastorals, written

                "amongst the cooly shade
  Of the green alders by the Mulla's shore,"

are minute and beautiful pictures of the country and of country life.
Indeed, one of his poems may be likened to a country scene. Here are
musical brooks; there old woods cloaked in ornamental foliage; here a
succession of bold thoughts shaped into a chain of tall hills; there
the low vale of quiet unobtrusive beauty--all this, too, mellowed by
the gawsy twilight of love. Such are Spenser's early pictures, but
after mingling with the world, and losing his primitive simplicity of
temper, the elegance and refinement which gave such a charm to the
"Fairy Queen," spoiled his rural poetry. It was no longer a picture of
nature: his plant was a hot house one: his fruit had the _hortus
siccus_ flavor: his nightingales were caged, and sang from an embayed
window. This difference may be seen by comparing "Colin come home
again" with its predecessors.

But the Fairy Queen is his wonderful work. The elegant and sometimes
magnificent beauty of that lay, where the "great bard"

  "In sage and solemn tunes hath sung
   Of tourneys and of trophies hung,
   Of forests and enchantments drear,
   Where more is meant than meets the ear"--

has elevated his name to the high place which it fills with such
brilliancy. Every poetic palate will relish "the grapes of hidden
meaning so abundant under the vine-leaves of his exquisite allegory."

On the whole, as for Spenser as a _natural_ poet, all unite in
pronouncing him imaginative, bold, and even witty: as an artist, or
_educated_ poet, skilful, elegant, and full. His language is, for the
most part, rich and expressive; his verse (remarkably various in
arrangement) could scarcely be more melodious and pleasing. I will
close this portion of my remarks with a quotation, the source of which
I forget, but which I find pencilled upon the margin of my Chaucer.

"Spenser and Chaucer, instead of being forced into death by their
antiquated language, will, by their use of it, perpetuate its
remembrance. The ancient English is their servant. They are not and
never will be its victims."

VI. These are biographical times. A moiety of centuries ago, not even
a Shakspeare could find a biographer willing to follow the windings of
his career. We know nothing more of him _certainly_ than that he
remained on the Avon with his wife Anne Hatheway--his senior by eight
years--and three children, the last two of which were twins--until
ambition led him to London. That there his plays were written; and his
evenings spent with Ned Alleyne, Ben Jonson, Marlow and others, in
drinking canary wine, and in "tilting in the lists of literary
controversie." We have little knowledge of their pleasant
discussions--

                 "words--
  Spoke in the mermaid"--

but in such a company, wit and humor must have been gods of the
entertainment. We are told that in table debate, "Jonson was like a
great Spanish gallion, and Shakspeare an English man of war. Master
Jonson was built far higher in learning; solid but slow in his
performances. Shakspeare lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could
turn with all tides, and take advantage of all winds by the quickness
of his wit and invention." We can easily fancy the plethoric Ben
writhing and chafing under the quickness of his adversary's attacks.

Within the last twenty years Shakspeare has become popular with the
German critics--the best perhaps of the age. The critical mania has
been imparted to the English, and I have observed lately in the
English Magazines several articles pretty much in the German tone. One
writer, for example, is engaged in building up a "life" of the poet
from rather strange _materiel_--his sonnets. This idea was started by
Schlegel, I believe--and is certainly a happy one: for all authors
have sorrows, and at times must seek relief by giving them utterance.
Indeed the works of an author's leisure moments are usually all of one
piece--all of the same tone--all harping upon the one black thread in
his fortune. Shakspeare asks in one of his sonnets--

  "Why write I still all one, ever the same,
   And keep invention in a noted weed
   That every word doth almost tell my name
   Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
   O know, sweet love, I always write of you,
   And you and love are still my argument."

This brooding and inward looking is a common habit.[10] Chatterton,
Kirk White, and Dermody, have dissected their very hearts. Byron lives
in his vagrant "Childe," and bating some most disgusting affectation
in his Corsair--Lara--Giaour. Shelley groans with his
Prometheus--breathes in his Laon--and draws his own image with the
life of his Helen.[11] This may have been the case with Shakspeare.
Giving free scope to his heart's inmost workings, he has given
posterity, in his sonnets, a record of feeling so expressed as to
render it easy to build upon it a fabric of fact--a true and accurate
'life.'

[Footnote 10: Bulwer says in the Disowned, that his _effort_ is, at
all times to "avoid a self-picture in his writings." The very fact
that an _effort_ must be made, proves the existence of this yearning
egotism. In writings never intended for the world's eye there is no
drawback to the inclination, and it is followed. Shakspeare's sonnets
were not "writ for the world."]

[Footnote 11: This self-identity is not so visible in the tragedies of
Byron and Shelley, for the simple reason, perhaps, that these are more
the works of art--more the creatures of the brain than heart--abound
more in skill than feeling.]

His sonnets, as they now stand, are hardly intelligible, but when
placed in proper order, tell one unbroken story. We learn, _inter
alia_ that Shakspeare had a _male_ friend whom he loved most dearly:
that this friend "broke a two-fold truth"--and the question is, in
what manner. Searching farther we gain the clew, and find that the
poet had imbodied his vision of poetic loveliness--his _Iris en
air_--in one, whom in the midst of his dream of purity and beauty
unearthly, he found "as black as hell and as dark as night." That
friend wins her to his arms, and this is where he is "led to riot" and
to break a "two-fold truth." The poet finally discovers her wretched
nature and asks--

  "Why should my heart think that a several plot
   Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?"

Then pauses in the midst of the deeply affecting portraiture of
self-feeling, to whisper the exquisite self-excuse: "How could

                      Love's eye be true
  That is so vexed with watching and with tears."

Perhaps self-portraiture might be even detected in his plays. Goethe's
comprehension of the incomprehensible Hamlet, (viz. That with a great
and philosophic mind he was too shrinking and sensitive for the
execution of his high resolves--in a word, that like a porcelain jar
attempting to enfold the roots of an oak, until shattered in the
attempt, his shrinking nature tottered under the pressure of a purpose
too mighty,) may have been a picture of Shakspeare's self: violent
ambition acting upon the poet's fine nature, as other passions did
upon that of Hamlet.

I have occupied so much space with that part of Shakspeare's history
little known, that it has given me an excuse for shunning the beaten
track altogether. I will however quote Dryden's eulogy, as it is short
and famous for its pith.[12]

"He was the man who of all modern and perhaps all ancient poets, had
the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were
still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously but luckily:
when he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too.
Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater
commendation: he was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles
of books to read nature; he looked inwards and found her there. I
cannot say he is every where alike; were he so, I should do him injury
to compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times flat,
insipid; his comic wit degenerating into clinches, his serious
swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some great
occasion is presented to him: no man can say he ever had a fit subject
for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of
poets,

  'Quantum lenta solent inter viberna cupressi.'"

[Footnote 12: Dryden lauds the "commixture of comedy and tragedy," of
which Shakspeare has been so often guilty. This always seemed to me
unhappy. The "tragi-comic feeling" is at best an April day matter--a
fit of the hystericks--neither downright weeping, nor hearty laughter.
Or, yielding that sorrow is deeply impressed on the mind by the
melancholy pictures of the one portion, will a sudden transition to
merriment wipe it away? Dryden says, "why should we imagine the soul
of man more heavy than his senses? Does not the eye pass from an
unpleasant object to a pleasant in a very moment?" Receiving this
sophistry as genuine wisdom, it follows of course, that all actual
grief is transient. I would it were so. There would _then_ be no need
for the fountain of Lethe or the poppies of Ennor. One does not forget
the fall of the sod when his _eye_ turns from the newly covered grave
to the glitter and glare of life.

The mixture certainly is unhappy. Perhaps, as Coleridge has surmised,
it was the fruit of a proud carelesness. The poet, in the hour of
composition, feels that he has just written successfully. He is elated
and runs riot for awhile heedless, or, it may be, scarcely conscious
of what he writes. On this principle we may account for a prodigious
deal of extravagance, otherwise unaccountable.]

VII. Of Ben Jonson I will hardly say much. His "learning and
heavy-headedness" would scarcely render him the 'rare Ben' that he
once was, in this age of _learned professors_ and _profound scholars._

His learning gave him an undue admiration of Aristotle, and in his
plays he has followed the Grecian model too closely. Unity of time and
place is particularly inculcated in the rules of the Grecian schools;
and in France this had long been strictly observed. It was made matter
of minute inquiry in tragedy, whether such and such transactions could
be gone through while a talkative hero ranted so many verses. Or, in
comedy, whether an unfortunate shepherdess could go through the _Juno
Lucina fer opem_ ceremony, while a lewd city clerk stood by, and made
so many studied surmises--_sotto voce_. Unless unity of time and place
was observed in a drama, these 'line and rule Greekling Franks' damned
it. The consequence was that one plot--one method--Aristotle's [Greek:
go êythos]--was worked upon by successive dramatists, too timid to
'blanch the beaten track,' until it was threadbare. These fetters
which Shakspeare snapped, Jonson hugged.

Old Ben, as he was called, was once young, but the history of his
youth is rather cloudy. It seems probable, however, that the accounts
delivered us by his contemporaries, are true, notwithstanding Mr.
Gifford's sweeping denial. Following them, we learn, that Ben's
step-father was a bricklayer; that Ben himself "served at the trade,"
until he left it from weariness, and joined a company of strolling
players: that he enlisted and went with the English army into
Flanders, where he "killed his man, and bore off the spoils." His
prime and after life were spent in literary pursuits.

Old Ben was a quarrelsome, peevish companion; his body that of a
bloated giant; his face filthy, with a scorbutic affection, or, as
Decker quaintly says, "a face par-boiled, punched full of eyelet
holes, like the cover of a warming pan." His literary quarrels with
Decker, Marston, and other "men of London," eventuated in a surly
retreat on the part of Jonson. He was driven from comedy to Tragedy,
and we find him closing one of his poetic defences with the consoling
reflection, that

  "There's something come into my thought,
   That must and shall be sung, high and aloof,
   Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof."

But the poet "died of sack," and lies in Westminster with a plain slab
above him, on which are these words:

  "O RARE BEN JONSON!"

VIII. I pass with reluctance over the contemporaries of Spenser and
Shakspeare; contemporaries who aided in gaining for the Elizabethan
age the title of "_Augustan_."[13] I will not, however, leave this
ground, without quoting a few verses, imitated from the Italian of
Petrarch, by Elizabeth herself. The lines begin a little poem,
composed by the queen, "upon Mount Zeur's departure."[14] They are not
wanting in music:

  "I grieve, yet dare not shew my discontent;
     I love, and yet am forst to seem to hate;
   I doe, yet dare not say I ever meant;
     I seeme starke mute, but inwardly do prate;
   I am, and not; I freeze and yet am burned,
     Since from myself my other self I turned."

[Footnote 13: It was for wit that the reign of Augustus was
celebrated. The age preceding, was that of strength. The Elizabethan
age combined these.]

[Footnote 14: Ashmol. muss. MSS. p. 142.]

Passing on, we find "the melancholy Cowley." Cowley has ever been a
favorite with lovers; for love maddens men, and madness will always
find pleasant aliment in the metaphysical and metaphorical love verses
of this unnatural poet. The following is a loose paraphrase of one of
Anacreon's wine songs; so loose that we may as well style it original,
and adduce it as a specimen not only of Cowley's strange conceits, but
also of all the poetry in England, or rather at the court of the King,
during the reign of Charles II.[15] The sample is a happy one.

[Footnote 15: Cowley died in 1667, too early to have thoroughly
imbibed the peculiarities of the "poets of the restoration," if he had
remained in England before. But this was not the case; he was
secretary to the Earl of St. Albans, in Paris, during the
Protectorature, and there acquired these peculiarities.]

"DRINKING.

  The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
  And drinks and gapes for drink again;
  The plants suck from the earth, and are
  With constant drinking fresh and fair;
  The sea itself, (which one would think,
  Should have but little need of drink,)
  Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
  So filled that they o'erflow the cup.
  The busy sun, (and one would guess
  By his drunken, fiery face no less,)
  Drinks up the sea; and when he's done,
  The moon and stars drink up the sun:
  They drink and dance by their own light;
  They drink and revel all the night.
  Nothing in nature's sober found,
  But an eternal health goes round;
  Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high;
  Fill all the glasses there; for why
  Should every creature drink but I?
  Why, man of morals, tell me why?"

The question in the last line, is easily answered. If in no other way,
by the ridiculous death of Polycrates' minion, the immortal Anacreon,
who lost his mortality through the agency of an ingrate grape stone.

IX. To praise such men as Shakspeare and Milton, is like praising
Hercules. However, I am not one of those who think it idle to cry out
"O deare moon, O choyce stars!" when we look upon these in their
loveliness. And, leaving this question of the utility or inutility of
panegyric, to be discussed elsewhere, I will continue _pari passu_
upon the same track which I have hitherto pursued.--Of,

  "A genius universal as his theme;
   Astonishing as chaos; as the bloom
   Of blowing Eden, fair; as heaven, sublime,"

Milton was fully equal to the vast labor, at his daring in undertaking
which, his friend old Andrew Marvel so marvelled. Like Amphion, he
sung of the wonders of creation; of Gods and immortal essences. His
Satan is a magnificent creation; a personification of all gloom and
all grandeur. Vast strength, angelic fashioning, revenge that nothing
can soothe, endurance that never shrinks, the intellect of heaven and
the pride of earth, ambition immeasurably high, and a courage which
quails not even before God, go to constitute a creation essentially
_ideal_. Satan is not like Macbeth or Lear, real in himself, literally
true, and only lifted into poetry by circumstance: but he is
altogether moulded in a dream of the imagination. Heaven, and earth,
and hell, are explored for gifts to make him eminent and peerless. He
is compounded of all; and at last stands up before us, with the starry
grandeur of darkness upon his forehead, but having the passions of
clay within his heart, and his home and foundation in the depths
below. It is thus gleaning, as it were, from every element, and
compounding them all in one grand design, which constitutes the poetry
of the character. Perhaps Ariel and Caliban are as purely ideal, as
the hero of Milton, and approach as nearly to him as any other
fiction; but the latter is incontestably a grander formation, and a
mightier agent, and moves through the perplexities of his career, with
a power that defies competition. And these are his comrades of
Pandemonium: Moloch, who changed the pleasant valley of Hinnom into
black Gehenna; Belial, the "manna tongued," than whom "a fairer person
lost not heaven;" Azaziel, Chemos, Peor, and the wonderful Astarte;

  "_To whose bright image, nightly by the moon,
    Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs._"

Rimmon, too--he so dreaded by the "men of Abbana and Pharphar;" and
the wily Mammon,

  "_The least erected spirit that fell
   From heaven....
   ... admiring more,
   The riches of heaven's pavement, trodden gold,
   Then aught divine or holy else enjoyed;
   A vision beatific._"

These, all these, are splendid creations of the human intellect; and
how rich and poetic is his account of Mulsiber, who "dropt from the
zenith like _a falling star_." Of this description it has been
written, that "music and poetry run clasped together down a stream of
divine verse." But it is most in his Satan, that Milton's way becomes
the "_terribile via_" of Michael Angelo, which no one before or since
has been able to tread.

Comparisons have been instituted between Milton and Dantè; but however
excellent the Florentine may be, he had not the grasp, nor the soaring
power of the English poet. The images of Dantè, pass by like the
phantasms on a wall, clear indeed, and picturesque; but although true,
in a great measure to fact, wanting in reality. They have complexion
and shape, but not flesh or blood. Milton's earthly creatures have the
flush of living beauty upon them, and shew the changes of human
infirmity. They inhale the odors of the garden of Paradise, and wander
at will over lawns and flowers: they listen to God; they talk to
angels; they love, and are tempted, and fall! and with all this there
is a living principle about them, and (although Milton's faculty was
by no means generally dramatic,) they are brought before the reader,
and made, not the shadows of what once existed, but present probable
truths. His fiercer creations possess the grandeur of dreams, but they
have vitality within them also, and in character and substance are as
solid as the rock.[16]

[Footnote 16: Vide art. "_Poetry_," No. 82, Edin. Rev. April, 1825.
This article is another proof how difficult a matter it is to write of
poetry, without becoming poetical.]

His "Il Pensoroso," L'Allegro, and many of his sonnets, are enriched
by an antique vein. "Barbaric pearl and gold," crusted with age,
mingle with the airy and twinkling gems of his fancy. His spirit was,
at times, idle, dreaming, and voluptuous. He sometimes seems as though
he had slumbered through summer evenings in caves or forests, by
solitary streams, or by the murmuring ocean.

Dr. Blair's parallel between Homer and Milton, throws more light upon
the true character of Milton's mind, so far as sublimity is concerned,
than anything I have seen. "Homer's (sublimity) is generally
accompanied with fire and impetuosity; Milton's possesses more of a
calm and amazing grandeur. Homer warms and hurries us along; Milton
fixes us in a state of astonishment and elevation. Homer's sublimity
appears most in the description of actions; Milton's in that of
wonderful and stupendous objects." I would further apply a remark
which I have seen in the "table talk" of Coleridge, the poet, upon the
sublimity of Schiller, and that of Shakspeare. "Both are sublime, but
Homer's is the _material_ sublime."

These remarks are confined to his sublimity; but beauty, tender
beauty, was on the catalogue of his excellencies. I heard a lady once
liken Milton's mind to a sea shell. The wildest and most terrible
blasts, the gentlest and most honeyed breathings issue from the same
secret depths.

Milton has many singularities. One which, Addison I believe, praises,
is a habit of repeating in the answer the words of the question. Take
for example, these lines in Comus:

  "Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
   Turn forth her silver lining on the night?
   I did not err: there does a sable cloud
   Turn forth her silver lining on the night."[17]

[Footnote 17: The reader will remember a beautiful instance of this in
"Alroy," a work brimful of genius.]

He was also a pedant; but pedantry should only call forth censure,
when coupled with weakness. He used inversion to excess; about the
propriety of which no two critics agree. And any other faults than
these excusable ones, it would be difficult to discover.

In his Sampson Agonistes, he manifested great solidity and power: in
his Lycidas, the most exquisitely pathetic elegance; in his Comus, a
fine wandering philosophy. All these qualities were united in his
Paradise Lost, and (in not so great a degree, however,) in the
"Paradise Regained."

As a man, John Milton has been accused of time-serving. The truth of
this charge is rather problematical. Milton was no more a time-server,
so far at least as I am able to discover, than _any_ timid old man
living in his troubled age, would have been, from fear. Terror led him
into acts assuredly mean; but that terror should be his excuse; it
overruled a natural soundness and rectitude of heart. However,
meanness it was, and the reason that he has had his fame injured, is a
simple one. A beautiful thing, when at all tainted, is more disgusting
than if a greater taint were upon one less beautiful.

  "Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds."

X. Butler,[18] the comic satirist, was well drugged with the burlesque
sentiments and humorous conceits so prevalent in the reign of Charles
the second.

[Footnote 18: I will quote here a paragraph upon the "effect (of the
restoration) on national literature and national feeling." "The
restoration of Charles the second was fatal to poetry. That prince
brought with him a long train of wits; and large bands of exiled
courtiers flocked round him, who knew the points of a ruff, and were
connoisseurs in silk stockings and Flanders lace; but of English
literature they were utterly ignorant. Adversity had taught them
nothing, except hatred for their countrymen at home, and contempt for
their taste in all things. French fashions, French literature, French
morals, prevailed; and the wholesome examples of conjugal love and
social integrity, were fast melting away and disappearing before the
dazzling influence of a vicious court. The time of the English exiles
had been employed in patching their broken fortunes and rendering
themselves agreeable to their French patrons. Had they been reduced
simply to banishment, and left to ponder on the past, it is possible
that they might have taken a lesson from misfortune, which would have
strengthened the relaxed state of their moral constitution, and
awakened them to the high gratification derivable from the works of
intellect alone. But they had no example, and little motive. Their
King was utterly without any character, and the French did not require
any sterling accomplishments to admit them to the full benefits of
their society. They were, however, compelled to turn their wit to
present account, and so they contented themselves with paying court to
their hosts, with emulating their gallantry, with play, and other such
ordinary palliatives, as offer themselves most readily to the unhappy.
If our exiles ever thought seriously, it was how they might circumvent
old Noll and his Roundheads, not how they might endure
philosophically, or qualify themselves for prosperity again. Under all
circumstances, it was scarcely possible to avoid adopting the tone and
manners of the people with whom they lived. They _did_ adopt them, and
the literature of the age of Charles the second, may be considered as
one consequence of the exile of the Stuarts."]

Hudibras is well known as a rough satire, but few, even of those
familiar with that poem, I presume, ever thought of giving Butler
credit for the refinement of thought and style so frequently entwined
about masses of obscurity and ridiculous vulgarity. These silver
threads are often visible to the searching eye, and lead the student
to believe, that had the satirist not fallen into the vein, since his
day called Hudibrastic, he would have taken fair place among the
followers of Wyat.

Butler was, in his intercourse with the world, dull and unmoved,
wholly wanting in the rich humor for which his writings are so famous.
King Charles could scarcely be persuaded, that a man, to all
appearances, so stupid, could be the author of so much written wit.

XI. Waller is the next of those who produced any, the least
improvement in English literature; and he, indeed, rather should be
called a versifier than a poet; for there is assuredly none of the
divine afflatus about him. He wrote _prose_ in metre, and metre too of
great polish. He has been celebrated for the music of his numbers,
and, as usual, accused of borrowing from the well-head of all
melodious versification--the Italian schools. Tasso, translated by old
Fairfax, was his model.

XII. And now John Dryden starts up in my path, at first a Polyphemus
blinded by ill taste, and although a giant, never aiming his blows
aright--afterward a clear sighted and skilful Longinus. His taste
became pure with age, and before his death, he had become an admirable
critic.[19] In translation, satire and lyric poetry, he was unrivalled
until the coming of Pope. Indeed in the last, he has never been
rivalled. Satire is, perhaps, the only species of poetry into which
logic may be happily introduced. In every other, it straightens and
curbs the genius. If this be true, the Anglo-latins before the time of
Surrey, made a great mistake in their choice of subjects. The heavy
and operose reasoning with which their metrical folios on the trinity
&c. abound, would have been of assistance in satire. Dryden's logical
talent rendered his great political satire "Absolom and Achitophel,"
the best perhaps of his works. His McFlecnoe was thought inimitable,
until Pope made it the model of his Dunciad, and drew a picture better
than the original.

[Footnote 19: Of twenty-seven plays written by Dryden, nineteen were
in rhyme. These nineteen were his earliest works--and the very fact
that they are in rhyme, proves a want of taste. The remaining eight
were written later when his taste had ripened.]

In one night, Dryden began and completed the greatest ode in the
English language. The ode to St. Cecilia stands an unrivalled example
of lyric excellence. The ode by Pope with the same title, that by
Addison sung on the same day, fall far short of it, as do Cowley's
famous paraphrases from Pindar. Indeed, Campbell's Last Man is the
only lyric poem in the language at all akin in merit to that of
Dryden.

Pindar full of the spirit of his age, committed no extravagance in the
opinion of those who heard him at the Olympic games. But being
regarded as the father of lyric poetry, his wildness was imitated in
after ages, when that spirit was departed. This led to a great many
extravagant absurdities in Italy and in England. Poets made Pindar
their master and forgot Horace. The odes of the fifteenth century are
scarcely intelligible; and how those who preach simplicity, and
complain that Shelly's obscurity renders his poetry a sealed book,
can, as I have sometimes heard them do--applaud Cowley for the beauty
of his Pindarics is rather wonderful. In this unnatural state the ode
fell into Dryden's hands, and he new-modelled it with strange
felicity.

As a translator, Dryden shunned the latitude of those who, like
Cowley, paraphrased instead of translating, and at the same time
avoided the opposite evil. His translations are sufficiently accurate
to convey the original author's meaning, and sufficiently polished to
please an ear not too fastidious. He has fallen into error by carrying
out what he calls his principle of adaptation too far. It was his
opinion that "translation should be adapted to the present." For
example, that the sailors of Virgil should speak the sea phrases of
modern times, in order to make the description seem natural to the
modern reader. This principle he carried on shore too, and many
laughable instances of its application are to be found in his version
of the Æneid. He translates--

  "Læva tibi tellus, et longo læva petantur
   Æquora circuitu: dextrum fuge et littas"--

  "Tack to the larboard and stand off to sea
   Veer starboard sea and land."

A direction which Scott suspects would have been unintelligible not
only to Palinurus, but to the best pilot in the British navy.

He often too gives precedence in the arrangement of his verse to the
name that should be deferred, as in this line,

  "The angels, _God_, the virgin and the saints, &c."

which as Mr. Ezekiel Sanford wittily enough observes reminds one of
the clown, who in giving an account of his hunt, begins with--"the dog
and I, and dad." In describing the appeal of the vagabond Trojans, he
falls into an odd blunder. We find

  "Diamond buckles sparkling in their shoes."

A new version this, of _Pulchra Sicyona!_ However, this is _descending
into the cobbler's criticism on the painting of Apelles_. Cibber in
his parallel between Dryden and Pope yields to the first greater
genius, to the latter more elegance--and the remark seems a just one.
But I must leave this ground, haunted as it is with the genius of
"glorious John Dryden."

Dryden was hard and haughty in appearance. He had a deep thick brow--a
wide forehead, rather full at the temples. His mouth was spoiled by
wrinkles which gave him a too determined and stern appearance. He died
leaving two sons by Lady Elizabeth Howard, both of whom manifested
talent, and became scholars and gentlemen of reputation.

XIII. The poets between Dryden and Pope, did little toward the
advancement of English poetry. Although many of these were men of no
mean capability, and met with merited honor in their day, their
excellencies are not great enough to entitle them to a prominent place
in a paper whose limits enforce _selection_. It is perhaps better for
them that they are not admitted, as my applause even might, like paint
on the brush of a bad artist, injure rather than assist. Let them pass
then:--the odd and witty Prior; the melodious and animated Lansdown;
the pointed Congreve; the elaborate and particular Addison; the
penetrating Rowe; the easy and sweet Parnell--one and every one.

Alexander Pope, of a family at whose head was the Earl of Downe, lived
fifty-five years, during the greater part of which time he was a
distinguished contributor to his country's literature in pastoral,
lyric and didactic poetry--and most of all in satire and translation.
In noticing Cibber's parallel, I have already touched upon Pope's
peculiar excellence--elegance.

It was said by Warburton in the early part of that strange career
which ended in a steady friendship for Pope, that "Dryden borrowed
from the ancients through want of leisure; Pope from _want of
genius_," and on this latter, the enemies of the abused poet have
harped severely. One prominent argument which they adduce is the
seeming difficulty with which he wrote! "His polish," say they, "is
but the labored polish of a common hand. There are none of the sudden
and strong outbreaks of great genius. He piles his thoughts with the
labor of an ant building its hill." They shew his manuscript, lined
and interlined, corrected and re-corrected, until no eye can detect
the real reading, and forget that Isocrates was engaged nine years on
one short panegyric. It would strike me that Pope's numerous
corrections evinced fertility of mind. That the constant aim toward
excellence, was but the yearning of great genius after perfection.
This yearning did not display itself in Dryden, to whom belonged even
greater genius, for the simple reason that he had no leisure for it.
_He_ was Old Jacob Tonson's hack, and depended on his writings for
subsistence, while Pope was the receiver of annuities which rendered
him wholly independent. As a didactic writer, Pope stands conspicuous
among the philosophic poets, not only of England, but of the world.
Neither Virgil nor Lucretius can in this, boast superiority. And
Akenside, Armstrong, and even Boileau, fall far beneath. I have
remarked, that logic suited no order of poetry, except the satirical:
I do not contradict myself here. Lucretius pleases us with his bold
and original conceptions, no matter how faulty they are, Virgil, by
the poetic elegance which he throws upon his disjointed philosophy.
And Pope is the more pleasing for his want of method. Virgil's mode of
reasoning is the most orderly and best arranged of the three, and
consequently his didactic poems resemble more the Anglo-Latin
treatises of the twelfth and following centuries, than those of the
others do. In brief, sprightly carelesness of restraint, and _want of
method_, render Pope's "Essay on Criticism," and the "De rerum natura"
of Lucretius more agreeable to the reader than the best of Virgil's
Georgics. In satire, Pope was superior to Dryden, chiefly I presume,
in consequence of the latter's want of leisure to perfect the
reasoning which enters so importantly into that species of
composition. As a translator, he was unhappy in his choice of authors.
Virgil would have suited his style of genius far better than Homer.
His anglicized Greek lines wear too much frippery of dress. A happy
mean yet remains to be filled, between the extreme polish of Pope's
Homer, and the naked abruptness of both Chapman and Cowper. There was
a degree of hypocrisy in Pope's mode of publishing his letters which
should be censured. (Vide Quarrels of Authors.)

Pope perfected the music and elegance of the English verse. Drawn out
of chaos by old Chaucer; softened by Spenser; twisted into pliancy by
Surrey; subtilized by Cowley; smoothed by Waller; strongly and
beautifully modelled by Dryden;--it still wanted the finishing touch,
and this, Pope gave. But he was more than an accomplished linguist. A
skilful satirist, a touching eulogist, a philosophic tutor, and in
fine, in spite of bodily infirmities, a good and amiable man,[20] his
life was like the passage of a health-infusing river through the sands
of the earth. Useful to all within reach of its influence; when the
stream curdled in its bed, the loss was deeply felt. And although the
poet's works remain among us, it is only as the cedar and palm remain
upon the banks of the once living stream. "So good a man was he, his
presence doubled their beauty."[21]

L. L.

[Footnote 20: I have been particular in noticing Pope's goodness of
heart, because the devotees of Addison have spoken of him as "twisted
in body and mind--as peevish as he was deformed."]

[Footnote 21: Surgeons and critics love new subjects, and the latter
have so raked up from the dunghills of the forgotten past, poets (God
save the mark!) innumerable. To mention in this paper the names of one
half would be bringing sad company to old Chaucer and his great
successors; however, the other half is made up of no mean names.
_Lydgate_, _James I_, of Scotland, _Skelton_, _Gawin_, _Douglass_,
Lord _Rochford_, Lord _Vaux_, _Gascoigne_, _Marlowe_, _Churchyard_,
_Tuberville_, _Sir Walter Raleigh_, _Silvester_, (translator of Du
Bartal,) _Fairfax_, _Beaumont and Fletcher_, _Chapman_, _Carew_,
_Quarles_, _Drummond_, _Lovelace_, (the cavalier and lover of Althea,)
_Herrick_, _Marvel_, _Cotton_, _Walton_, _Lee_, _Shadwell_, and one or
two others, I have passed over with regret.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HANS PHAALL--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.


By late accounts from Rotterdam that city seems to be in a singularly
high state of philosophical excitement. Indeed phenomena have there
occurred of a nature so completely unexpected, so entirely novel, so
utterly at variance with pre-conceived opinions, as to leave no doubt
on my mind that long ere this all Europe is in an uproar, all Physics
in a ferment, all Dynamics and Astronomy together by the ears.

It appears that on the ---- day of ----, (I am not positive about the
date) a vast crowd of people, for purposes not specifically mentioned,
were assembled in the great square of the Exchange in the goodly and
well-conditioned city of Rotterdam. The day was warm--unusually so for
the season--there was hardly a breath of air stirring, and the
multitude were in no bad humor at being now and then besprinkled with
friendly showers of momentary duration. These occasionally fell from
large white masses of cloud which chequered in a fitful manner the
blue vault of the firmament. Nevertheless about noon a slight but
remarkable agitation became apparent in the assembly; the clattering
of ten thousand tongues succeeded; and in an instant afterwards ten
thousand faces were upturned towards the heavens, ten thousand pipes
descended simultaneously from the corners of ten thousand mouths, and
a shout which could be compared to nothing but the roaring of Niagara
resounded long, loud, and furiously, through all the environs of
Rotterdam.

The origin of this hubbub soon became sufficiently evident. From
behind the huge bulk of one of those sharply-defined masses of cloud
already mentioned, was seen slowly to emerge into an open area of blue
space, a queer, heterogeneous, but apparently solid body or substance,
so oddly shaped, so _outré_ in appearance, so whimsically put
together, as not to be in any manner comprehended, and never to be
sufficiently admired by the host of sturdy burghers who stood
open-mouthed and thunderstruck below. What could it be? In the name of
all the vrows and devils in Rotterdam, what could it possibly portend?
No one knew--no one could imagine--no one, not even the burgomaster
Mynheer Superbus Von Underduk, had the slightest clue by which to
unravel the mystery: so, as nothing more reasonable could be done,
every one to a man replaced his pipe carefully in the left corner of
his mouth, and, cocking up his right eye towards the phenomenon,
puffed, paused, waddled about, and grunted significantly--then waddled
back, grunted, paused, and finally--puffed again.

In the meantime, however, lower and still lower towards the goodly
city, came the object of so much curiosity, and the cause of so much
smoke. In a very few minutes it arrived near enough to be accurately
discerned. It appeared to be--yes! it _was_ undoubtedly a species of
balloon: but surely no _such_ balloon had ever been seen in Rotterdam
before. For who, let me ask, ever heard of a balloon entirely
manufactured of dirty newspapers? No man in Holland certainly--yet
here under the very noses of the people, or rather, so to speak, at
some distance _above_ their noses, was the identical thing in
question, and composed, I have it on the best authority, of the
precise material which no one had ever known to be used for a similar
purpose. It was too bad--it was not to be borne: it was an insult--an
egregious insult to the good sense of the burghers of Rotterdam. As to
the shape of the phenomenon it was even still more reprehensible,
being little or nothing better than a huge foolscap turned upside
down. And this similitude was by no means lessened, when, upon nearer
inspection, there was perceived a large tassel depending from its
apex, and around the upper rim or base of the cone a circle of little
instruments, resembling sheep-bells, which kept up a continual
tinkling to the tune of Betty Martin. But still worse. Suspended by
blue ribbands to the end of this fantastic machine, there hung by way
of car an enormous drab beaver hat, with a brim superlatively broad,
and a hemispherical crown with a black band and a silver buckle. It
is, however, somewhat remarkable, that many citizens of Rotterdam
swore to having seen the same hat repeatedly before; and indeed the
whole assembly seemed to regard it with eyes of familiarity, while the
vrow Grettel Phaall, upon sight of it, uttered an exclamation of
joyful surprise, and declared it to be the identical hat of her good
man himself. Now this was a circumstance the more to be observed, as
Phaall, with three companions, had actually disappeared from Rotterdam
about five years before, in a very sudden and unaccountable manner,
and up to the date of this narrative all attempts had failed of
obtaining any intelligence concerning them whatsoever. To be sure,
some bones which were thought to be human, and mixed up with a
quantity of odd-looking rubbish, had been lately discovered in a
retired situation to the east of Rotterdam; and some people went so
for as to imagine that in this spot a foul murder had been committed,
and that the sufferers were in all probability Hans Phaall and his
associates. But to return.

The balloon, for such no doubt it was, had now descended to within a
hundred feet of the earth, allowing the crowd below a sufficiently
distinct view of the person of its occupant. This was in truth a very
droll little somebody. He could not have been more than two feet in
height--but this altitude, little as it was, would have been enough to
destroy his equilibrium, and tilt him over the edge of his tiny car,
but for the intervention of a circular rim reaching as high as the
breast, and rigged on to the cords of the balloon. The body of the
little man was more than proportionally broad, giving to his entire
figure a rotundity highly grotesque. His feet, of course, could not be
seen at all, although a horny substance of suspicious nature was
occasionally protruded through a rent in the bottom of the car, or, to
speak more properly, in the top of the hat. His hands were enormously
large. His hair was extremely gray, and collected into a cue behind.
His nose was prodigiously long, crooked and inflammatory--his eyes
full, brilliant, and acute--his chin and cheeks, although wrinkled
with age, were broad, puffy, and double--but of ears of any kind or
character, there was not a semblance to be discovered upon any portion
of his head. This odd little gentleman was dressed in a loose surtout
of sky-blue satin, with tight breeches to match, fastened with silver
buckles at the knees. His vest was of some bright yellow material; a
white taffety cap was set jauntily on one side of his head; and, to
complete his equipment, a blood red silk handkerchief enveloped his
throat, and fell down, in a dainty manner, upon his bosom in a
fantastic bow-knot of super-eminent dimensions.

Having descended, as I said before, to about one hundred feet from the
surface of the earth, the little old gentleman was suddenly seized
with a fit of trepidation, and appeared altogether disinclined to make
any nearer approach to _terra firma_. Throwing out, therefore, a
quantity of sand from a canvass bag, which he lifted with great
difficulty, he became stationary in an instant. He then proceeded, in
a hurried and agitated manner, to extract from a side pocket of his
surtout a large morocco pocket-book. This he poised suspiciously in
his hand--then eyed it with an air of extreme surprise, and was
evidently astonished at its weight. He at length opened it, and,
drawing therefrom a huge letter sealed with red sealing-wax, and tied
carefully with red tape, let it fall precisely at the feet of the
burgomaster Superbus Von Underduk. His Excellency stooped to take it
up. But the aeronaut, still greatly discomposed, and having apparently
no farther business to detain him in Rotterdam, began at this moment
to make busy preparations for departure; and, it being necessary to
discharge a portion of ballast to enable him to re-ascend, the half
dozen bags of sand which he threw out, one after another, without
taking the trouble to empty their contents, tumbled every one of them,
most unfortunately, upon the back of the burgomaster, and rolled him
over and over no less than one and twenty times, in the face of every
man in Rotterdam. It is not to be supposed, however, that the great
Underduk suffered this impertinence on the part of the little old man
to pass off with impunity. It is said, on the contrary, that, during
the period of each and every one of his one and twenty
circumvolutions, he emitted no less than one and twenty distinct and
furious whiffs from his pipe, to which he held fast the whole time
with all his might, and to which he intends holding fast until the day
of his death.

In the meantime the balloon arose like a lark, and, soaring far away
above the city, at length drifted quietly behind a cloud similar to
that from which it had so oddly emerged, and was thus lost forever to
the wondering eyes of the good citizens of Rotterdam. All attention
was now directed to the letter, whose descent and the consequences
attending thereupon had proved so fatally subversive of both person
and personal dignity, to his Excellency the illustrious burgomaster
Mynheer Superbus Von Underduk. That functionary, however, had not
failed, during his circumgyratory movement, to bestow a thought upon
the important object of securing the packet in question, which was
seen, upon inspection, to have fallen into the most proper hands,
being actually directed to himself and Professor Rub-a-dub, in their
official capacities of President and Vice-President of the Rotterdam
College of Astronomy. It was accordingly opened by those dignitaries
upon the spot, and found to contain the following extraordinary and
indeed very serious communication.

To their Excellencies Von Underduk and Rub-a-dub, President, and
  Vice-President of the States' College of Astronomers in the city
  of Rotterdam.

Your Excellencies may perhaps be able to remember an humble artizan by
name Hans Phaall, and by occupation a mender of bellows, who, with
three others, disappeared from Rotterdam, about five years ago, in a
manner which must have been considered by all parties at once sudden,
and extremely unaccountable. If, however, it so please your
Excellencies, I, the writer of this communication, am the identical
Hans Phaall himself. It is well known to most of my fellow citizens,
that for the period of forty years, I continued to occupy the little
square brick building at the head of the alley called Sauerkraut, and
in which I resided at the time of my disappearance. My ancestors have
also resided therein time out of mind, they, as well as myself,
steadily following the respectable and indeed lucrative profession of
mending of bellows. For, to speak the truth, until of late years that
the heads of all the people have been set agog with the troubles and
politics, no better business than my own could an honest citizen of
Rotterdam either desire or deserve. Credit was good, employment was
never wanting, and on all hands there was no lack of either money or
good will. But, as I was saying, we soon began to feel the terrible
effects of liberty, and long speeches, and radicalism, and all that
sort of thing. People who were formerly the very best customers in the
world had now not a moment of time to think of us at all. They had, so
they said, as much as they could do to read about the revolutions, and
keep up with the march of intellect, and the spirit of the age. If a
fire wanted fanning it could readily be fanned with a newspaper; and,
as the government grew weaker, I have no doubt that leather and iron
acquired durability in proportion, for in a very short time there was
not a pair of bellows in all Rotterdam that ever stood in need of a
stitch or required the assistance of a hammer. This was a state of
things not to be endured. I soon grew as poor as a rat, and, having a
wife and children to provide for, my burdens at length became
intolerable, and I spent hour after hour in reflecting upon the
speediest and most convenient method of putting an end to my life.
Duns, in the meantime left me little leisure for contemplation. My
house was literally besieged from morning till night, so that I began
to rave, and foam, and fret like a caged tiger against the bars of his
enclosure. There were three fellows in particular, who worried me
beyond endurance, keeping watch continually about my door, and
threatening me with the utmost severity of the law. Upon these three I
internally vowed the bitterest revenge, if ever I should be so happy
as to get them within my clutches, and I believe nothing in the world
but the pleasure of this anticipation prevented me from putting my
plan of suicide into immediate execution, by blowing my brains out
with a blunderbuss. I thought it best, however, to dissemble my wrath,
and to treat them with promises and fair words, until, by some good
turn of fate, an opportunity of vengeance should be afforded me.

One day, having given my creditors the slip, and feeling more than
usually dejected, I continued for a long time to wander about the most
obscure streets without any object whatever, until at length I chanced
to stumble against the corner of a bookseller's stall. Seeing a chair
close at hand, for the use of customers, I threw myself doggedly into
it, and hardly knowing why, opened the pages of the first volume which
came within my reach. It proved to be a small pamphlet treatise on
Speculative Astronomy, written either by Professor Encke of Berlin, or
by a Frenchman of somewhat similar name. I had some little tincture of
information on matters of this nature, and soon became more and more
absorbed in the contents of the book, reading it actually through
twice before I awoke, as it were, to a recollection of what was
passing around me. By this time it began to grow dark, and I directed
my steps towards home. But the treatise had made an indelible
impression on my mind, and as I sauntered along the dusky streets, I
revolved carefully over in my memory the wild and sometimes
unintelligible reasonings of the writer. There were some particular
passages which affected my imagination in a powerful and extraordinary
manner. The longer I meditated upon these, the more intense grew the
interest which had been excited within me. The limited nature of my
education in general, and more especially my ignorance on subjects
connected with Natural Philosophy, so far from rendering me diffident
of my own ability to comprehend what I had read, or inducing me to
mistrust the many vague notions which had arisen in consequence,
merely served as a farther stimulus to imagination; and I was vain
enough, or perhaps reasonable enough, to doubt whether those crude
ideas which, arising in ill-regulated minds, have all the appearance,
may not often in effect possess also the force--the reality--and other
inherent properties of instinct or intuition: and whether, to proceed
a step farther, profundity itself might not, in matters of a purely
speculative nature, be detected as a legitimate source of falsity and
error. In other words, I believed, and still do believe, that truth is
frequently, of its own essence, superficial, and that, in many cases,
the depth lies more in the abysses where we seek her, than in the
actual situations wherein she may be found. Nature herself seemed to
afford me corroboration of these ideas. In the contemplation of the
heavenly bodies it struck me very forcibly that I could not
distinguish a star with nearly as much precision, when I gazed upon it
with earnest, direct and undeviating attention, as when I suffered my
eye only to glance in its vicinity alone. I was not, of course, at
that time aware that this apparent paradox was occasioned by the
centre of the visual area being less susceptible of feeble impressions
of light than the exterior portions of the retina. This knowledge, and
some of another kind, came afterwards in the course of an eventful
period of five years, during which I have dropped the prejudices of my
former humble situation in life, and forgotten the bellows-mender in
far different occupations. But at the epoch of which I speak, the
analogy which the casual observation of a star offered to the
conclusions I had already drawn, struck me with the force of positive
confirmation, and I then finally made up my mind to the course which I
afterwards pursued.

It was late when I reached home, and I went immediately to bed. My
mind, however, was too much occupied to sleep, and I lay the whole
night buried in meditation. Arising early in the morning, and
contriving again to escape the vigilance of my creditors, I repaired
eagerly to the bookseller's stall, and laid out what little ready
money I possessed, in the purchase of some volumes of Mechanics and
Practical Astronomy. Having arrived at home safely with these, I
devoted every spare moment to their perusal, and soon made such
proficiency in studies of this nature as I thought sufficient for the
execution of my plan. In the intervals of this period I made every
endeavor to conciliate the three creditors who had given me so much
annoyance. In this I finally succeeded--partly by selling enough of my
household furniture to satisfy a moiety of their claim, and partly by
a promise of paying the balance upon completion of a little project
which I told them I had in view, and for assistance in which I
solicited their services. By these means--for they were ignorant
men--I found little difficulty in gaining them over to my purpose.

Matters being thus arranged, I contrived, by the aid of my wife, and
with the greatest secrecy and caution, to dispose of what property I
had remaining, and to borrow, in small sums, under various pretences,
and without paying any attention to my future means of repayment, no
inconsiderable quantity of ready money. With the means thus accruing I
proceeded to purchase at intervals, cambric muslin, very fine, in
pieces of twelve yards each--twine--a lot of the varnish of
caoutchouc--a large and deep basket of wicker-work, made to order--and
several other articles necessary in the construction and equipment of
a balloon of extraordinary dimensions. This I directed my wife to make
up as soon as possible, and gave her all requisite information as to
the particular method of proceeding. In the meantime I worked up the
twine into a net-work of sufficient dimensions, rigged it with a hoop
and the necessary cords, bought a quadrant, a compass, a spyglass, a
common barometer with some important modifications, and two
astronomical instruments not so generally known. I then took
opportunities of conveying by night, to a retired situation east of
Rotterdam, five iron-bound casks, to contain about fifty gallons each,
and one of a larger size--six tinned ware tubes, three inches in
diameter, properly shaped, and ten feet in length--a quantity of _a
particular metallic substance or semi-metal_ which I shall not
name--and a dozen demijohns of _a very common acid_. The gas to be
formed from these latter materials is a gas never yet generated by any
other person than myself--or at least never applied to any similar
purpose. The secret I would make no difficulty in disclosing, but that
it of right belongs to a citizen of Nantz in France, by whom it was
conditionally communicated to myself. The same individual submitted to
me, without being at all aware of my intentions, a method of
constructing balloons from the membrane of a certain animal, through
which substance any escape of gas was nearly an impossibility. I found
it however altogether too expensive, and was not sure, upon the whole,
whether cambric muslin with a coating of gum caoutchouc was not
equally as good. I mention this circumstance, because I think it
probable that hereafter the individual in question may attempt a
balloon ascension with the novel gas and material, I have spoken of,
and I do not wish to deprive him of the honor of a very singular
invention.

On the spot which I intended each of the smaller casks to occupy
respectively during the inflation of the balloon, I privately dug a
hole two feet deep--the holes forming in this manner a circle of
twenty-five feet in diameter. In the centre of this circle, being the
station designed for the large cask, I also dug a hole three feet in
depth. In each of the five smaller holes, I deposited a canister
containing fifty pounds, and in the larger one a keg holding one
hundred and fifty pounds of cannon powder. These--the keg and the
canisters--I connected in a proper manner with covered trains; and
having let into one of the canisters the end of about four feet of
slow-match, I covered up the hole, and placed the cask over it,
leaving the other end of the match protruding about an inch, and
barely visible beyond the cask. I then filled up the remaining holes,
and placed the barrels over them in their destined situation.

Besides the articles above enumerated, I conveyed to the depôt, and
there secreted one of M. Grimm's improvements upon the apparatus for
condensation of the atmospheric air. I found this machine, however, to
require considerable alteration before it could be adapted to the
purposes to which I intended making it applicable. But with severe
labor, and unremitting perseverance, I at length met with entire
success in all my preparations. My balloon was soon completed. It
would contain more than forty thousand cubic feet of gas; would take
me up, I calculated, easily with all my implements, and, if I managed
rightly with one hundred and seventy-five pounds of ballast into the
bargain. It had received three coats of varnish, and I found the
cambric muslin to answer all the purposes of silk itself--quite as
strong and a good deal less expensive.

Every thing being now ready, I exacted from my wife an oath of secrecy
in relation to all my actions from the day of my first visit to the
bookseller's stall, and, promising, on my part, to return as soon as
circumstances would admit, I gave her all the money I had left, and
bade her farewell. Indeed I had little fear on her account. She was
what people call a notable woman, and could manage matters in the
world without my assistance. I believe, to tell the truth, she always
looked upon me as an idle body, a mere makeweight, good for nothing
but building castles in the air, and was rather glad to get rid of me.
It was a dark night when I bade her good bye, and, taking with me, as
_aids-de-camp_, the three creditors who had given me so much trouble,
we carried the balloon, with the car and accoutrements, by a
roundabout way, to the station where the other articles were
deposited. We there found them all unmolested, and I proceeded
immediately to business.

It was the first of April. The night, as I said before, was
dark--there was not a star to be seen, and a drizzling rain falling at
intervals rendered us very uncomfortable. But my chief anxiety was
concerning my balloon, which in spite of the varnish with which it was
defended, began to grow rather heavy with the moisture: my powder also
was liable to damage. I therefore kept my three duns working with
great diligence, pounding down ice around the central cask, and
stirring the acid in the others. They did not cease, however,
importuning me with questions as to what I intended to do with all
this apparatus, and expressed much dissatisfaction at the terrible
labor I made them undergo. They could not perceive, so they said, what
good was likely to result from their getting wet to the skin merely to
take a part in such horrible incantations. I began to get uneasy, and
worked away with all my might--for I verily believe the idiots
supposed that I had entered into a compact with the devil, and that,
in short, what I was now doing was nothing better than it should be. I
was, therefore, in great fear of their leaving me altogether. I
contrived, however, to pacify them by promises of immediate payment as
soon as I could bring the present business to a termination. To these
speeches they gave of course their own interpretation--fancying, no
doubt, that at all events I should come into possession of vast
quantities of ready money; and provided I paid them all I owed, and a
trifle more, in consideration of their services, I dare say they cared
very little what became of either my soul or my carcase.

In about four hours and a half I found the balloon sufficiently
inflated. I attached the car therefore, and put all my implements in
it--not forgetting the condensing apparatus, a copious supply of
water, and a large quantity of provisions, such as pemmican, in which
much nutriment is contained in comparatively little bulk. I also
secured in the car a pair of pigeons and a cat. It was now nearly
day-break, and I thought it high time to take my departure. Dropping a
lighted cigar on the ground, as if by accident, I took the
opportunity, in stooping to pick it up, of igniting privately the
piece of slow match, whose end, as I said before, protruded a very
little beyond the lower rim of one of the smaller casks. This
manoeuvre was totally unperceived on the part of the three duns, and,
jumping into the car, I immediately cut the single cord which held me
to the earth, and was pleased to find that I shot upwards, rapidly
carrying with all ease one hundred and seventy-five pounds of leaden
ballast, and able to have carried up as many more.

Scarcely, however, had I attained the height of fifty yards, when,
roaring and rumbling up after me in the most horrible and tumultuous
manner, came so dense a hurricane of fire, and smoke, and sulphur, and
legs and arms, and gravel, and burning wood, and blazing metal, that
my very heart sunk within me, and I fell down in the bottom of the
car, trembling with unmitigated terror. Indeed I now perceived that I
had entirely overdone the business, and that the main consequences of
the shock were yet to be experienced. Accordingly, in less than a
second, I felt all the blood in my body rushing to my temples, and,
immediately thereupon, a concussion, which I shall never forget, burst
abruptly through the night, and seemed to rip the very firmament
asunder. When I afterwards had time for reflection, I did not fail to
attribute the extreme violence of the explosion, as regarded myself,
to its proper cause--my situation directly above it, and in the exact
line of its greatest power. But at the time I thought only of
preserving my life. The balloon at first collapsed--then furiously
expanded--then whirled round and round with horrible velocity--and
finally, reeling and staggering like a drunken man, hurled me with
great force over the rim of the car, and left me dangling, at a
terrific height, with my head downwards, and my face outwards from the
balloon, by a piece of slender cord about three feet in length, which
hung accidentally through a crevice near the bottom of the
wicker-work, and in which, as I fell, my left foot became most
providentially entangled. It is impossible--utterly impossible--to
form any adequate idea of the horror of my situation. I gasped
convulsively for breath--a shudder resembling a fit of the ague
agitated every nerve and muscle in my frame--I felt my eyes starting
from their sockets--a horrible nausea overwhelmed me--my brain
reeled--and I fainted away.

How long I remained in this state, it is impossible to say. It must,
however, have been no inconsiderable time, for when, at length, I
partially recovered the sense of existence, I found the day breaking,
and the balloon at a prodigious height over a wilderness of ocean, and
not a trace of land to be discovered far and wide within the limits of
the vast horizon. My sensations, however, upon thus recovering, were
by no means so rife with agony as might have been anticipated. Indeed
there was much of incipient madness in the calm survey which I began
to take of my situation. I drew up to my eyes each of my hands, one
after the other, and wondered what occurrence could have given rise to
the swelling of the veins, and the horrible blackness of the finger
nails. I afterwards carefully examined my head, shaking it repeatedly,
and feeling it with minute attention, until I succeeded in satisfying
myself that it was not--as I had more than half suspected--larger than
my balloon. Then, in a knowing manner, I felt in both my breeches
pockets, and missing therefrom a set of tablets and a tooth-pick case,
I endeavored to account for their disappearance, and, not being able
to do so, felt inexpressibly chagrined. It now occurred to me that I
suffered great uneasiness in the joint of my left ankle, and a dim
consciousness of my situation began to glimmer through my mind. But,
strange to say! I was neither astonished nor horror-stricken. If I
felt any emotion at all, it was a kind of chuckling satisfaction at
the cleverness I was about to display in extricating myself from this
dilemma; and I never, for a moment, looked upon my ultimate safety as
a question susceptible of doubt. For a few minutes I remained wrapped
in the profoundest meditation. I have a distinct recollection of
frequently compressing my lips, putting my fore-finger to the side of
my nose, and making use of other gesticulations and grimaces common to
men who, at ease in their arm-chairs, meditate upon matters of
intricacy or importance. Having, as I thought, sufficiently collected
my ideas, I now, with great caution and deliberation, put my hands
behind my back, and unfastened the large iron buckle which belonged to
the waistband of my inexpressibles. This buckle had three teeth,
which, being somewhat rusty, turned with great difficulty upon their
axis. I brought them however, after some trouble, at right angles to
the body of the buckle, and was glad to find them remain firm in that
position. Holding the instrument thus obtained, within my teeth, I now
proceeded to untie the knot of my cravat. I had to rest several times
before I could accomplish this manoeuvre--but it was at length
accomplished. To one end of the cravat I then made fast the buckle,
and the other end I tied, for greater security, tightly around my
wrist. Drawing now, my body upwards, with a prodigious exertion of
muscular force, I succeeded, at the very first trial, in throwing the
buckle over the car, and entangling it, as I had anticipated, in the
circular rim of the wicker-work.

My body was now inclined towards the side of the car, at an angle of
about forty-five degrees--but it must not be understood that I was
therefore only forty-five degrees below the perpendicular. So far from
it, I still lay nearly level with the plane of the horizon--for the
change of situation which I had acquired, had forced the bottom of the
car considerably outwards from my position, which was accordingly one
of the most imminent and dangerous peril. It should be remembered,
however, that when I fell, in the first instance, from the car, if I
had fallen with my face turned towards the balloon, instead of turned
outwardly from it as it actually was--or if, in the second place, the
cord by which I was suspended had chanced to hang over the upper edge,
instead of through a crevice near the bottom of the car,--I say it may
readily be conceived that, in either of these supposed cases, I should
have been unable to accomplish even as much as I had now accomplished,
and the wonderful adventures of Hans Phaall would have been utterly
lost to posterity. I had therefore every reason to be
grateful--although, in point of fact, I was still too stupid to be
anything at all, and hung for, I suppose, a quarter of an hour, in
that extraordinary manner, without making the slightest farther
exertion whatsoever, and in a singularly tranquil state of idiotic
enjoyment. But this feeling did not fail to die rapidly away, and
thereunto succeeded horror, and dismay, and a chilling sense of utter
helplessness and ruin. In fact, the blood so long accumulating in the
vessels of my head and throat, and which had hitherto buoyed up my
spirits with madness and delirium, had now begun to retire within
their proper channels, and the distinctness which was thus added to my
perception of the danger, merely served to deprive me of the
self-possession and courage to encounter it. But this weakness was,
luckily for me, of no very long duration. In good time came to my
rescue the spirit of despair, and amid horrible curses and convulsive
struggles, I jerked my way bodily upwards, till at length, clutching
with a vice-like grip the long-desired rim, I writhed my person over
it, and fell headlong and shuddering within the car. It was not until
sometime afterwards that I recovered myself sufficiently to attend to
the ordinary cares of the balloon. I then, however, examined it with
attention, and found it, to my great relief, uninjured. My implements
were all safe, and I had fortunately lost neither ballast nor
provisions. Indeed, I had so well secured them in their places, that
such an accident was entirely out of the question. Looking at my
watch, I found it six o'clock. I was still rapidly ascending, and my
barometer showed a present altitude of three and three quarter miles.
Immediately beneath me in the ocean, lay a small black object,
slightly oblong in shape, seemingly about the size, and in every way
bearing a great resemblance to one of those childish toys called a
domino. Bringing my spy-glass to bear upon it, I plainly discerned it
to be a British ninety-four gun ship, close-hauled, and pitching
heavily in the sea with her head to the W. S. W. Besides this ship, I
saw nothing but the ocean and the sky, and the sun, which had long
arisen.

It is now high time that I should explain to your Excellencies the
object of my perilous voyage. Your Excellencies will bear in mind,
that distressed circumstances in Rotterdam, had at length driven me to
the resolution of committing suicide. It was not, however, that to
life itself I had any positive disgust--but that I was harassed beyond
endurance by the adventitious miseries attending my situation. In this
state of mind--wishing to live, yet wearied with life--the treatise at
the stall of the bookseller opened a resource to my imagination. I
then finally made up my mind. I determined to depart, yet live--to
leave the world, yet continue to exist--in short, to drop enigmas, I
resolved, let what would ensue, to force a passage, if I could--to the
moon. Now, lest I should be supposed more of a madman than I actually
am, I will detail, as well as I am able, the considerations which led
me to believe that an achievement of this nature, although without
doubt difficult, and incontestably full of danger, was not absolutely,
to a bold spirit, beyond the confines of the possible.

The moon's actual distance from the earth was the first thing to be
attended to. Now the mean or average interval between the _centres_ of
the two planets is 59.9643 of the earth's equatorial radii, or only
about 237000 miles. I say the mean or average interval. But it must be
borne in mind, that the form of the moon's orbit being an ellipse of
eccentricity, amounting to no less than 0.05484 of the major semi-axis
of the ellipse itself, and the earth's centre being situated in its
focus, if I could, in any manner, contrive to meet the moon, as it
were, in its perigee, the above-mentioned distance would be materially
diminished. But to say nothing, at present, of this possibility, it
was very certain, that at all events, from the 237000 miles I should
have to deduct the radius of the earth, say 4000, and the radius of
the moon, say 1080, in all 5080, leaving an actual interval to be
traversed, under average circumstances, of 231920 miles. Now this, I
reflected, was no very extraordinary distance. Travelling on land has
been repeatedly accomplished at the rate of thirty miles per hour, and
indeed a much greater speed may be anticipated. But even at this
velocity, it would take me no more than 322 days to reach the surface
of the moon. There were, however, many particulars inducing me to
believe that my average rate of travelling might possibly very much
exceed that of thirty miles per hour, and, as these considerations did
not fail to make a deep impression upon my mind, I will mention them
more fully hereafter.

The next point to be regarded, was a matter of far greater importance.
From indications afforded by the barometer, we find that, in
ascensions from the surface of the earth, we have, at the height of
1000 feet, left below us, about one-thirtieth of the entire mass of
atmospheric air--that at 10600, we have ascended through nearly one
third--and that at 18000, which is not far from the elevation of
Cotopaxi, we have surmounted one half of the material, or, at all
events, one half the _ponderable_ body of air incumbent upon our
globe. It is also calculated, that at an altitude not exceeding the
hundredth part of the earth's diameter--that is, not exceeding eighty
miles--the rarefaction would be so excessive, that animal life could,
in no manner, be sustained, and moreover, that the most delicate means
we possess of ascertaining the presence of the atmosphere, would be
inadequate to assure us of its existence. But I did not fail to
perceive that these latter calculations are founded altogether on our
experimental knowledge of the properties of air, and the mechanical
laws regulating its dilation and compression in what may be called,
comparatively speaking, _the immediate vicinity_ of the earth itself;
and, at the same time, it is taken for granted, that animal life is,
and must be, essentially _incapable of modification_ at any given
unattainable distance from the surface. Now all such reasoning, and
from such data, must of course be simply analogical. The greatest
height ever reached by man, was that of 25000 feet, attained in the
aeronautic expedition of Messieurs Gay-Lussac and Biot. This is a
moderate altitude, even when compared with the eighty miles in
question; and I could not help thinking that the subject admitted room
for doubt, and great latitude for speculation.

But, in point of fact, an ascension being made to any stated altitude,
the ponderable quantity of air surmounted in any _farther_ ascension,
is by no means in proportion to the additional height ascended, (as
may be plainly seen from what has been stated before) but in a ratio
constantly decreasing. It is therefore evident that, ascend as high as
we may, we cannot, literally speaking, arrive at a limit beyond which
no atmosphere is to be found. It _must exist_, I argued, it _may_
exist in a state of infinite rarefaction.

On the other hand, I was aware that arguments have not been wanting to
prove the existence of a real and definite limit to the atmosphere,
beyond which there is absolutely no air whatsoever. But a circumstance
which has been left out of view by those who contend for such a limit,
seemed to me, although no positive refutation of their creed, still a
point worthy very serious investigation. On comparing the intervals
between the successive arrivals of Encke's comet at its perihelion,
after giving credit, in the most exact manner, for all the
disturbances or perturbations due to the attractions of the planets,
it appears that the periods are gradually diminishing--that is to
say--the major axis of the comet's ellipse is growing shorter, in a
slow but perfectly regular decrease. Now this is precisely what ought
to be the case, if we suppose a resistance experienced by the comet
from an extremely _rare etherial medium_ pervading the regions of its
orbit. For it is evident that such a medium must, in retarding its
velocity, increase its centripetal, by weakening its centrifugal
force. In other words, the sun's attraction would be constantly
attaining greater power, and the comet would be drawn nearer at every
revolution. Indeed, there is no other way of accounting for the
variation in question. But again. The real diameter of the same
comet's nebulosity, is observed to contract rapidly as it approaches
the sun, and dilate with equal rapidity in its departure towards its
aphelion. Was I not justifiable in supposing, with M. Valz, that this
apparent condensation of volume has its origin in the compression of
the same etherial medium I have spoken of before, and which is only
denser in proportion to its solar vicinity? The lenticular-shaped
phenomenon, also, called the zodiacal light, was a matter worthy of
attention. This radiance, so apparent in the tropics, and which cannot
be mistaken for any meteoric lustre, extends from the horizon
obliquely upwards, and follows generally the direction of the sun's
equator. It appeared to me evidently, in the nature of a rare
atmosphere extending from the sun outwards, beyond the orbit of Venus
at least, and I believed indefinitely farther. Indeed, this medium I
could not suppose confined to the path of the comet's ellipse, or the
immediate neighborhood of the sun. It was easy, on the contrary, to
imagine it pervading the entire regions of our planetary system,
condensed into what we call atmosphere at the planets themselves, and
in some of them modified by considerations, so to speak, purely
geological.

Having adopted this view of the subject, I had little farther
hesitation. Granting that on my passage I should meet with atmosphere
_essentially_ the same as at the surface of the earth, I conceived
that, by means of the very ingenious apparatus of M. Grimm, I should
readily be enabled to condense it in sufficient quantities for the
purpose of respiration. This would remove the chief obstacle in a
journey to the moon. I had indeed spent some money and great labor in
adapting the apparatus to the purposes intended, and I confidently
looked forward to its successful application, if I could manage to
complete the voyage within any reasonable period. This brings me back
to the _rate_ at which it might be possible to travel.

It is true that balloons, in the first stage of their ascensions from
the earth, are known to rise with a velocity comparatively moderate.
Now the power of elevation lies altogether in the superior lightness
of the gas in the balloon, compared with the atmospheric air; and, at
first sight, it does not appear probable that, as the balloon acquires
altitude, and consequently arrives successively in atmospheric strata
of densities rapidly diminishing--I say it does not appear at all
reasonable that, in this its progress upwards, the original velocity
should be accelerated. On the other hand, I was not aware that, in any
recorded ascension, a diminution was apparent in the absolute rate of
ascent--although such should have been the case, if on account of
nothing else, on account of the escape of gas through balloons
ill-constructed, and varnished with no better material than the
ordinary varnish. It seemed, therefore, that the effect of such an
escape was only sufficient to counterbalance the effect of some
accelerating power. I now considered, that provided in my passage I
found the medium I had imagined, and provided it should prove to be
actually and _essentially_ what we denominate atmospheric air, it
could make comparatively little difference at what extreme state of
rarefaction I should discover it--that is to say, in regard to my
power of ascending--for the gas in the balloon would not only be
itself subject to a rarefaction partially similar, but, _being what it
was_, would still, at all events, continue specifically lighter than
any compound whatever of mere nitrogen and oxygen. In the meantime the
force of gravitation would be constantly diminishing, in proportion to
the squares of the distances, and thus, with a velocity prodigiously
accelerating, I should at length arrive in those distant regions where
the power of the earth's attractions would be superseded by the
moon's. In accordance with these ideas, I did not think it worth while
to encumber myself with more provisions than would be sufficient for a
period of forty days.

There was still, however, another difficulty which occasioned me some
little disquietude. It has been observed, that in all balloon
ascensions to any considerable height, besides the pain attending
respiration, great uneasiness is invariably experienced about the head
and body, often accompanied with bleeding at the nose, and other
symptoms of an alarming kind, and growing more and more inconvenient
in proportion to the altitude attained. This was a reflection of a
nature somewhat startling. Was it not probable that these symptoms
would increase indefinitely, or at least until terminated by death
itself? I finally thought not. Their origin was to be looked for in
the progressive removal of the _customary_ atmospheric pressure upon
the surface of the body, and consequent distension of the superficial
blood-vessels--not in any positive disorganization of the animal
system, as in the case of difficulty in breathing, where the
atmospheric density is _chemically insufficient_ for the purpose of a
due renovation of blood in a ventricle of the heart. Unless for
default of this renovation, I could see no reason, therefore, why life
could not be sustained even in a _vacuum_--for the expansion and
compression of chest, commonly called breathing, is action purely
muscular, and the _cause_, not the _effect_, of respiration. In a
word, I conceived that, as the body should become habituated to the
want of atmospheric pressure, these sensations of pain would gradually
diminish, and to endure them while they continued, I relied strongly
upon the iron hardihood of my constitution.

Thus, it may please your Excellencies, I have detailed some, though by
no means all the considerations which led me to form the project of a
lunar voyage. I shall now proceed to lay before you, the result of an
attempt so apparently audacious in conception, and, at all events, so
utterly unparalleled in the annals of human kind.

Having attained the altitude before mentioned, that is to say, three
miles and three quarters, I threw out from the car a quantity of
feathers, and found that I still ascended with sufficient
rapidity--there was, therefore, no necessity for discharging any
ballast. I was glad of this, for I wished to retain with me as much
weight as I could carry, for reasons which will be explained in the
sequel. I as yet suffered no bodily inconvenience, breathing with
great freedom, and feeling no pain whatever in the head. The cat was
lying very demurely upon my coat, which I had taken off, and eyeing
the pigeons with an air of _non chalance_. These latter being tied by
the leg, to prevent their escape, were busily employed in picking up
some grains of rice scattered for them in the bottom of the car.

At twenty minutes past six o'clock, the barometer showed an elevation
of 26,400 feet, or five miles to a fraction. The prospect seemed
unbounded. Indeed, it is very easily calculated by means of spherical
geometry, what a great extent of the earth's area I beheld. The convex
surface of any segment of a sphere is, to the entire surface of the
sphere itself, as the versed sine of the segment is to the diameter of
the sphere. Now in my case, the versed sine--that is to say, the
_thickness_ of the segment beneath me, was about equal to my
elevation, or the elevation of the point of sight above the surface.
"As five miles, then, to eight thousand," would express the proportion
of the earth's area seen by me. In other words, I beheld as much as a
sixteen-hundredth part of the whole surface of the globe. The sea
appeared unruffled as a mirror, although, by means of the spy-glass, I
could perceive it to be in a state of violent agitation. The ship was
no longer visible, having drifted away, apparently, to the eastward. I
now began to experience, at intervals, severe pain in the head,
especially about the ears--still, however, breathing with tolerable
freedom. The cat and pigeons seemed to suffer no inconvenience
whatsoever.

At twenty minutes before seven, the balloon entered within a long
series of dense cloud, which put me to great trouble, by damaging my
condensing apparatus, and wetting me to the skin. This was, to be
sure, a singular _rencontre_, for I had not believed it possible that
a cloud of this nature could be sustained at so great an elevation. I
thought it best, however, to throw out two five pound pieces of
ballast, reserving still a weight of one hundred and sixty-five
pounds. Upon so doing, I soon rose above the difficulty, and perceived
immediately, that I had obtained a great increase in my rate of
ascent. In a few seconds after my leaving the cloud, a flash of vivid
lightning shot from one end of it to the other, and caused it to
kindle up, throughout its vast extent, like a mass of ignited and
glowing charcoal. This, it must be remembered, was in the broad light
of day. No fancy may picture the sublimity which might have been
exhibited by a similar phenomenon taking place amid the darkness of
the night. Hell itself might then have found a fitting image. Even as
it was, my hair stood on end, while I gazed afar down within the
yawning abysses, letting imagination descend, as it were, and stalk
about in the strange vaulted halls, and ruddy gulfs, and red ghastly
chasms of the hideous, and unfathomable fire. I had indeed made a
narrow escape. Had the balloon remained a very short while longer
within the cloud--that is to say--had not the inconvenience of getting
wet determined me to discharge the ballast, inevitable ruin would have
been the consequence. Such perils, although little considered, are
perhaps the greatest which must be encountered in balloons. I had by
this time, however, attained too great an elevation to be any longer
uneasy on this head.

I was now rising rapidly, and by seven o'clock the barometer indicated
an altitude of no less than nine miles and a half. I began to find
great difficulty in drawing my breath. My head too was excessively
painful; and, having felt for some time a moisture about my cheeks, I
at length discovered it to be blood, which was oozing quite fast from
the drums of my ears. My eyes, also, gave me great uneasiness. Upon
passing the hand over them they seemed to have protruded from their
sockets in no inconsiderable degree, and all objects in the car, and
even the balloon itself appeared distorted to my vision. These
symptoms were more than I had expected, and occasioned me some alarm.
At this juncture, very imprudently and without consideration, I threw
out from the car three five pound pieces of ballast. The accelerated
rate of ascent thus obtained carried me too rapidly, and without
sufficient gradation, into a highly rarefied stratum of the
atmosphere, and the result had nearly proved fatal to my expedition
and to myself. I was suddenly seized with a spasm which lasted for
better than five minutes, and even when this, in a measure, ceased, I
could catch my breath only at long intervals, and in a gasping
manner--bleeding all the while copiously at the nose and ears, and
even slightly at the eyes. The pigeons appeared distressed in the
extreme, and struggled to escape; while the cat mewed piteously, and,
with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, staggered to and fro in the
car as if under the influence of poison. I now too late discovered the
great rashness I had been guilty of in discharging the ballast, and my
agitation was excessive. I anticipated nothing less than death, and
death in a few minutes. The physical suffering I underwent contributed
also to render me nearly incapable of making any exertion for the
preservation of my life. I had, indeed, little power of reflection
left, and the violence of the pain in my head seemed to be greatly on
the increase. Thus I found that my senses would shortly give way
altogether, and I had already clutched one of the valve ropes with the
view of attempting a descent, when the recollection of the trick I had
played the three creditors, and the inevitable consequences to myself,
should I return to Rotterdam, operated to deter me for the moment. I
lay down in the bottom of the car, and endeavored to collect my
faculties. In this I so far succeeded as to determine upon the
experiment of losing blood. Having no lancet, however, I was
constrained to perform the operation in the best manner I was able,
and finally succeeded in opening a vein in my right arm, with the
blade of my penknife. The blood had hardly commenced flowing when I
experienced a sensible relief, and by the time I had lost about half a
moderate basin full, most of the worst symptoms had abandoned me
entirely. I nevertheless did not think it expedient to attempt getting
on my feet immediately; but, having tied up my arm as well as I could,
I lay still for about a quarter of an hour. At the end of this time I
arose, and found myself freer from absolute _pain_ of any kind than I
had been during the last hour and a quarter of my ascension. The
difficulty of breathing, however, was diminished in a very slight
degree, and I found that it would soon be positively necessary to make
use of my condenser. In the meantime looking towards the cat, who was
again snugly stowed away upon my coat, I discovered, to my infinite
surprise, that she had taken the opportunity of my indisposition to
bring into light a litter of three little kittens. This was an
addition to the number of passengers on my part altogether unexpected;
but I was pleased at the occurrence. It would afford me a chance of
bringing to a kind of test the truth of a surmise, which, more than
anything else, had influenced me in attempting this ascension. I had
imagined that the _habitual_ endurance of the atmospheric pressure at
the surface of the earth was the cause, or nearly so, of the pain
attending animal existence at a distance above the surface. Should the
kittens be found to suffer uneasiness _in an equal degree with their
mother_, I must consider my theory in fault, but a failure to do so I
should look upon as a strong confirmation of my idea.

By eight o'clock I had actually attained an elevation of seventeen
miles above the surface of the earth. Thus it seemed to me evident
that my rate of ascent was not only on the increase, but that the
progression would have been apparent in a slight degree even had I not
discharged the ballast which I did. The pains in my head and ears
returned, at intervals, with violence, and I still continued to bleed
occasionally at the nose: but, upon the whole, I suffered much less
than might have been expected. I breathed, however, at every moment,
with more and more difficulty, and each inhalation was attended with a
troublesome spasmodic action of the chest. I now unpacked the
condensing apparatus, and got it ready for immediate use. The view of
the earth, at this period of my ascension, was beautiful indeed. To
the westward, the northward, and the southward, as far as I could see,
lay a boundless sheet of apparently unruffled ocean, which every
moment gained a deeper and a deeper tint of blue, and began already to
assume a slight appearance of convexity. At a vast distance to the
eastward, although perfectly discernible, extended the islands of
Great Britain, the entire Atlantic coasts of France and Spain, with a
small portion of the northern part of the continent of Africa. Of
individual edifices not a trace could be discovered, and the proudest
cities of mankind had utterly faded away from the face of the earth.
From the rock of Gibraltar, now dwindled into a dim speck, the dark
Mediterranean sea, dotted with shining islands as the heaven is dotted
with stars, spread itself out to the eastward as far as my vision
extended, until its entire mass of waters seemed at length to tumble
headlong over the abyss of the horizon, and I found myself listening
on tiptoe for the echoes of the mighty cataract.

The pigeons about this time seeming to undergo much suffering, I
determined upon giving them their liberty. I first untied one of
them--a beautiful gray-mottled pigeon--and placed him upon the rim of
the wicker-work. He appeared extremely uneasy, looking anxiously
around him, fluttering his wings, and making a loud cooing noise--but
could not be persuaded to trust himself from off the car. I took him
up at last, and threw him to about half a dozen yards from the
balloon. He made, however, no attempt to descend as I had expected,
but struggled with great vehemence to get back, uttering at the same
time very shrill and piercing cries. He at length succeeded in
regaining his former station on the rim--but had hardly done so when
his head dropped upon his breast, and he fell dead within the car. The
other one did not prove so unfortunate. To prevent his following the
example of his companion, and accomplishing a return, I threw him
downwards with all my force, and was pleased to find him continue his
descent, with great velocity, making use of his wings with ease, and
in a perfectly natural manner. In a very short time he was out of
sight, and I have no doubt he reached home in safety. Puss, who seemed
in a great measure recovered from her illness, now made a hearty meal
of the dead bird, and then went to sleep with much apparent
satisfaction. Her kittens were quite lively, and so far evinced not
the slightest sign of any uneasiness whatever.

At a quarter past eight, being able no longer to draw breath at all
without the most intolerable pain, I proceeded, forthwith, to adjust
around the car the apparatus belonging to the condenser. This
apparatus will require some little explanation, and your Excellencies
will please to bear in mind that my object, in the first place, was to
surround myself and car entirely with a barricade against the highly
rarefied atmosphere in which I was existing--with the intention of
introducing within this barricade, by means of my condenser, a
quantity of this same atmosphere sufficiently condensed for the
purposes of respiration. With this object in view I had prepared a
very strong, perfectly air-tight, but flexible gum-elastic bag. In
this bag, which was of sufficient dimensions, the entire car was in a
manner placed. That is to say, it (the bag) was drawn over the whole
bottom of the car--up its sides--and so on, along the outside of the
ropes, to the upper rim or hoop where the net-work is attached. Having
pulled the bag up in this way, and formed a complete enclosure on all
sides, and at bottom, it was now necessary to fasten up its top or
mouth, by passing its material over the hoop of the net-work--in other
words between the net-work and the hoop. But if the net-work was
separated from the hoop to admit this passage, what was to sustain the
car in the meantime? Now the net-work was not permanently fastened to
the hoop, but attached by a series of running loops or nooses. I
therefore undid only a few of these loops at one time, leaving the car
suspended by the remainder. Having thus inserted a portion of the
cloth forming the upper part of the bag, I re-fastened the loops--not
to the hoop, for that would have been impossible, since the cloth now
intervened,--but to a series of large buttons, affixed to the cloth
itself, about three feet below the mouth of the bag--the intervals
between the buttons having been made to correspond to the intervals
between the loops. This done, a few more of the loops were unfastened
from the rim, a farther portion of the cloth introduced, and the
disengaged loops then connected with their proper buttons. In this way
it was possible to insert the whole upper part of the bag between the
net-work and the hoop. It is evident that the hoop would now drop down
within the car, while the whole weight of the car itself, with all its
contents, would be held up merely by the strength of the buttons.
This, at first sight, would seem an inadequate dependence, but it was
by no means so, for the buttons were not only very strong in
themselves, but so close together that a very slight portion of the
whole weight was supported by any one of them. Indeed had the car and
contents been three times heavier than they were, I should not have
been at all uneasy. I now raised up the hoop again within the covering
of gum-elastic, and propped it at nearly its former height by means of
three light poles prepared for the occasion. This was done, of course,
to keep the bag distended at the top, and to preserve the lower part
of the net-work in its proper situation. All that now remained was to
fasten up the mouth of the enclosure; and this was readily
accomplished by gathering the folds of the material together, and
twisting them up very tightly on the inside by means of a kind of
stationary tourniquet.

In the sides of the covering thus adjusted round the car, had been
inserted three circular panes of thick but clear glass, through which
I could see without difficulty around me in every horizontal
direction. In that portion of the cloth forming the bottom, was
likewise a fourth window, of the same kind, and corresponding with a
small aperture in the floor of the car itself. This enabled me to see
perpendicularly down, but having found it impossible to place any
similar contrivance overhead, on account of the peculiar manner of
closing up the opening there, and the consequent wrinkles in the
cloth, I could expect to see no objects situated directly in my
zenith. This, of course, was a matter of little consequence--for, had
I even been able to place a window at top, the balloon itself would
have prevented my making any use of it.

About a foot below one of the side windows was a circular opening
eight inches in diameter, and fitted with a brass rim adapted in its
inner edge to the windings of a screw. In this rim was screwed the
large tube of the condenser, the body of the machine being, of course,
within the chamber of gum-elastic. Through this tube a quantity of the
rare atmosphere circumjacent being drawn by means of a vacuum created
in the body of the machine, was thence discharged in a state of
condensation to mingle with the thin air already in the chamber. This
operation, being repeated several times, at length filled the chamber
with atmosphere proper for all the purposes of respiration. But in so
confined a space it would in a short time necessarily become foul, and
unfit for use from frequent contact with the lungs. It was then
ejected by a small valve at the bottom of the car--the dense air
readily sinking into the thinner atmosphere below. To avoid the
inconvenience of making a total _vacuum_ at any moment within the
chamber this purification was never accomplished all at once, but in a
gradual manner,--the valve being opened only for a few seconds, then
closed again, until one or two strokes from the pump of the condenser
had supplied the place of the atmosphere ejected. For the sake of
experiment I had put the cat and kittens in a small basket, and
suspended it outside the car to a button at the bottom, close by the
valve, through which I could feed them at any moment when necessary. I
did this at some little risk, and before closing the mouth of the
chamber, by reaching under the car with one of the poles
before-mentioned to which a hook had been attached.

By the time I had fully completed these arrangements and filled the
chamber as explained, it wanted only ten minutes of nine o'clock.
During the whole period of my being thus employed I endured the most
terrible distress from difficulty of respiration, and bitterly did I
repent the negligence, or rather fool-hardiness, of which I had been
guilty in putting off to the very last moment a matter of so much
importance. But having at length accomplished it, I soon began to reap
the benefit of my invention. Once again I breathed with perfect
freedom and ease--and indeed why should I not? I was also agreeably
surprised to find myself, in a great measure, relieved from the
violent pains which had hitherto tormented me. A slight headach,
accompanied with a sensation of fulness or distension about the
wrists, the ancles, and the throat, was nearly all of which I had now
to complain. Thus it seemed evident that a greater part of the
uneasiness attending the removal of atmospheric pressure had actually
_worn off_, as I had expected, and that much of the pain endured for
the last two hours should have been attributed altogether to the
effects of a deficient respiration.

At twenty minutes before nine o'clock--that is to say--a short time
prior to my closing up the mouth of the chamber, the mercury attained
its limit, or ran down, in the barometer, which, as I mentioned
before, was one of an extended construction. It then indicated an
altitude on my part of 132000 feet, or five and twenty miles, and I
consequently surveyed at that time an extent of the earth's area
amounting to no less than the three-hundred-and-twentieth part of its
entire superficies. At nine o'clock I had again entirely lost sight of
land to the eastward, but not before I became fully aware that the
balloon was drifting rapidly to the N. N. W. The convexity of the
ocean beneath me was very evident indeed--although my view was often
interrupted by the masses of cloud which floated to and fro. I
observed now that even the lightest vapors never rose to more than ten
miles above the level of the sea.

At half past nine I tried the experiment of throwing out a handful of
feathers through the valve. They did not float as I had expected--but
dropped down perpendicularly, like a bullet, _en masse_, and with the
greatest velocity--being out of sight in a very few seconds. I did not
at first know what to make of this extraordinary phenomenon: not being
able to believe that my rate of ascent had, of a sudden, met with so
prodigious an acceleration. But it soon occurred to me that the
atmosphere was now far too rare to sustain even the feathers--that
they actually fell, as they appeared to do, with great rapidity--and
that I had been surprised by the united velocities of their descent
and my own elevation.

By ten o'clock I found that I had very little to occupy my immediate
attention. Affairs went on swimmingly, and I believed the balloon to
be going upwards with a speed increasing momentarily, although I had
no longer any means of ascertaining the progression of the increase. I
suffered no pain or uneasiness of any kind, and enjoyed better spirits
than I had at any period since my departure from Rotterdam, busying
myself now in examining the state of my various apparatus, and now in
regenerating the atmosphere within the chamber. This latter point I
determined to attend to at regular intervals of forty minutes, more on
account of the preservation of my health, than from so frequent a
renovation being absolutely necessary. In the meanwhile I could not
help making anticipations. Fancy revelled in the wild and dreamy
regions of the moon. Imagination, feeling herself for once unshackled,
roamed at will among the ever-changing wonders of a shadowy and
unstable land. Now there were hoary and time-honored forests, and
craggy precipices, and waterfalls tumbling with a loud noise into
abysses without a bottom. Then I came suddenly into still noon-day
solitudes where no wind of heaven ever intruded, and where vast
meadows of poppies, and slender, lily-looking flowers spread
themselves out a weary distance, all silent and motionless forever.
Then again I journeyed far down away into another country where it was
all one dim and vague lake, with a boundary-line of clouds. And out of
this melancholy water arose a forest of tall eastern trees, like a
wilderness of dreams. And I bore in mind that the shadows of the trees
which fell upon the lake remained not on the surface where they
fell--but sunk slowly and steadily down, and commingled with the
waves, while from the trunks of the trees other shadows were
continually coming out, and taking the place of their brothers thus
entombed. "This then," I said thoughtfully, "is the very reason why
the waters of this lake grow blacker with age, and more melancholy as
the hours run on." But fancies such as these were not the sole
possessors of my brain. Horrors of a nature most stern and most
appaling would too frequently obtrude themselves upon my mind, and
shake the innermost depths of my soul with the bare supposition of
their possibility. Yet I would not suffer my thoughts for any length
of time to dwell upon these latter speculations, rightly judging the
real and palpable dangers of the voyage sufficient for my undivided
attention.

At five o'clock P.M. being engaged in regenerating the atmosphere
within the chamber, I took that opportunity of observing the cat and
kittens through the valve. The cat herself appeared to suffer again
very much, and I had no hesitation in attributing her uneasiness
chiefly to a difficulty in breathing--but my experiment with the
kittens had resulted very strangely. I had expected of course to see
them betray a sense of pain, although in a less degree than their
mother; and this would have been sufficient to confirm my opinion
concerning the habitual endurance of atmospheric pressure. But I was
not prepared to find them, upon close examination, evidently enjoying
a high degree of health, breathing with the greatest ease and perfect
regularity, and evincing not the slightest sign of any uneasiness
whatever. I could only account for all this by extending my theory,
and supposing that the highly rarefied atmosphere around might perhaps
not be, as I had taken for granted, chemically insufficient for the
purposes of life, and that a person born in such a medium might
possibly be unaware of any inconvenience attending its inhalation,
while, upon removal to the denser strata near the earth, he might
endure tortures of a similar nature to those I had so lately
experienced. It has since been to me a matter of deep regret that an
awkward accident at this time occasioned me the loss of my little
family of cats, and deprived me of the insight into this matter which
a continued experiment might have afforded. In passing my hand through
the valve with a cup of water for the old puss, the sleeve of my shirt
became entangled in the loop which sustained the basket, and thus, in
a moment, loosened it from the button. Had the whole actually vanished
into air it could not have shot from my sight in a more abrupt and
instantaneous manner. Positively there could not have intervened the
tenth part of a second between the disengagement of the basket and its
absolute and total disappearance with all that it contained. My good
wishes followed it to the earth, but, of course, I had no hope that
either cat or kittens would ever live to tell the tale of their
misfortune.

At six o'clock I perceived a great portion of the earth's visible area
to the eastward involved in thick shadow, which continued to advance
with great rapidity until, at five minutes before seven, the whole
surface in view was enveloped in the darkness of night. It was not,
however, until long after this time that the rays of the setting sun
ceased to illumine the balloon; and this circumstance, although of
course fully anticipated, did not fail to give me an infinite deal of
pleasure. It was evident that, in the morning, I should behold the
rising luminary many hours at least before the citizens of Rotterdam,
in spite of their situation so much farther to the eastward, and thus,
day after day, in proportion to the height ascended, would I enjoy the
light of the sun for a longer and a longer period. I now determined to
keep a journal of my passage, reckoning the days from one to
twenty-four hours continuously, without taking into consideration the
intervals of darkness.

At ten o'clock, feeling sleepy, I determined to lie down for the rest
of the night--but here a difficulty presented itself, which, obvious
as it may appear, had totally escaped my attention up to the very
moment of which I am now speaking. If I went to sleep as I proposed,
how could the atmosphere in the chamber be regenerated in the interim?
To breathe it for more than an hour, at the farthest, would be a
matter of impossibility; or if even this term could be extended to an
hour and a quarter, the most ruinous consequences might ensue. The
consideration of this dilemma gave me no little disquietude, and it
will hardly be believed that, after the dangers I had undergone, I
should look upon this business in so serious a light, as to give up
all hope of accomplishing my ultimate design, and finally make up my
mind to the necessity of a descent. But this hesitation was only
momentary. I reflected that man is the veriest slave of custom--and
that many points in the routine of his existence are deemed
_essentially_ important, which are only so _at all_ by his having
rendered them habitual. It was very certain that I could not do
without sleep--but I might easily bring myself to feel no
inconvenience from being awakened at regular intervals of an hour
during the whole period of my repose. It would require but five
minutes at most, to regenerate the atmosphere in the fullest manner,
and the only real difficulty was to contrive a method of arousing
myself at the proper moment for so doing. But this was a question
which I am willing to confess, occasioned me no little trouble in its
solution. To be sure, I had heard of the student who, to prevent his
falling asleep over his books, held in one hand a ball of copper, the
din of whose descent into a basin of the same metal on the floor
beside his chair, served effectually to startle him up, if, at any
moment, he should be overcome with drowsiness. My own case, however,
was very different indeed, and left me no room for any similar
idea--for I did not wish to keep awake, but to be aroused from slumber
at regular intervals of time. I at length hit upon the following
expedient, which, simple as it may seem, was hailed by me, at the
moment of discovery, as an invention fully equal to that of the
telescope, the steam-engine, or the art of printing itself.

It is necessary to premise that the balloon, at the elevation now
attained, continued its course upwards with an even and undeviating
ascent, and the car consequently followed with a steadiness so perfect
that it would have been impossible to detect in it the slightest
vacillation whatever. This circumstance favored me greatly in the
project I now determined to adopt. My supply of water had been put on
board in kegs containing five gallons each, and ranged very securely
around the interior of the car. I unfastened one of these--took two
ropes, and tied them tightly across the rim of the wicker-work from
one side to the other, placing them about a foot apart and parallel,
so as to form a kind of shelf, upon which I placed the keg and
steadied it in a horizontal position. About eight inches immediately
below these ropes, and four feet from the bottom of the car, I
fastened another shelf--but made of thin plank, being the only similar
piece of wood I had. Upon this latter shelf, and exactly beneath one
of the rims of the keg a small earthen pitcher was deposited. I now
bored a hole in the end of the keg over the pitcher, and fitted in a
plug of soft wood, cut in a tapering or conical shape. This plug I
pushed in or pulled out, as might happen, until, after a few
experiments it arrived at that exact degree of tightness, at which the
water oozing from the hole, and falling into the pitcher below, should
fill the latter to the brim in the period of sixty minutes. This, of
course, was a matter briefly and easily ascertained by noticing the
proportion of the pitcher filling in any given time. Having arranged
all this, the rest of the plan is obvious. My bed was so contrived
upon the floor of the car, as to bring my head, in lying down,
immediately below the mouth of the pitcher. It was evident, that, at
the expiration of an hour, the pitcher, getting full, would be forced
to run over, and to run over at the mouth, which was somewhat lower
than the rim. It was also evident that the water, thus falling from a
height of better than four feet, could not do otherwise than fall upon
my face, and that the sure consequence would be, to waken me up
instantaneously, even from the soundest slumber in the world.

It was fully eleven by the time I had completed these arrangements,
and I immediately betook myself to bed with full confidence in the
efficiency of my invention. Nor in this matter was I disappointed.
Punctually every sixty minutes was I aroused by my trusty chronometer,
when, having emptied the pitcher into the bung-hole of the keg, and
performed the duties of the condenser, I retired again to bed. These
regular interruptions to my slumber caused me even less discomfort
than I had anticipated, and when I finally arose for the day it was
seven o'clock, and the sun had attained many degrees above the line of
my horizon.

_April 3d_. I found the balloon at an immense height indeed, and the
earth's apparent convexity increased in a material degree. Below me in
the ocean lay a cluster of black specks, which undoubtedly were
islands. Far away to the northward I perceived a thin, white, and
exceedingly brilliant line or streak on the edge of the horizon, and I
had no hesitation in supposing it to be the southern disk of the ices
of the Polar sea. My curiosity was greatly excited, for I had hopes of
passing on much farther to the north, and might possibly, at some
period, find myself placed directly above the Pole itself. I now
lamented that my great elevation would, in this case, prevent my
taking as accurate a survey as I could wish. Much however might be
ascertained. Nothing else of an extraordinary nature occurred during
the day. My apparatus all continued in good order, and the balloon
still ascended without any perceptible vacillation. The cold was
intense, and obliged me to wrap up closely in an overcoat. When
darkness came over the earth, I betook myself to bed, although it was
for many hours afterwards broad daylight all around my immediate
situation. The water-clock was punctual in its duty, and I slept until
next morning soundly--with the exception of the periodical
interruption.

_April 4th_. Arose in good health and spirits, and was astonished at
the singular change which had taken place in the appearance of the
sea. It had lost, in a great measure, the deep tint of blue it had
hitherto worn, being now of a grayish white, and of a lustre dazzling
to the eye. The islands were no longer visible--whether they had
passed down the horizon to the southeast, or whether my increasing
elevation had left them out of sight, it is impossible to say. I was
inclined however, to the latter opinion. The rim of ice to the
northward, was growing more and more apparent. Cold by no means so
intense. Nothing of importance occurred, and I passed the day in
reading--having taken care to supply myself with books.

_April 5th_. Beheld the singular phenomenon of the sun rising while
nearly the whole visible surface of the earth continued to be involved
in darkness. In time, however, the light spread itself over all, and I
again saw the line of ice to the northward. It was now very distinct
and appeared of a much darker hue than the waters of the ocean. I was
evidently approaching it, and with great rapidity. Fancied I could
again distinguish a strip of land to the eastward--and one also to the
westward--but could not be certain. Weather moderate. Nothing of any
consequence happened during the day. Went early to bed.

_April 6th_. Was surprised at finding the rim of ice at a very
moderate distance, and an immense field of the same material
stretching away off to the horizon in the north. It was evident that
if the balloon held its present course, it would soon arrive above the
Frozen Ocean, and I had now little doubt of ultimately seeing the
Pole. During the whole of the day I continued to near the ice. Towards
night the limits of my horizon very suddenly and materially increased,
owing undoubtedly to the earth's form being that of an oblate
spheroid, and my arriving above the flattened regions in the vicinity
of the Arctic circle. When darkness at length overtook me I went to
bed in great anxiety, fearing to pass over the object of so much
curiosity when I should have no opportunity of observing it.

_April 7th_. Arose early, and, to my great joy, at length beheld what
there could be no hesitation in supposing the northern Pole itself. It
was there, beyond a doubt, and immediately beneath my feet--but, alas!
I had now ascended to so vast a distance that nothing could with
accuracy be discerned. Indeed, to judge from the progression of the
numbers indicating my various altitudes respectively at different
periods, between six A.M. on the second of April, and twenty minutes
before nine A.M. of the same day, (at which time the barometer ran
down,) it might be fairly inferred that the balloon had now, at four
o'clock in the morning of April the seventh, reached a height of _not
less_ certainly than 7254 miles above the surface of the sea. This
elevation may appear immense, but the estimate upon which it is
calculated gave a result in all probability far inferior to the truth.
At all events I undoubtedly beheld the whole of the earth's major
diameter--the entire northern hemisphere lay beneath me like a chart
orthographically projected--and the great circle of the equator itself
formed the boundary line of my horizon. Your Excellencies may however,
readily imagine that the confined regions hitherto unexplored within
the limits of the Arctic circle, although situated directly beneath
me, and therefore seen without any appearance of being foreshortened,
were still, in themselves, comparatively too diminutive, and at too
great a distance from the point of sight to admit of any very accurate
examination. Nevertheless what could be seen was of a nature singular
and exciting. Northwardly from that huge rim before mentioned, and
which, with slight qualification may be called the limit of human
discovery in these regions, one unbroken, or nearly unbroken sheet of
ice continues to extend. In the first few degrees of this its
progress, its surface is very sensibly flattened--farther on depressed
into a plane--and finally, becoming _not a little concave_, it
terminates at the Pole itself in a circular centre, sharply defined,
whose apparent diameter subtended at the balloon an angle of about
sixty-five seconds; and whose dusky hue, varying in intensity, was, at
all times darker than any other spot upon the visible hemisphere, and
occasionally deepened into the most absolute and impenetrable
blackness. Farther than this little could be ascertained. By twelve
o'clock the circular centre had materially decreased in circumference,
and by seven P.M. I lost sight of it entirely--the balloon passing
over the western limb of the ice, and floating away rapidly in the
direction of the equator.

_April 8th_. Found a sensible diminution in the earth's apparent
diameter, besides a material alteration in its general color and
appearance. The whole visible area partook in different degrees of a
tint of pale yellow, and in some portions had acquired a brilliancy
even painful to the eye. My view downwards was also considerably
impeded by the dense atmosphere in the vicinity of the surface being
loaded with clouds between whose masses I could only now and then
obtain a glimpse of the earth itself. This difficulty of direct vision
had troubled me more or less for the last forty-eight hours--but my
present enormous elevation brought closer together, as it were, the
floating bodies of vapor, and the inconvenience became, of course,
more and more palpable in proportion to my ascent. Nevertheless I
could easily perceive that the balloon now hovered above the range of
great lakes in the continent of North America, and was holding a
course due south which would soon bring me to the tropics. This
circumstance did not fail to give me the most heartfelt satisfaction,
and I hailed it as a happy omen of ultimate success. Indeed the
direction I had hitherto taken had filled me with uneasiness, for it
was evident that, had I continued it much longer, there would have
been no possibility of my arriving at the moon at all, whose orbit is
inclined to the ecliptic at only the small angle of 5°, 8', 48".

_April 9th_. To-day, the earth's diameter was greatly diminished, and
the color of the surface assumed hourly a deeper tint of yellow. The
balloon kept steadily on her course to the southward, and arrived at
nine P.M. over the northern edge of the Mexican gulf.

_April 10th_. I was suddenly aroused from slumber, about five o'clock
this morning, by a loud, crackling, and terrific sound, for which I
could in no manner account. It was of very brief duration, but, while
it lasted, resembled nothing in the world of which I had any previous
experience. It is needless to say, that I became excessively alarmed,
having, in the first instance, attributed the noise to the bursting of
the balloon. I examined all my apparatus, however, with great
attention, and could discover nothing out of order. Spent a great part
of the day in meditating upon an occurrence so extraordinary, but
could find no means whatever of accounting for it. Went to bed
dissatisfied, and in a pitiable state of anxiety and agitation.

_April 11th_. Found a startling diminution in the apparent diameter of
the earth, and a considerable increase, now observable for the first
time, in that of the moon itself, which wanted only a few days of
being full. It now required long and excessive labor to condense
within the chamber sufficient atmospheric air for the sustenance of
life.

_April 12th_. A singular alteration took place in regard to the
direction of the balloon, and although fully anticipated, afforded me
the most unequivocal delight. Having reached, in its former course,
about the twentieth parallel of southern latitude, it turned off
suddenly at an acute angle to the eastward, and thus proceeded
throughout the day, keeping nearly, if not altogether, _in the exact
plane of the lunar ellipse_. What was worthy of remark, a very
perceptible vacillation in the car was a consequence of this change of
route--a vacillation which prevailed, in a more or less degree, for a
period of many hours.

_April 13th_. Was again very much alarmed by a repetition of the loud,
crackling noise which terrified me on the tenth. Thought long upon the
subject, but was unable to form any satisfactory conclusion. Great
decrease in the earth's apparent diameter which now subtended from the
balloon an angle of very little more than twenty-five degrees. The
moon could not be seen at all, being nearly in my zenith. I still
continued in the plane of the ellipse, but made little progress to the
eastward.

_April 14th_. Extremely rapid decrease in the diameter of the earth.
To-day I became strongly impressed with the idea, that the balloon was
now actually running up the line of apsides to the point of
perigee--in other words, holding the direct course which would bring
it immediately to the moon in that part of its orbit, the nearest to
the earth. The moon itself was directly over-head, and consequently
hidden from my view. Great and long-continued labor necessary for the
condensation of the atmosphere.

_April 15th_. Not even the outlines of continents and seas could now
be traced upon the earth with anything approaching to distinctness.
About twelve o'clock I became aware, for the third time, of that
unearthly and appalling sound which had so astonished me before. It
now, however, continued for some moments, and gathered horrible
intensity as it continued. At length, while stupified and
terror-stricken I stood in expectation of, I know not what hideous
destruction, the car vibrated with excessive violence, and a gigantic
and flaming mass of some material which I could not distinguish, came
with the voice of a thousand thunders, roaring and booming by the
balloon. When my fears and astonishment had in some degree subsided, I
had little difficulty in supposing it to be some mighty volcanic
fragment ejected from that world to which I was so rapidly
approaching, and, in all probability, one of that singular class of
substances occasionally picked up on the earth, and termed meteoric
stones for want of a better appellation.

_April 16th_. To-day, looking upwards as well as I could, through each
of the side windows alternately, I beheld, to my great delight, a very
small portion of the moon's disk protruding, as it were, on all sides
beyond the huge circumference of the balloon. My agitation was
extreme--for I had now little doubt of soon reaching the end of my
perilous voyage. Indeed the labor now required by the condenser had
increased to a most oppressive degree, and allowed me scarcely any
respite from exertion. Sleep was a matter nearly out of the question.
I became quite ill, and my frame trembled with exhaustion. It was
impossible that human nature could endure this state of intense
suffering much longer. During the now brief interval of darkness a
meteoric stone again passed in my vicinity, and the frequency of these
phenomena began to occasion me much anxiety and apprehension. The
consequence of a concussion with any one of them, would have been
inevitable destruction to me and my balloon.

_April 17th_. This morning proved an epoch in my voyage. It will be
remembered that, on the thirteenth, the earth subtended an angular
breadth of twenty-five degrees. On the fourteenth, this had greatly
diminished--on the fifteenth, a still more rapid decrease was
observable--and on retiring for the night of the sixteenth I had
noticed an angle of no more than about seven degrees and fifteen
minutes. What, therefore, must have been my amazement on awakening
from a brief and disturbed slumber on the morning of this day, the
seventeenth, at finding the surface beneath me so suddenly and
wonderfully _augmented_ in volume as to subtend no less than
thirty-nine degrees in apparent angular diameter! I was thunderstruck.
No words--no earthly expression can give any adequate idea of the
extreme--the absolute horror and astonishment with which I was seized,
possessed, and altogether overwhelmed. My knees tottered beneath
me--my teeth chattered--my hair started up on end. "The balloon then
had actually burst"--these were the first tumultuous ideas which
hurried through my mind--"the balloon had positively burst. I was
falling--falling--falling--with the most intense, the most impetuous,
the most unparalleled velocity. To judge from the immense distance
already so quickly passed over, it could not be more than ten minutes,
at the farthest, before I should meet the surface of the earth, and be
hurled into annihilation." But at length reflection came to my relief.
I paused--I considered--and I began to doubt. The matter was
impossible. I could not in any reason have so rapidly come down. There
was some mistake. Not the red thunderbolt itself could have so
impetuously descended. Besides, although I was evidently approaching
the surface below me, it was with a speed by no means commensurate
with the velocity I had at first so horribly conceived. This
consideration served to calm the perturbation of my mind, and I
finally succeeded in regarding the phenomenon in its proper point of
view. In fact amazement must have fairly deprived me of my senses when
I could not see the vast difference, in appearance, between the
surface below me, and the surface of my mother earth. The latter was
indeed over my head, and completely hidden by the balloon, while the
moon--the moon itself in all its glory--lay beneath me, and at my
feet.

The stupor and surprise produced in my mind by this extraordinary
change in the posture of affairs was perhaps, after all, that part of
the adventure least susceptible of explanation. For the
_bouleversement_ in itself was not only natural and inevitable, but
had been long actually anticipated as a circumstance to be expected
whenever I should arrive at that exact point of my voyage where the
attraction of the planet should be superseded by the attraction of the
satellite--or, more precisely, where the gravitation of the balloon
towards the earth should be less powerful than its gravitation towards
the moon. To be sure I arose from a sound slumber with all my senses
in confusion to the contemplation of a very startling phenomenon, and
one which, although expected, was not expected at the moment. The
revolution itself must, of course, have taken place in an easy and
gradual manner, and it is by no means clear that, had I even been
awake at the time of the occurrence, I should have been made aware of
it by any _internal_ evidence of an inversion--that is to say by any
inconvenience or disarrangement either about my person or about my
apparatus.

It is almost needless to say that upon coming to a due sense of my
situation, and emerging from the terror which had absorbed every
faculty of my soul, my attention was, in the first place, wholly
directed to the contemplation of the general physical appearance of
the moon. It lay beneath me like a chart, and although I judged it to
be still at no inconsiderable distance, the indentures of its surface
were defined to my vision with a most striking and altogether
unaccountable distinctness. The entire absence of ocean or sea, and
indeed of any lake or river, or body of water whatsoever, struck me,
at the first glance, as the most extraordinary feature in its
geological condition. Yet, strange to say! I beheld vast level regions
of a character decidedly alluvial--although by far the greater portion
of the hemisphere in sight was covered with innumerable volcanic
mountains, conical in shape, and having more the appearance of
artificial than of natural protuberances. The highest among them does
not exceed three and three quarter miles in perpendicular
elevation--but a map of the volcanic districts of the Campi Phlegræi
would afford to your Excellencies a better idea of their general
surface than any unworthy description I might think proper to attempt.
The greater part of them were in a state of evident eruption, and gave
me fearfully to understand their fury and their power by the repeated
thunders of the miscalled meteoric stones which now rushed upwards by
the balloon with a frequency more and more appalling.

_April 18th_. To-day I found an enormous increase in the moon's
apparent bulk, and the evidently accelerated velocity of my descent
began to fill me with alarm. It will be remembered that, in the
earliest stage of my speculations upon the possibility of a passage to
the moon, the existence in its vicinity of an atmosphere dense in
proportion to the bulk of the planet had entered largely into my
calculations--this too in spite of many theories to the contrary, and,
it may be added, in spite of the positive evidence of our senses. Upon
the resistance, or more properly, upon the support of this atmosphere,
existing in the state of density imagined, I had, of course, entirely
depended for the safety of my ultimate descent. Should I then, after
all, prove to have been mistaken, I had in consequence nothing better
to expect as a _finale_ to my adventure than being dashed into atoms
against the rugged surface of the satellite. And indeed I had now
every reason to be terrified. My distance from the moon was
comparatively trifling, while the labor required by the condenser was
diminished not at all, and I could discover no indication whatever of
a decreasing rarity in the air.

_April 19th_. This morning, to my great joy, about nine o'clock, the
surface of the moon being frightfully near, and my apprehensions
excited to the utmost, the pump of my condenser at length gave evident
tokens of an alteration in the atmosphere. By ten I had reason to
believe its density considerably increased. By eleven very little
labor was necessary at the apparatus--and at twelve o'clock, with some
hesitation, I ventured to unscrew the tourniquet, when, finding no
inconvenience from having done so, I finally threw open the
gum-elastic chamber, and unrigged it from around the car. As might
have been expected, spasms and violent headach were the immediate
consequence of an experiment so precipitate and full of danger. But
these and other difficulties attending respiration, as they were by no
means so great as to put me in peril of my life, I determined to
endure as I best could, in consideration of my leaving them behind me
momentarily in my approach to the denser strata near the moon. This
approach, however, was still impetuous in the extreme, and it soon
became alarmingly certain that, although I had probably not been
deceived in the expectation of an atmosphere dense in proportion to
the mass of the satellite, still I had been wrong in supposing this
density, even at the surface, at all adequate to the support of the
great weight contained in the car of my balloon. Yet this _should_
have been the case, and in an equal degree as at the surface of the
earth, the actual gravity of bodies at either planet being in the
exact ratio of their atmospheric condensation. That it _was not_ the
case however my precipitous downfall gave testimony enough--why it was
not so, can only be explained by a reference to those possible
geological disturbances to which I have formerly alluded. At all
events I was now close upon the planet, and coming down with most
terrible impetuosity. I lost not a moment accordingly in throwing
overboard first my ballast, then my water-kegs, then my condensing
apparatus and gum-elastic chamber, and finally every individual
article within the car. But it was all to no purpose. I still fell
with horrible rapidity, and was now not more than half a mile at
farthest from the surface. As a last resource, therefore, having got
rid of my coat, hat, and boots, I cut loose from the balloon _the car
itself_, which was of no inconsiderable weight, and thus, clinging
with both hands to the hoop of the net-work, I had barely time to
observe that the whole country as far as the eye could reach was
thickly interspersed with diminutive habitations, ere I tumbled
headlong into the very heart of a fantastical-looking city, and into
the middle of a vast crowd of ugly little people, who none of them
uttered a single syllable, or gave themselves the least trouble to
render me assistance, but stood, like a parcel of idiots, grinning in
a ludicrous manner, and eyeing me and my balloon askant with their
arms set a-kimbo. I turned from them in contempt, and gazing upwards
at the earth so lately left, and left perhaps forever, beheld it like
a huge, dull, copper shield, about two degrees in diameter, fixed
immoveably in the heavens overhead, and tipped on one of its edges
with a crescent border of the most brilliant gold. No traces of land
or water could be discovered, and the whole was clouded with variable
spots, and belted with tropical and equatorial zones.

Thus, may it please your Excellencies, after a series of great
anxieties, unheard of dangers, and unparalleled escapes, I had, at
length, on the nineteenth day of my departure from Rotterdam, arrived
in safety at the conclusion of a voyage undoubtedly the most
extraordinary, and the most momentous ever accomplished, undertaken,
or conceived by any denizen of earth. But my adventures yet remain to
be related. And indeed your Excellencies may well imagine that after a
residence of five years upon a planet not only deeply interesting in
its own peculiar character, but rendered doubly so by its intimate
connection, in capacity of satellite, with the world inhabited by man,
I may have intelligence for the private ear of the States' College of
Astronomers of far more importance than the details, however
wonderful, of the mere _voyage_ which so happily concluded. This is,
in fact, the case. I have much--very much which it would give me the
greatest pleasure to communicate. I have much to say of the climate of
the planet--of its wonderful alternations of heat and cold--of
unmitigated and burning sunshine for one fortnight, and more than
polar severity of winter for the next--of a constant transfer of
moisture, by distillation _in vacuo_, from the point beneath the sun
to the point the farthest from it--of a variable zone of running
water--of the people themselves--of their manners, customs, and
political institutions--of their peculiar physical construction--of
their ugliness--of their want of ears, those useless appendages in an
atmosphere so peculiarly modified as to be insufficient for the
conveyance of any but the loudest sounds--of their consequent
ignorance of the use and properties of speech--of their substitute for
speech in a singular method of inter-communication--of the
incomprehensible connection between each particular individual in the
moon, with some particular individual on the earth--a connection
analogous with, and depending upon that of the orbs of the planet and
the satellite, and by means of which the lives and destinies of the
inhabitants of the one are interwoven with the lives and destinies of
the inhabitants of the other--and above all, if it so please your
Excellencies, above all of these dark and hideous mysteries which lie
in the outer regions of the moon--regions which, owing to the almost
miraculous accordance of the satellite's rotation on its own axis with
its sideral revolution about the earth, have never yet been turned,
and, by God's mercy, never shall be turned to the scrutiny of the
telescopes of man. All this, and more--much more--would I most
willingly detail. But to be brief, I must have my reward. I am pining
for a return to my family and to my home: and as the price of any
farther communications on my part--in consideration of the light which
I have it in my power to throw upon many very important branches of
physical and metaphysical science--I must solicit, through the
influence of your honorable body, a pardon for the crime of which I
have been guilty in the death of the creditors upon my departure from
Rotterdam. This, then, is the object of the present paper. Its bearer,
an inhabitant of the moon, whom I have prevailed upon, and properly
instructed, to be my messenger to the earth, will await your
Excellencies' pleasure, and return to me with the pardon in question,
if it can, in any manner, be obtained.

I have the honor to be, &c. your Excellencies very humble servant,

HANS PHAALL.

Upon finishing the perusal of this very extraordinary document,
Professor Rub-a-dub, it is said, dropped his pipe upon the ground in
the extremity of his surprise, and Mynheer Superbus Von Underduk,
having taken off his spectacles, wiped them, and deposited them in his
pocket, so far forgot both himself and his dignity, as to turn round
three times upon his heel in the quintescence of astonishment and
admiration. There was no doubt about the matter--the pardon should be
obtained. So at least swore with a round oath, Professor Rub-a-dub,
and so finally thought the illustrious Von Underduk, as he took the
arm of his brother in science, and without saying a word, began to
make the best of his way home to deliberate upon the measures to be
adopted. Having reached the door, however, of the burgomaster's
dwelling, the Professor ventured to suggest, that as the messenger had
thought proper to disappear--no doubt frightened to death by the
savage appearance of the burghers of Rotterdam--the pardon would be of
little use, as no one but a man of the moon would undertake a voyage
to so horrible a distance. To the truth of this observation the
burgomaster assented, and the matter was therefore at an end. Not so,
however, rumors and speculations. The letter, having been published,
gave rise to a variety of gossip and opinion. Some of the overwise
even made themselves ridiculous, by decrying the whole business as
nothing better than a hoax. But hoax, with these sort of people, is, I
believe, a general term for all matters above their comprehension. For
my part I cannot conceive upon what data they have founded such an
accusation. Let us see what they say:

Imprimis. That certain wags in Rotterdam have certain especial
antipathies to certain burgomasters and astronomers.

Don't understand at all.

Secondly. That an odd little dwarf and bottle conjurer, both of whose
ears, for some misdemeanor, have been cut off close to his head, has
been missing for several days from the neighboring city of Bruges.

Well--what of that?

Thirdly. That the newspapers which were stuck all over the little
balloon were newspapers of Holland, and therefore could not have been
made in the moon. They were dirty papers--very dirty--and Gluck, the
printer, would take his bible oath to their having been printed in
Rotterdam.

He was mistaken--undoubtedly--mistaken.

Fourthly. That Hans Phaall himself, the drunken villain, and the three
very idle gentlemen styled his creditors, were all seen, no longer
than two or three days ago, in the tippling house in the suburbs,
having just returned, with money in their pockets, from a trip beyond
the sea.

Don't believe it--don't believe a word of it.

Lastly. That it is an opinion very generally received, or which ought
to be generally received, that the College of Astronomers in the city
of Rotterdam--as well as all other Colleges in all other parts of the
world--not to mention Colleges and Astronomers in general--are, to say
the least of the matter, not a whit better, nor greater, nor wiser
than they ought to be.

The d----l, you say! Now that's too bad. Why, hang the people, they
should be prosecuted for a libel. I tell you, gentlemen, you know
nothing about the business. You are ignorant of Astronomy--and of
things in general. The voyage was made--it was indeed--and made, too,
by Hans Phaall. I wonder, for my part, you do not perceive at once
that the letter--the document--is intrinsically--is astronomically
true--and that it carries upon its very face the evidence of its own
authenticity.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SALE.

  It is the law throughout the Old Dominion,
  When some poor devil dies in peace or battle,
  The executor must be of the opinion
  His goods are perishing, and sell each chattel;
  Whatever treads on hoof, or flies on pinion--
  Hogs, horses, cows, and every sort of cattle--
  Cups, saucers, swingle trees and looking glasses--
  Ploughs, pots and pans, teakettles and jackasses.


A man who never quotes, it has been said, will in return never be
quoted. By way therefore of quoting, and at the same time of being
quoted, I have quoted a poem of my own, which "will never be
published," written in attempted imitation of Beppo, and describing a
sale in Virginia. Who has not seen something like the following
staring him in the face, on the side of a store or tavern, or upon the
post of a sign-board where several roads meet? "_I shel purceed to sel
to the highest bidder, on Saterday the 3d of Janewary next, at Blank,
all the housol and kitchen ferniter of the late David Double, Esq.
together with all the horses, muels, sheep and hoges. Cash on all sums
of five dollars and under, and a credit of twelve months on the
ballance. Bond with aproved sekurity will be requierd_," _&c._ Such a
notification as the above, which is copied verbatim et spellatim,
operates like an electric shock on a whole neighborhood in that
portion of the country in which I reside, especially upon that part of
the population which can least afford to buy bargains. The temptation
of long credit is too great to be resisted, although no calculations
of the ultimate ability to pay are ever made. The grand desideratum
is, to obtain the necessary security, and to purchase to a greater
amount than five dollars. I am myself infected by this prevailing
malady, and frequently buy what is of no manner of use to me, simply
because no cash is required, and bonds are hard to collect, and suits
may be put off by continuances, and matters of this sort after all,
may be settled by executors and administrators. Among the rest
therefore, on the day appointed by the aforesaid notification, I
mounted my horse, and sallied out upon the road leading to Blank, and
fell in with a large party going to the sale, principally managers, as
they call themselves now-a-days, on the neighboring estates. Formerly
they were yclept overseers, but the term is falling into disuse, as
conveying the idea of something derogatory. They were mounted in every
variety of style; there were long tails, and bob tails, and nicked
tails; and I saw at least one sheep skin saddle and grape vine bridle.
By the by, talking of grape vines, what a country ours is for this
invaluable article. Here is no need of hemp manufactories. Nature, in
her exuberant goodness, has supplied an abundance of primitive rope,
which is just as convenient and efficacious as the best cordage,
whether a man wants to hang himself or a dog--whether he wants a cap
for his fence, a backband for his plough-horse, a pair of leading
lines, or a girth for his saddle. Why should we be the advocates of a
tariff, when nature supplies us in peace or war with this and many
other articles of the first necessity, among which I once heard a
Chotanker enumerate _mint_. "Why," said he, "should we fear a
dissolution of the union, a separation of the north from the south,
when there is not a sprig of mint in all New England?" When this was
said, peradventure it might be true; but to my certain knowledge, at
this day the word julap is well understood much farther north than
Mason's and Dixon's line. Pardon me, reader, this digression--for I am
mounted to-day on a rough-going, headstrong animal, that will have his
own way, and wants to turn aside into every by-path which he sees, and
is as "_willyard a pony_" as that ridden by Dumbiedikes, when he
followed Jeanie Deans to lend her the purse of gold. But to return. I
cannot let this opportunity slip of singling out one of this group of
horsemen for description, that you may have a graphic sketch of the
sort of folks and horses that live hereabouts. Wert thou ever upon
Hoecake Ridge? and hast thou ever met in winter, a thorough bred
native of that region, mounted upon his little shaggy pony, "_skelping
on through dub and mire_," like Tam O'Shanter? Here he was to-day, in
his element, dressed in Nankin pantaloons and a thin cotton jacket,
and riding in the teeth of a strong northwester, singing "_Life let us
cherish_." His saddle had no skirts, having been robbed of those
useless appendages by some rogue who wanted a pair of brogues; his
bridle had as many knots as the sea serpent. But my business is not so
much with him as with his pony, whose head and neck may be aptly
represented by a maul and its handle. His tail is six inches long, and
standing at an angle of forty-five degrees with his back; his hair is
long and shaggy; he is cat-hammed, and his chest so narrow that his
fore legs almost touch one another; his eyes snap fire when you plague
him. You may talk of improving the breed of horses. Tell me not of
your Eclipses, your Henrys--of Arabians or Turks. They may be all very
well in their places, but this pony is the animal for my country. He
can bite the grass which is absolutely invisible to human eyes, and
subsist upon it. If you would give him six ears of corn twice a day,
he would be almost too fat to travel. He never stumbles. Give him the
rein, and he will pick his path as carefully as a lady. His powers of
endurance exceed the camel's. His master is a sot, and his horse will
stand all night at a tippling shop, gnawing a fence rail; he almost
prefers it to a corn-stalk which has been lying out all winter, his
common food. When his master comes forth and mounts, he studies
attitudes. If the rider reel to the right, the pony leans to the
starboard side; if to the left, he tacks to suit him. If the master
fall, he falls clear, having no girth to his saddle, and the pony does
not waste time in useless meditation upon accidents that will happen
to the best of us, but moves homeward with accelerated velocity,
leaping every obstacle in his way to his brush stable.

It was my good fortune to drop in alongside of the man who was mounted
upon this incomparable animal, and complimenting him upon his
philosophy in the selection of his song, and on the dexterity of his
horse, I soon found he was a great politician, and we chatted most
agreeably until our arrival at the place of sale. He was a violent
----, but not a word of politics; literature and politics are
different matters altogether. You may be a great politician, you know,
without a particle of literature. Politicians are the last people in
the world to bear a joke; and if I were even to glance at the
discourse of my neighbors, there are many who would not submit to this
interference with their exclusive business; they would see in it "more
devils than vast hell could hold." The world must therefore be content
to lose the humor of my singular acquaintance, as I cannot possibly do
justice to his conceptions without the mention of names. I shall die
though, unless I find some occasion of disclosing them; for old
Hardcastle's man Diggory was never more diverted at his story of the
grouse in the gun-room, than was I at the political conceits of my
Hoecake-ridger. Having arrived at Blank, we _hung_ our horses, as
Virginians always do after riding them, and entered the grounds before
a venerable looking building which had been completely embowelled, and
its contents were piled in promiscuous heaps in various parts of the
yard. Within the great house, as it is usually styled, was already
assembled around a blazing fire, a crowd of exceedingly noisy folks,
all talking at once, and nobody apparently listening. The names of our
leading men sounded on every side, and the Tower of Babel never
witnessed a greater confusion of tongues. For my own part, it always
makes me melancholy to contemplate this inroad of Goths and Vandals
upon apartments which were once perhaps so sacred, and kept in order
with such sedulous attention. It seems a profanation--a want of
respect for the recently dead, and a cruel outrage upon the feelings
of the surviving family. Nothing escapes the prying eye of
curiosity--the rude footstep invades the very penetralia. The
household gods, the Dii Penates are all upturned; and mirth and
jesting reign amidst the precincts of woe. I felt like a jackal
tearing open the grave for my prey. The crier, the high priest of
these infernal orgies, now came forward with his badge of office, the
jug of whiskey, and announced that the sale would commence as soon as
he could wet his whistle, which he proceeded to do, and then began to
ply his customers. It is wonderful to think how much ingenuity has
been displayed in finding out metaphors to describe the detestable act
of tippling. The renowned biographer of Washington and Marion has
imbodied a number of these in one of his minor performances; but
several which I heard this day were new to me, and escaped his
researches; thus, I heard one upbraid another for being too fond of
"_tossing his head back_," while a third invited his companion to
"_rattle the stopper_"--and upon my taking a very moderate drink, and
so weak that a temperance man would scarcely have frowned upon me, I
was clapped on the back and jeered for my fondness of the creature,
since I was willing to swallow an ocean of water to get at a drop. In
a very short time the liquid fire of the Greeks ran through the veins
of the crowd, and they were quickly ripe for bidding--

  "Inspiring bold John Barleycorn,
   What dangers thou canst make us scorn;
   Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil--
   Wi' Usquebaugh we'll face the devil."

The "swats sae ream'd" in their noddles, that every thing sold at a
price far beyond its value, and our crier became so exceedingly
facetious, and cracked so many excellent ironical jokes, that it is a
pity they should be lost. Being unskilled however in stenography, I
could not take down his words, and only remember that every untrimmed
_old field_ colt was a regular descendant of Eclipse; the long nosed
hogs were unquestionably Parkinson; the sheep, Merinoes; the cattle
which were notoriously _all horn_, were short horns, &c. &c. They
seemed to me but a scurvy set of animals; but those who saw through a
_glass_ darkly, seemed to entertain a very different opinion. The
"mirth and fun grew fast and furious," "till first a caper sin
anither" "they lost their reason a' thegither," and the sale closed in
one wild uproarious scuffle for every thing at any price whatever.

It now became necessary to return home, an important consideration
which had been wholly overlooked; and the difficulty of mounting our
horses having been overcome after many trials, we began to "witch the
world with" feats of "noble horsemanship." Such "racing and chasing"
had not been seen since the days of Cannobie lea, and quizzing became
the order of the evening. Perceiving the mettlesome nature of my
steed, my friend the politician and philosopher, seemed resolved upon
unhorsing me, notwithstanding my entreaties that he would forbear; and
by dint of riding violently up to me, and shouting out at the top of
his voice, he so alarmed my nag, that he seized the bit between his
teeth, and away I flew, John Gilpin like, to the infinite amusement of
my persecutor, until I was safely deposited in a mud hole, near my own
gate, from whence I had to finish my journey on foot, and appear
before my helpmate in a condition that reflected greatly upon my
character. As a finale to this mortifying business, my purchases were
brought home the next day, and were most unceremoniously thrown out of
doors by my wife, as utterly useless, being literally sans eyes, sans
teeth, sans every thing; cracked pitchers, broken pots, spiders
without legs, jugs without handles, et id genus omne.

NUGATOR.




LITERARY NOTICES.


THE INFIDEL, or the Fall of Mexico, _a romance, by the author of
Calavar_. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.

The second effort of the author of Calavar, gives us no reason for
revoking the favorable opinion which we expressed of his powers as a
writer of fictitious narrative, in noticing the first. On the
contrary, that opinion is confirmed and strengthened by a perusal of
the Infidel. It is a work of great power, and although, as was the
case with Calavar, it is chiefly occupied with the delineation of
scenes of slaughter and violence--with the stratagems of war--the
plots of conspirators--the stirring incidents of siege and sortie--and
the thrilling details of individual prowess or general onslaught--yet
it abounds in passages which give a pleasing relief to the almost too
frequently recurring incidents of peril and adventure. It is true that
this work does not possess, to by far the same extent, those
enchanting descriptions of natural scenery, which abounded in Calavar:
but the cause of this is probably to be found in the fact, that the
scene of action is the same in both works, and in a natural aversion
of the author to repeat his own pictures. Still, as a whole, we think
the Infidel fully equal to its predecessor, and in some respects
superior. The principal female character is drawn with far greater
vigor, than marked the heroine of Calavar, although the prominent
features in the sketch of the impassioned _Monjonaza_, are of a
masculine kind. She is indeed a most powerful and eccentric creation,
and adds much to the interest of the narrative. Still we think it
problematical whether the author is capable of success in a purely
feminine picture of female character. Zelahualla, the daughter of
Montezuma, a gentler being than La Monjonaza, does not give him a
claim to such a distinction, as she is brought forward but seldom, and
sustains no important part in the action of the drama.

The period at which the narrative of the Infidel commences, is a few
months after the disastrous retreat of the Spaniards from Mexico,
during the "Noche Triste," so powerfully described in Calavar. Cortes
had re-organized his forces, re-united his allies, and was preparing
for the siege of Mexico, now rendered strong in its defences by the
valor, enterprise and activity of the new emperor, Guatimozin. Tezcuco
is the scene of the earlier events, where Cortes was engaged in
completing his preparations, part of which consisted in the
construction of a fleet of brigantines, to command the sea of Anahuac,
and co-operate in the meditated attack upon the great city.

The hero of the story, Juan Lerma, a former protege of Cortes, but who
has fallen under his displeasure, is the pivot on which the main
interest of the work is made to turn. He is imprisoned, and ultimately
rescued by Guatimozin, who carries him to Mexico. The details of a
treasonable plot against the Captain General, headed by Villafana, one
of the most complicated of villains, is skilfully interwoven with this
portion of the narrative. The mysterious _Monjonaza_ is also a
prominent character in the scenes at Tezcuco.

The action changes in the second volume to Mexico, where the
unfortunate Lerma is retained by the Emperor, who is described as
possessing all the noble virtues of christianity, although his pagan
faith gives the title to the book.

The details of the siege are given in the same powerful style as
characterised the combats in Calavar. Indeed it is in descriptions of
battles, that we think the author excels, and is transcendently
superior to any modern writer. When his armies meet, he causes us to
feel the shock, and to realize each turn of fortune by a minuteness of
description, which is never confused. When his heroes engage hand to
hand, we see each blow, each parry, each advantage, each vicissitude,
with a thrilling distinctness. The war cry is in our ears--the
flashing of steel--the muscular energy--the glowing eyes--the dilating
forms of the warriors, are before us. The effect of such delineations
it is difficult to describe; they arouse in us whatever of martial
fire we possess, until we feel like the war horse viewing a distant
combat, "who smelleth the battle afar off, the voice of the captains,
and the shouting." Another point of excellence in our author, is the
manner in which he paints to us the vastness of a barbarian multitude.
His descriptions of myriads, appeal to the sense with graphic effect.
Although we do not generally indulge in long extracts from works like
this, yet, as it is difficult otherwise to convey an idea of the
spirit with which such scenes are presented by the author, we take
from the second volume the description of the battle of the
ambuscades, the last successful struggle made by Guatimozin to repel
the besiegers, who had already hemmed in the city on the several
causeways, and mostly destroyed the water suburbs. The Mexicans, as a
part of their system of defence, had perforated the causeways at short
intervals, with deep ditches, which were conquered by the Spaniards,
one by one, after the most obstinate resistance. Cortes, with his
followers, on the occasion described, had forced one of the dikes, and
with his characteristic impetuosity, pursued the flying Mexicans into
the city, attended by about twenty horsemen only, the foot being far
in the rear. The enemy gave way with apparent signs of fear, which was
not habitual, and Cortes had already been advised that an ambuscade
was evidently contemplated; but the frenzy of battle made him deaf to
prudent counsel:


CHAP. XV, VOL. 2.

The horsemen pursued along the dike, spearing, or tumbling into the
water, the few who had the heart to resist; and so great was, or
seemed, the terror of the barbarians, that the victors penetrated even
within the limits of the island, until the turrets of houses, from
which they were separated only by the lateral canals, darkened them
with their shadows. Upon these were clustered many pagans, who shot at
them both arrows and darts, but with so little energy, that it seemed
as if despondence or fatuity had robbed them of their usual vigor.
Hence, the excited cavaliers gave them but little attention, not
doubting that they would be soon dislodged by the infantry. They were
even regardless of circumstances still more menacing; and if a
lethargy beset the infidel that day, it is equally certain that a
species of distraction overwhelmed the brains of the Spaniards. It
seemed as if the great object of their ambition depended more upon
their following the fugitives to the temple-square than upon any other
feat; and to this they encouraged one another with vivas and
invocations to the saints. They could already behold the huge bulk of
the pyramid, rising up at the distance of a mile, as if it shut up the
street; and its terraced sides, thronged with multitudes of men,
seemed to prove to them, that the frighted Mexicans were running to
their gods for protection. It is true, they perceived vast bodies of
infidels blocking up the avenue afar, as if to dispute their passage
beyond the canalled portion of the island; but they regarded them with
scorn.

They rushed onwards, occasionally arrested by some flying group, but
only for a moment.

There was a place, not far within the limits of the island, where they
found the causeway, for the space of at least sixty paces, so delved
and pared away on either side, that it scarce afforded a passage for
two horsemen abreast. The device was of recent execution, for they
beheld the mattocks of laborers still sticking in the earth, as if
that moment abandoned. This circumstance, so strange, so novel, and so
ominious, it might be supposed, would have aroused them to suspicion.
The passage, as it was, so contracted, broken, and rugged, looked
prodigiously like the Al-Sirat, or bridge to paradise of the
Mussulmans,--that arch, narrow as the thread of a famished spider,
over which it is so much easier to be precipitated than to pass with
safety. Yet grim and threatening as it was, there was but one among
the cavaliers who raised a voice of warning. As the Captain-General,
without a moment's hesitation, pushed his horse forward, to lead the
way, and without a single expression of surprise, the ancient hidalgo,
who had twice before sounded a note of alarm, now exclaimed,--

"For the love of heaven, pause, señor! This is a trap that will
destroy us."

"Art thou afraid, Alderete?" cried Cortes, looking back to him,
grimly. "This is no place for a King's Treasurer," (such was Alderete,
the royal Contador.)--"Get thee back, then, to the first ditch, and
fill it up to thy liking. _This_ will be charge enough for a
volunteer."

"I will fight where thou wilt, when thou wilt, and as boldly as thou
wilt," said the indignant cavalier; "but here play the madman no
longer."

"I will take thy counsel,--rest where I am,--and, in an hour's time,
see myself shut out from the city by a ditch, sixty yards wide! God's
benison upon thy long beard! and mayst thou be wiser. Forward,
friends! Do you not see? the knaves are running amain to check us, and
recover their unfinished gap! On! courage, and on! Santiago and at
them!"

It was indeed as Cortes said. The infidels, who blocked up the streets
afar, were now seen running towards them, with the most terrific
yells, as if to seize, before it was too late, a pass so easily
maintained. The cavaliers, animated by the words of their leader, were
quite as resolute to disappoint them, and therefore rode across as
rapidly as they could. The pass was not only narrow, but tortuous and
irregular; which increased the difficulties of surmounting it; so that
the Mexicans, running with the most frantic speed, were within a
bowshot, before Cortes had spurred his steed upon the broader portion
of the dike. But, as if there were something dreadful to the infidels,
in the spectacle of the great Teuctli of the East, thus again in their
stronghold, they came to a sudden halt, and testified their valor only
by yelling, and waving their spears and banners.

"Courage, friends, and quick!" cried Cortes. "The dogs are beset with
fear, and will not face us. Ye shall hear other yells in a moment.
Haste, valiant cavaliers! haste, men of Spain! and make room for the
footmen, who are behind you."

The screams of the barbarians were loud and incessant; but in the
midst of the din, as he turned to cheer his cavaliers over the broken
passage, Don Hernan's ears were struck by the sound of a Christian
voice, calling from the midst of the pagans, with thrilling vehemence.

"Beware! beware! Back to the causey! Beware!"

"Hark!" cried Alderete, who had already passed; "Our Saint calls to
us! Let us return!"

"It is a trick of the fiend!" exclaimed Cortes, in evident
perturbation of mind. "Come on, good friends, and let us seize
vantage-ground; or the dogs will drive us, singly, into the ditches."

"Back! back!" shouted the cavaliers behind--"We are ambushed! We are
surrounded!"

Their further exclamations were lost in a tempest of discordant
shrieks, coming from the front and the rear, from the heavens above,
and, as they almost fancied, from the earth beneath. They looked
northward, towards the pyramid,--the whole broad street was filled
with barbarians, rushing towards them with screams of anticipated
triumph; they looked back to the lake,--the causeway was swarming with
armed men, who seemed to have sprung from the waters; to either side,
and beheld the canals of the intersecting streets lashed into foam by
myriads of paddles; while, at the same moment, the few pagans, who had
annoyed them from the housetops, appeared transformed, by the same
spell of enchantment, into hosts innumerable, with spirits all of fury
and flame.

"What says the king of Castile? What says the king of Castile _now_?"
roared the exulting infidels.

"Santiago! and God be with us!" exclaimed Cortes, waving his hand,
with a signal for retreat, that came too late: "Cross but this
devil-trap again, and--"

Before he could conclude the vain and useless order, the drum of the
emperor sounded upon the pyramid. It was an instrument of gigantic
size and horrible note, and was held in no little fear, especially
after the events of this day, by the Spaniards, who fabled that it was
covered with the skins of serpents. It was a fit companion for the
horn of Mexitli; which latter, however, being a sacred instrument, was
sounded only on the most urgent and solemn occasions.

The first tap,--or rather peal, for the sound came from the temple
more like the roll of thunder than of a drum,--was succeeded by yells
still more stunning; and while the cavaliers, retreating, struggled,
one by one, to recross the narrow pass, they were set upon with such
fury as left them but little hope of escape.

If the rashness of Cortes had brought his friends into this fatal
difficulty, he now seemed resolved to atone his fault, by securing
their retreat, even although at the expense of his life. It was in
vain that those few cavaliers who had succeeded in reaching him,
before the onslaught began, besought him to take his chance among
them, and recross, leaving them to cover his rear.

"Get ye over yourselves," he cried, with grim smiles, smiting away the
headmost of the assailants from the street: "If I have brought ye
among coals of fire, heaven forbid I should not broil a little in mine
own person. Quick, fools! over and hasten! over and quick! and by and
by I will follow you."

For a moment, it seemed as if the terror of his single arm would have
kept the barbarians at bay. But, waxing bolder, as they saw his
attendants dropping one by one away, they began to close upon him, and
his situation became exceedingly critical. He looked over his
shoulder, and perceived that his followers threaded their way along
the broken dike with less difficulty than he at first feared. The very
narrowness of the passage left but little foothold for the enemy; and
their attacks, being made principally from canoes, were not such as
wholly to dishearten a cavalier, whose steed was as strongly defended
by mail as his own body. Encouraged by this assurance, the
Captain-General still maintained his post, rushing ever and anon upon
the closing herds, and mowing right and left with his trusty blade,
while his gallant charger pawed down opposition with his hoofs. Thus
he fought, with the mad valor that made his enemies so often deem him
almost a demigod, until satisfied that his own attempt to cross the
pass could no longer embarrass the efforts of his followers. Then,
charging once more upon the pagans, and even with greater fury than
before, he wheeled round with unexpected rapidity, and uttering his
famous cry, "Santiago and at them!" dashed boldly at the passage.

Seven pagans sprang upon the path. They were armed like princes, and
the red fillets of the House of Darts waved among their sable locks.

"The Teuctli shall have the tribute of Mexico!" shouted one,
flourishing a battle-axe that seemed of weight sufficient, in his
brawny arm, to dash out the charger's brains at a blow. The words were
not understood by Cortes; but he recognized at once the visage of the
Lord of Death.

"I have thee, pagan!" he cried, striking at the bold barbarian. The
blow failed; for one of the others, springing at the charger's head
with unexampled audacity, seized him by the bridle, so that he reared
backwards, and thus foiled the aim of his rider. The next moment, the
Spanish steel fell upon the neck of the daring infidel, killing him on
the spot; yet not so instantaneously as to avert a disaster, which it
seemed the object of his fury to produce. His convulsive struggles, as
he clung, dying, to the rein, drove the steed off the narrow ledge;
and thus losing his foothold, the noble animal rolled over into the
deep canal, burying the Captain-General in the flood.

"The general! save the general!" shrieked the only Christian, who, in
this horrible melèe, (for the battle was now universal,) beheld the
condition of Cortes, and who, although on foot, and bristling with
arrows that had stuck fast in his cotton-armor, and resisted by other
weapons at every step, had yet the courage to run to the rescue. It
was Gaspar Olea. His visage was yet wan, and expressive of the unusual
horror preying upon his mind; yet he rushed forward, as if he had
never known a fear. He exalted his voice, while crying for assistance,
until it was heard far back upon the causeway; yet he reached the
place of Don Hernan's mischance alone. The scene was dreadful: the
nobles had flung themselves into the flood, and were dragging the
stunned and strangling hero from the steed, which lay upon its side on
the rugged and shelving edge of the dike, unable to arise, and
perishing with the most fearful struggles; while, all the time, the
elated infidels expressed their triumph with shouts of frantic joy.

"Courage, captain! be of good heart, señor!" exclaimed the Barba-Roxa,
striking down one of the captors at a single blow: "Courage! for we
have good help nigh," he continued, attacking a second with the same
success: "Courage, señor, courage!"

No Mexican helm of dried skins, and no breastplate of copper, could
resist the machete of a man like Gaspar. Yet his first success was
caused rather by the Mexicans being so intently occupied with their
captive, that they thought of nothing else, than by any miraculous
exertion of skill and prowess. He slew two, before they dreamed of
attack, and he mortally wounded a third, ere the others could turn to
drive him back. A fourth rushed upon him, before he could again lift
up his weapon, and grasping him in his arms, with the embrace of a
mountain bear, leaped with him into the canal.

There were now but two left in possession of Cortes; yet his
resistance even against these was ineffectual. His sword had dropped
from his hand; a violent blow had burst his helmet, and confounded his
brain; and he had been lifted from the water, already half suffocated.
Yet he struggled as he could, and catching one of his foes by the
throat, he succeeded in overturning him into the water, and there
grappled with him among the shallows. The remaining barbarian, yelling
for assistance, flung himself upon the pair; and though twenty
Spaniards, headed by Bernal Diaz and the hunchback, were now within
half as many paces, Cortes would have perished where he lay, had not
assistance arose from an unexpected quarter.

Among the vast numbers who came crowding from the city over the broken
passage, were several who knew, by the cry of the seventh noble, that
Malintzin was in his hands; and they rushed forward, to ensure his
capture. The foremost and fleetest of these was distinguished from the
rest by a frame of towering height; and, had there been a Spaniard by
to notice him, would have been still more remarkable from the fact,
that he uttered all his cries in good, expressive Castilian. He bore a
Spanish weapon, too, and his first act, as he flung himself into the
ditch where Cortes was drowning, was to strike it through the neck of
the uppermost noble. His next was to spurn the other from the breast
of the general, whom he raised to his feet, murmuring in his ear,

"Be of good heart, señor! for you are saved."

What more he would have said and done can only be imagined; for, at
that moment, the Barba-Roxa rushed out of the ditch, followed close at
hand by the hunchback, Bernal Diaz, and others, and seeing his
commander, as he thought, in the hands of a foeman, he lifted his good
sword once again, and smote him over the head, crying,

"Down, infidel dog! and _vive_ for Spain and our general!"

At this moment, there rushed up a crew of fresh combatants, Spaniards
from the rear and infidels from the front. But before they closed upon
him entirely, the Barba-Roxa caught sight of the man he had struck
down, and beheld, in his pale and quivering aspect, the features of
Juan Lerma.

The unhappy wretch, thus beholding the beloved youth, with his own
eyes, a leaguer and helpmate of the infidel, and punished to death, as
it seemed, by his hand, set up a scream wildly vehement, and broke
from the group of Spaniards, who now surrounded Cortes, endeavoring to
drag him in safety over the pass. The exile had been seen by others as
well as Gaspar, and many a ferocious cry of exultation burst from
their lips, as they saw him fall.

Meanwhile, Gaspar, distracted in mind, and dripping with blood, for he
had not escaped from the ditch and the fierce embrace of his fourth
antagonist, without many severe wounds, endeavored to retrace his
steps to the spot where Juan had followed. It was occupied by
infidels, who drove him into the ditch, where his legs were grasped by
a drowning Mexican, who raised himself a little from the water, and
displayed, between his neck and shoulder, a yawning chasm, rather than
a wound, from which the blood, at every panting expiration of breath,
rolled out hideously in froth and foam. It was the Lord of Death, thus
struck by Juan Lerma, as he lay upon the breast of Cortes, and now
perishing, but still like a warrior of the race of America. He
clambered up the body of Gaspar, for it could hardly be said, that he
rose upon his feet; and seeing that he grasped a Christian soldier, he
strove to utter once more a cry of battle. The blood foamed from his
lips, as from his wound; and his voice was lost in a suffocating
murmur. Yet, with his last expiring strength, he locked his arms round
the neck of the Spaniard, now almost as much spent as himself, and
falling backwards, and writhing together as they fell, they rolled off
into the deep water, where the salt and troubled flood wrapped them in
a winding-sheet, already spread over the bosoms of thousands.


There is another scene which we had marked for extracting, but which
our limits forbid inserting--a single combat on the stone of
Temalacatl--in which a Spanish prisoner, doomed to the gladiatorial
sacrifice, contends successfully against several antagonists. The
details of this barbarous ceremony, are full of interest. The prisoner
is bound by one foot to the stone of sacrifice, and if in this
condition he kill six Mexicans, he is liberated, and sent home with
honor; if he fail, he is doomed a sacrifice to the pagan deities. The
narrative of this combat, is given with remarkable spirit and
precision, and holds the reader in breathless excitement to the end.

The story closes as happily as could be expected from the nature of
its incidents. The fall of Mexico, and the humiliation of its heroic
emperor, excite a profound sympathy; and the death of Monjonaza, who
dies broken hearted upon discovering that Juan, of whom she is
passionately enamored, is her brother, throws a melancholy shade over
the brightening fortunes of the hero.

Some of the minor characters are drawn with a vigorous hand. The dog
Befo, is a powerful delineation of heroic fidelity, seldom equalled by
his superiors of the human race. Gaspar Olea, the Barba-Roxa, or red
haired, is a fine specimen of the bold, blunt, honest soldier; and
Bernal Diaz, (the historian of the Conquest,) though little
distinguished in the story, adds to its interest. The Lord of Death,
is a fine picture of the lofty race of barbarians, who spurned the
slavery of their foreign foe, and died in resisting it. Najara, the
hunchback and the cynic, is also a well drawn character.

The Infidel will, we doubt not, enjoy a popularity equal to that of
Calavar. It confirms public opinion as to the abilities of the author,
who has suddenly taken a proud station in the van of American writers
of romance. He possesses a fertility of imagination rarely possessed
by his compeers. In many of their works, there is a paucity of events;
and incidents of small intrinsic importance, are wrought up by the
skill of the writer so as to give a factitious interest to a very
threadbare collection of facts. Great ability may be displayed in this
manner; but our author seems to find no such exertion necessary. The
fertility of his imagination displays itself in the constant
recurrence of dramatic situations, striking incidents and stirring
adventures; so much so, that the interest of the reader, in following
his characters through the mazes of perils and enterprizes,
vicissitudes and escapes, which they encounter, is often painfully
excited. If this be a fault, it is one which is creditable to the
powers of the author, and indicates an exuberance of invention, which
will bear him through a long course of literary exertions, and insure
to him great favor with the votaries of romance.

Thera are some minor faults which might be noticed. As an instance,
the author habitually uses the word "_working_" in describing the
convulsions of the countenance, under the influence of strong
passions: as, "his _working_ and agonized visage"--"his face _worked_
convulsively," &c. Although Sir Walter Scott is authority for the use
of the word in this manner, we have always considered it a decided
inelegance. But such blemishes cannot seriously detract from the
enduring excellence of the work.

       *       *       *       *       *

AN ADDRESS, delivered at his inauguration as President of Washington
College, Lexington, Virginia, Feb. 21, 1835, by Henry Vethake.

We have read this address with unmingled pleasure. It is replete with
strong _common sense_, and that quality is rarely much exercised in
discussions of the subject of education. The opinions of President
Vethake seem to us sound and practical: he has a full sense of the
errors in the systems of instruction, which have prevailed too long in
many of our institutions; and suggests alterations in the modes of
teaching, which seem to us both practicable, and promising great
benefits. We are constrained by the pressure of other matters, to
confine ourselves to a brief notice of this address, and to curtail
our extracts from its pages. The following strictures upon the old
system of imparting information to students, will, we believe, be
recognized as just and sensible, by every one who has reflected on the
subject. Although these remarks are intended by the orator to refer to
college exercises only, they apply with equal force to the faulty
system of teaching pursued by nine-tenths of the conductors of our
primary and elementary schools, at which the pupils are, in most
cases, severely drilled in the study of mere _words_, while no
corresponding knowledge of the _things_ of which they are the symbols,
is imparted by the teacher, who makes no effort to awaken the mental
energies of the pupil; but is fully satisfied if he cultivate the
_memory_, though the _mind_ remain waste and uninformed. But to our
extract:


"The error is an egregious one, which leads a student to suppose that
his proper business is to store his mind as industriously as he can
with the facts previously observed, and the opinions previously held,
by others who lived before him. Its natural effect will be to deaden
all originality of thought, and to degrade the individual, thus led
astray, to a low rank in the scale of intelligence, when compared with
that to which he would have entitled himself, with more correct ideas
of the nature of education. The memory may have been cultivated to a
considerable extent; imagination, and the reasoning power, will have
remained nearly dormant. But this is not all. The individual in
question will not even have acquired the ability to communicate what
he has learned to others. To do so with clearness and order, is by no
means always an easy matter; and it is one to which he has directed no
portion of his attention, his mind having been exclusively occupied in
passively receiving knowledge. And it may be added, that, although it
should be conceded, that by pursuing the method of education against
which my remarks are at present pointed, a greater amount of mere
extraneous information can be acquired, yet this will generally be
found to be true only for a comparatively short period. Those facts
and opinions of which we read, that do not become the subjects of
subsequent comparison and reflection, have, as it were, only a loose
connection with our understandings, and, sooner or later, and
sometimes very speedily, pass into oblivion. Hence it will be found
that, if we have regard rather to the usefulness of manhood than to
the display to be made by the youth of a college at an examination, as
this is ordinarily conducted, the most effectual method even of
storing the mind with what other men have observed and thought, is to
regard the communication of knowledge to the student as altogether
accessary to the great object of disciplining his mind, and of
properly developing his various intellectual faculties. And not only
will that individual, whose faculties have been most advantageously
excited, be ultimately possessed of the greatest amount and range of
information, but he will far surpass his competitors in the race of
life, in the art of communicating, and, at proper times and places,
displaying that information. He will also come to possess a capacity
for attaining a still further measure of knowledge, whenever he may
desire to do so, upon any subject that excites a particular interest
in him, to which the man of mere memory is a total stranger.

"It is sufficiently to be lamented, that the student should
occasionally fall of his own accord into the error I have been
considering: but it is lamentable in a far greater degree, when his
propensity to do so is encouraged by the faulty system of instruction
pursued by his teacher. The young men in our colleges, have been, and
still are, too frequently taught in a manner to operate thus
injuriously. I refer, more particularly, to the practice of hearing
them recite, on almost every subject, the contents, and the precise
contents, of certain text books, with little or no accompanying
comment, excepting what may be absolutely necessary for enabling them
to comprehend the meaning of the work recited. In this manner of
instruction, it is not geometry, or the spirit of geometry, that is
acquired by the student, but what it is that Euclid, or Legendre, has
delivered concerning geometry. It is not the philosophy of the human
mind with which he is made acquainted; it is only the system of some
distinguished author--be it that of Locke, or Reid, or Brown. It is
true that we may easily conceive the reciting of a text book to be
accompanied by an enlightened commentary on the part of the
instructor, calculated to liberate the mind of the student from all
undue subjection to the opinions, and to the peculiar classifications
and modes of expression, of the author. We may, indeed, conceive the
instructor to superadd every possible contrivance which is fitted to
awaken in the mind of his pupils a spirit of independent inquiry.
Still the _tendency_ of the system is to degenerate into the mere
recitation of the contents of the text book."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Another reason why young men in our colleges are tempted to neglect
the general cultivation of their minds, and to devote their whole
study to the storing of their memories with the contents of the text
books put into their hands, is that their comparative scholarship is
very apt to be estimated by their instructors, not so much by the
nature of the questions which they are able to answer correctly, and
by the amount of thinking and originality displayed, as by the
promptitude and fluency with which they can repeat what they have
servilely learned. I have been told by more individuals than one, and
by graduates of more institutions than one, that on discovering, while
at college, the fact to be as I have just stated, and being anxious
that the best account of them should go to their friends, from their
professors, they at once resolved to subject themselves to the
drudgery of committing the author they were appointed to study
verbatim to memory, and that, by so doing, they did not fail to secure
the object they had in view. The persons of whom I speak, were young
men of talent, as well as ambitious of immediate distinction. Had
their minds at the time been sufficiently matured to have adequately
appreciated the uselessness and the folly of this method of study,
without at the same time being matured enough to adopt, of their own
suggestion, a more efficient and rational method, and had they been
less influenced by present rewards, without as yet aspiring to the
more substantial rewards of a future reputation among men, or without
the loftier stimulant of duty, they might have become, like others
among their fellow students, altogether negligent of their
improvement, and perhaps have contracted the most ruinous habits. It
is to the system of education, upon which I am animadverting, together
with the mistakes made by the members of a college faculty, in
deciding on the comparative scholarship of the students--which
mistakes the latter are competent to judge of, with a good deal of
accuracy--that the anomaly, so often remarked, of a young man's
relative _standing_ while in college, being so often but little
indicative of his future standing in the world, is to be ascribed; and
the explanation is likewise manifest why some individuals of peculiar
energy of character, after wasting their time in almost complete
idleness while at college, astonish their friends nevertheless, by the
intellectual exertions of which they shew themselves to be capable,
when an adequate motive is presented for exerting their energies. This
solves the mystery too, why so many _self-taught_ men, have, in
despite of the disadvantages under which they labored, surpassed the
graduates of colleges in usefulness and reputation; every acquisition
made by a self-taught man, in consequence of the very difficulty of
making it, being accompanied by a contemporary sharpening of his
intellect, which the passive recipient of another's knowledge never
experiences."


Of his suggestions for the remedy of this evil, we have room only for
the following passage:


"The practical question now presents itself--what is the proper remedy
for the evils that have been described? Are we to rest satisfied with
the efficiency of our colleges and universities being rendered wholly
dependent on the accident, as it may be called, of the instructors
proving themselves, upon trial, to be possessed of intellectual powers
of the highest, or at least of a very high order, that is, of powers
which will exert themselves, and produce their proper fruit, under
almost any circumstances whatever, of disadvantage? Or shall we
abandon our institutions of learning, where these disadvantageous
circumstances have hitherto been permitted to exist, and have afforded
an opportunity to unskilful and indolent teachers to nip the evolving
faculties of youth in the bud? We are, fortunately, not limited to a
selection of either of these modes of proceeding. As a remedy for the
evils described, the professors, in every department of instruction
admitting of it, should, in my opinion, be obliged to prepare courses
of _lectures_ to the students. This would necessarily compel them to
digest a system of knowledge for themselves, possessing more or less
of originality in respect to thought or arrangement, of matter or of
manner, according to the ability of the writer or speaker. Even if the
lectures were only compilations from the writings of others, or should
possess far inferior merit to various works on the same subject, that
might be put into the hands of the student, the fitness of the
professor to teach, will be greatly augmented, both because his
information on the branch of instruction confided to him, will, in the
preparation of his lectures, have become much more extensive, and
because what he knows will be much more methodically arranged, than
before. Those works, besides, which are supposed to be of greater
value than the professor's lectures, are still as accessible as ever
to the students; and the improvement of their instructor can surely in
no wise interfere with the benefit to be derived by them from the
perusal of the works of others."

       *       *       *       *       *

A HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES, from the Discovery of the American
Continent to the present time; by George Bancroft. Vol. 1. pp. 508.
Boston: Charles Bowen. London: R. J. Kennett.

The interest we have felt in this work, is the true cause of our
seeming neglect of it. This may appear paradoxical, but is easily
explained.

In taking up the book, we naturally turned to that part of which we
knew most, and in which we took the greatest interest. There was
always something in the early history of Virginia on which we
delighted to dwell, and we promised ourselves great pleasure from the
contemplation of the character of our forefathers, as we expected to
find it portrayed by a diligent historian, who had already acquired
the character of a fine writer.

We did indeed find what was intended to be a favorable account of our
ancestors. Yet we were disappointed. We found much of direct praise.
Yet we were disappointed. We ought perhaps to feel obliged, by Mr. B's
disposition to speak kindly of our forefathers, even while his
applauses grate upon our feelings. But we are unfortunately
constituted. What Mr. Bancroft gives as praise, we cannot accept as
praise; and, what is worse, we cannot help suspecting, in all such
cases, that a sneer, or something more mischievous, is intended.

Sterne, in his Sentimental Journey, tells us, that when on his way
from Calais to Paris, he accidentally disclosed to his Landlord and
Valet de Chambre, the astounding fact, that he had blundered into the
heart of France without a passport, the former fell back from him
three paces. At the same moment, his affectionate and grateful
servant, by a like instinctive impulse, advanced three paces towards
him.

The fall of Charles I, presented to his adherents a case somewhat
analogous. History tells us that they were variously affected by it.
Some fell back in dismay, while others found themselves drawn more
closely toward his exiled son. The former soon found that the
successful party had rewards in store for timely submission and
zealous service. The latter, driven from their last rallying point, by
the fatal battle of Worcester, did but _submit_, and that with
undisguised reluctance, to what was inevitable.

Mr. Bancroft seems to think he does honor to our ancestors, by
assigning them a place among the former. Now we had always supposed
that their true place was among the latter, and we had moreover a sort
of pride in so supposing. There are those who will say that there is
great arrogance in thus claiming for them a place among the generous
and brave and faithful. Others will call it folly to insist, _at this
day_, on their fidelity to a _king_, and especially to one who had
lost all means of rewarding, or even of using their zeal. We beg leave
to set off these imputations against each other. We beg to be allowed
to speak of our fathers as they were; and trust that one half of those
who shall cavil at the character we impute to them, will acquit us of
any very high presumption, when they see that we only claim for them
such qualities, as the other half say we ought to be ashamed of. If
the same individual is sometimes found assailing us, alternately on
both grounds, his consistency in so doing is his affair, not ours.

If we know anything (and we think we do) of the character of the early
settlers of Virginia, they were a chivalrous and generous race, ever
ready to resist the strong, to help the weak, to comfort the
afflicted, and to lift up the fallen. In this spirit they had
withstood the usurpation of Cromwell while resistance was practicable,
and, when driven from their native country, they had bent their steps
toward Virginia, as that part of the foreign dominions of England,
where the spirit of loyalty was strongest. We learn from Holmes, vol.
i. p. 315, that the population of Virginia increased about fifty per
cent. during the troubles. The newcomers were loyalists, who were
added to a population already loyal. Could _they_, without dishonor,
have been hearty in favor of the new order of things? _They_ whose
principles had driven them into exile? _They_ who, had they remained,
would have fought and fallen with Montrose?

The historical compends with which our youth was familiar, had taught
us to form this estimate of the early settlers of Virginia; and we had
the more faith in it, because it accords with the hereditary
prejudices and prepossessions of the present day. It accounts too, for
those peculiarities which, at this moment, form the distinctive
features of the Virginian character. It is unique. Whether for better
or worse, it differs essentially from that of every other people under
the sun. How long it shall be before the "_march of mind_," as it is
called, in its Juggernaut car, shall pass over us, and crush and
obliterate every trace of what our ancestors were, and what we
ourselves have been, is hard to say. It may postpone that evil day, to
resist any attempt to impress us with false notions of our early
history, and the character of our ancestors.

We had never looked narrowly into the contemporary authority for the
traditions and histories that have come down to us. Mr. Bancroft's
account of the matter has led us to do so. Hence our delay to notice
his work. Our research has been rewarded by the pleasure of finding
full confirmation of all our preconceived notions.

The point in contest between Mr. Bancroft and the received histories
is this:

The histories represent Virginia as having been loyal to the last; as
having stood in support of the title of Charles II, after every other
part of the British dominions had submitted to Cromwell, and as having
been the first to renounce the authority of the protector, _and return
to their allegiance_. All this Mr. Bancroft denies; and all this,
except the last proposition, (that in italics) we affirm. In proof, we
appeal to the very authorities on which Mr. Bancroft relies.

Indeed, we are at a loss to know how he himself escaped the conclusion
against which he protests so strongly. It may not be true that Charles
II was proclaimed in Virginia, as Robertson says, before he had been
recognized in England. Mr. Hening (1 Sts. at Large, p. 529, quoted by
Bancroft) may be right, when he says, that, if such were the fact, the
public records should show it. But his book is full of proof that the
records are incomplete. Is there not such proof in this instance? Let
us examine.

The first act of the session of March 1660, assumes the supreme power.
The second appoints Sir William Berkeley governor, and prescribes that
he shall govern according to the "_auncient lawes_ of England, and the
established lawes" of Virginia. The third repeals all laws
inconsistent with "the power now established;" and the fourth makes it
penal to "say or act anything in derogation" of the government thus
established.

Here is evidence enough of a _new order_ of things, and yet it is not
so very clear what that new order was. Hening says (_ubi supra_) that
Berkeley was elected _just as Mathews had been_. Wherein then was the
innovation? The recital in the preamble of the act last quoted, (1
Hen. Sts. p. 531) may give a clue to this.

It is there set forth that "it hath been thought necessary and
convenient by the present Burgesses of this Assembly, the
representatives of the people, _during the time of these
distractions_, to take the government into their own power, with the
conduct of the _auncient lawes_ of England, till such _lawfull_
commission or commissions appear to us, _as wee may_ DUTIFULLY _submit
to, according as by_ DECLARATION SET FORTH BY US _doth_ MORE AMPLY
_appeare_."

Now where is this MORE AMPLE DECLARATION, concerning their idea of
such a commission as they might DUTIFULLY submit to? Is not here an
_hiatus valde deflendus_? Yet such are the tattered manuscripts from
which Mr. Hening's compilation is made, that the loss of the whole or
a part of any document is quite common.

Enough appears, however, to show that this declaration did not amount
to a recognition of Charles as king _de facto_; because the above
mentioned Act I, directs that all writs shall issue in the name of the
assembly. But it is equally clear that he was, _at least tacitly_,
acknowledged as king _de jure_; that the government was established
provisionally, and subject to his pleasure; and that the power assumed
was held FOR HIM.

Now when we consider these things; when we find Robertson, on the
authority of _Beverley_ and _Chalmers_, saying that "as Sir William
Berkeley refused to act under an usurped authority, they (the
assembly) boldly erected the royal standard, and acknowledging Charles
II to be their lawful sovereign, proclaimed him with all his titles;"
we may doubt the accuracy of the statement, _in extenso_, but we
cannot agree that even _that_ statement shall be stigmatized as a
fiction.

Mr. Hening tells us (1 Sts. p. 513) that Beverley was near the scene
of action, and wonders that he should have _misunderstood_ or
_misrepresented_. Wonderful indeed it _would_ have been; for in March
1662, we find him clerk to the House of Burgesses. See 2 Hen. Sts. p.
162. We find too, in the same volume, p. 544, that Berkeley refused to
act without the advice of the council; that on receiving this he
agreed to act, and that "HIS _declaration_ TO BE governor (not the act
electing him) were PROCLAIMED by order of the assembly." Berkeley (be
it remembered) was the last royal governor, and his commission had
never been revoked, his election is not for any specific term, and the
act is accompanied with a condition that he shall call an assembly at
least once in _every two years_. How is this, if he was only elected
to fill the vacancy occasioned by the death of Mathews, who, just one
year before, had been elected _to serve two years_. Is not Berkeley in
of his old commission?

But of the loyalty of Virginia there can be no doubt. That this was in
no wise abated by the fall of Charles I, and the exile of his son, is
equally certain. The act, passed immediately after, making it high
treason to justify the murder of the one, or to deny the title of the
other, puts that out of dispute. They certainly did not stand out,
when the battle of Dunbar and the fall of Montrose had left the loyal
party without hope either in England or Scotland. But look at the very
act of surrender. Study its terms, and see the temper displayed there.
Do they acknowledge the _authority_ of parliament or protector? No:
they do but _submit_ to power. There is no profession of allegiance,
nor was any oath of allegiance ever administered during the
commonwealth. They engage indeed so to administer their power as not
to contravene "the government of the commonwealth of England, and the
lawes there established." But this was a proceeding which a respect
for _private rights_ required. They stipulate moreover, that Virginia
shall enjoy as free a trade as England herself, and put an end to all
the authority of commissions from England. It was by such commissions
that the king had governed. That "government by commissions and
instructions" is declared to be for the future "null and void." The
usurper had clutched the sceptre of the king of _England_. That of the
king of _Virginia_ he was not allowed to touch. Accordingly no more
commissions came from England. We hear no more of them until the
election of Berkeley. We are then told that the government is
provisional, and only to endure until a _lawful commission_ shall
appear. What commission? Whose? The protector's? The parliament's? No.
The act of surrender (1 Hen. St. p. 363) had abolished them. But it
had not abolished the rights of the king; and the power of the
assembly and governor is thus made to wait on them.

Strange as it may seem, the act of surrender contains no word
recognizing the rightful authority of the parliament, nor impeaching
that of the king. On the contrary, as if to exclude any such idea,
this remarkable clause is inserted:

"That there be one sent _home_, at the present governor's choice, to
give an accompt to HIS MA'TIE, of the surrender of HIS _countrey_."

_Home!_ There is a simple pathos in the use of this word here, which
speaks volumes to the heart. None can feel more deeply than we do, how
utterly unworthy of this steady and passionate loyalty, was the wretch
who was its object. But they knew not his faults. They only knew him
in his lineage and his misfortunes; and though he had no place to lay
his head, yet wherever their messenger might find the outcast, there
was the home of their hearts. We mean nothing profane. God forbid! But
we cannot help being reminded of the weak warm-hearted boy, who stood
by his master's cross, and gazed with looks of love upon his dying
face, when the stronger and bolder of his followers had "forsaken him
and fled." We are more proud to be descended from the men who stood
forward in the business of that day, than we should be to trace
ourselves to Adam, through all the most politic and prudent
self-seekers that the world has ever seen.

But to return to Mr. Bancroft. Affairs being thus settled, things went
on quite peaceably; and he hence infers that the Virginians were
entirely reconciled to Cromwell and his parliament. Moreover, he finds
them claiming the supreme power, as residing in the colonial
legislature; and from this he most strangely infers a loyalty to the
parliament, the model of which he represents them as so eager to copy.
Now Mr. Bancroft himself tells us (p. 170) that as early as 1619,
Virginia first set _the world_ the example of equal representation.
From that time they held that the supreme power was in the hands of
the colonial parliament, then established, and the king as king of
Virginia. Now the authority of the king being at an end, and no
successor being acknowledged, it followed as _a corollary from their
principles_ that no power remained but that of the assembly; _and so
they say_. Does this look like a recognition of Cromwell and his
parliament, or the reverse?

But Mr. Bancroft seems to think that Virginia could not have failed to
be weaned from her attachment to the king, and won over to Cromwell
and his parliament, by the magnanimity and justice of their
proceedings. He adverts to the article in the treaty of surrender, by
which Virginia had stipulated for a trade as free as that of England,
and assures us that "its terms _were faithfully observed till the
restoration_." (p. 241.) He adds at p. 246, that "the navigation act
of Cromwell was not designed for the oppression of Virginia, and _was
not enforced within her borders_." Hence he says (p. 241) that the
pictures drawn by Beverley, Chalmers, Robertson, Marshall, and Holmes,
of the discontent produced by commercial oppression, are all "pure
fiction."

Now what says the reader to the following extract from a memorial on
behalf of the trade of Virginia, laid before Cromwell in 1656?

"What encouragement the poor planter has had to sweeten his labor,
since the Dutch were excluded trade, appears by the _general
complaint_ of them all, that they are the merchant's slaves, who will
allow them scarce a half-penny a pound for their tobacco. Beside that,
since the Dutch trade was prohibited, till this year there has been a
great deal of their tobacco left behind for want of fraught, and
spoiled, to the almost undoing of divers of them." ... "This is an
inconveniency which has attended _that act for navigation_," "but
unless it be _a little_ dispensed withal, it will undoubtedly ruin
part of the trade it was intended to advance. 'Tis true the people of
themselves, some of them at least, have this year endeavored their own
relief by _secret trade with the Dutch_," &c. &c.

Is not this decisive? If it does not prove the fact, it at least
proves the complaint. Mr. Bancroft denies both. Perhaps this paper is
a forgery. Perhaps Mr. Bancroft never saw it. YES HE DID. It is the
same paper to which he refers at p. 247, note 2, in the very paragraph
in which he says that Cromwell's navigation act was not designed for,
nor enforced in Virginia. Mr. B. indeed says "the war between England
and Holland necessarily interrupted the intercourse of the Dutch with
the English colonies." But this memorial is of the year 1656, and
peace had been concluded April 15, 1654.

Robertson speaks of the colonial governors during the interregnum, as
having been _named_ (that is his word) by Cromwell. This is roundly
denied. On what authority? None. The election proves nothing
certainly. It might have been a mere form, though it was probably
something more. But what was easier than a recommendation which it
would be perhaps best to conform to? How often was the speaker of the
house of commons so chosen in England?

Mr. Bancroft's view of this matter stands thus: Virginia elected her
own governors. Bennett, Digges, and Mathews, were commonwealth's men.
She freely chose them as governors. Ergo. She had gone over to the
commonwealth.

Now there is no proof of either of these propositions. We doubt both.
For if it were established that these gentlemen were, as we suspect,
forced on the colony, it would not be clear that they were therefore
commonwealth's men. We doubt very much whether any such were to be
found. They might have been the least violent among the royalists, and
therefore preferred.

Of Col. Bennett we know something traditionally. The idea that he was
a parliamentarian is new to us. We should require some better proof
than the Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society. He was
indeed, one of the parliamentary commissioners at the time of the
surrender. So was Claiborne, a warm friend and favorite of Sir William
Berkeley, continued in his office of secretary of state, by the
legislature, at Berkeley's request, after his restoration. 1 Hen. Sts.
p. 547. Bennett himself retained his place at the council board, where
he still found himself, as before the restoration, in the company of
cavaliers, such as Morrison, Yardly, Ludlow, &c. &c.[1]

[Footnote 1: The characters and principles of these gentlemen may
throw some light on the subject. If we can ascertain those of the
members of the council, elected by the assembly, we shall have a clue
to the temper of the assembly itself. We may know the tree by its
fruit. If we find that body electing to a place in the council men of
very decided political character, we shall have a right to believe
that those associated with them by the vote of the same body were, at
least, not zealous members of the opposite party. In this case the
maxim "_noscitur a socio_," will surely apply. Let us see what lights
we can bring to bear on this subject.

In Churchill's voyages (vol. vi. p. 171) is "A Voyage to Virginia, by
Col. Norwood." He was a cavalier, and came over in company with
Francis Morrison, also a cavalier. Norwood was also a kinsman of
Berkeley. Arriving here, they found Sir Henry Chichely, Col. Yardly,
Wormely, and Ludlow, whom they recognized as old friends and
cavaliers.

Now in the council elected along with Bennett, immediately after the
surrender, we find two of these gentlemen, Yardly and Ludlow. The
latter had been a member of Berkeley's council that had concurred
(October 1649) in declaring it to be high treason to defend the
proceedings of parliament against Charles I, or to deny the title of
his son. West, the first named member of Bennett's council, had
occupied the same place in that of Berkeley. Pettus and Bernard were
also members of both. We might conjecture that they had dissented from
the act referred to, if we did not find them associated with Yardly
and Ludlow. We find too that Harwood, who had been speaker of the
assembly of October 1649, was also one of Bennett's council. The whole
number was thirteen, and here are six notorious royalists. Of what
complexion could the other seven have been? Two of them, Taylor and
Freeman, were members of the assembly of 1647, from two most loyal
counties.

In July, 1653, Col. Walter Chiles, who had been a member in October
1649, was speaker.

In November, 1654, Col. Edward Hill, another of them, was speaker. He
was in high favor after the restoration. He was transferred to the
council in 1655.

We find the name of Charles Norwood, as clerk of the assembly, from
that time.

In March, 1655, Col. Thomas Dew was a member of the council. He had
been speaker of the assembly in 1652, the first elected under Bennett.
_We know_ (we do not ask historians to tell us this) that he was a
loyal clansman, who was driven to Virginia by his hatred of the
usurpers, and to accommodate his name to English orthography, changed
the spelling from that of "Dhu"--since made familiar to all readers of
poetry--by Sir Walter Scott. He is now (in 1655) in the council,
making in that body seven known loyalists.

In the legislature of that year, we have the name of Sir Henry
Chichely.

In 1656, Col. Morrison (the companion of Ludlow's voyage) is speaker.

In the next assembly (1658) John Smith was speaker. We know nothing
certainly of him; but it was that assembly that deposed Mathews. They
gave him Berkeley's friend, Claiborne, as secretary of state; and for
councillors, among others, West, Pettus, Hill, Dew, and Bernard. They
made some changes, but turned out none of that party. At the same time
they introduced Col. John Carter, another of Norwood's friends. He had
been chairman of the committee, on the report of which the assembly
had just acted. Horsmenden, another of the same committee, was elected
to the council at the same time.

In March 1659, Hill, who had left his place in the council, is again
speaker. In March 1660, the assembly which reinstated Berkeley,
retained Bennett and five other of the old councillors, of whose
characters we have no other indication. These were Robins, Perry,
Walker, Read, and Wood. What they were may be inferred from this fact.
Morrison, moreover, was elected at the same time.

Can we believe, in the face of these facts, that the loyalty of
Virginia ever wavered? That it bowed before the storm we know. That
the assembly, in one instance, passed a vote of disfranchisement
against the author of a seditious paper, appears in 1 Hen. Sts. p.
380. But we also find that this vote was reversed _as soon as they
heard of the death of Oliver Cromwell_.]

If then Bennett was, as we conjecture, recommended to the assembly by
the parliamentary commissioners, what induced them to choose him? The
answer is given by Mr. Bancroft at p. 241. He had become obnoxious to
Berkeley, and had been "compelled to quit Virginia." For what does not
appear. Hardly for disloyalty. In 1 Hen. Sts. p. 235, we have his name
and that of Mathews signed to a paper of as enthusiastic loyalty as
was ever penned, presented to the king after his rupture with
parliament.

But what reason have we for supposing this interference with the
freedom of election? We answer that our reasons are twofold.

1. The authority of Robertson, who relies on Beverley and Chalmers,
and doubtless consulted all the authorities he could find, is entitled
to some weight. Had he said the governors were _appointed_ by
Cromwell, we should know that he spoke at random. But his use of the
equivocal word "_named_," shows that he knew what he was talking
about, and considered what he was saying.

2. But in Hen. Sts. 499 to 505, is an evidence that we think
conclusive. Mathews took it into his head to dissolve the assembly.
They immediately voted the act a nullity, and civilly invited the
Governor to go on with the business. To this he assented, revoking the
order, but proposing to "referre the dispute of the power of
dissolving and the legality thereof to his Highnesse the Lord
Protector." This was in 1658, and the Lord Protector was then Richard
Cromwell, and not Oliver, under whom Mathews had been elected.

The house took fire immediately at this proposed appeal, and deposed
Mathews, and having solemnly declared the "power of government" to
reside in themselves, they _re-elect him_, saying that he is "BY US
invested" with the office.

Now what did this mean, if circumstances had not been such as justify
the notion entertained by Mathews that he derived his authority from
some other source, so as to have the right of dissolving the assembly.
Had there been no interference on the part of Cromwell, this whole
proceeding would have been idle and ridiculous. Yet it is obviously
the proceeding of men not disposed to trifle, and who well understood
what they were about.

Now compare this peremptory proceeding with that which took place soon
after on the death of Mathews. Richard Cromwell had then abdicated,
and there was therefore no shadow of authority in England to restrain
the action of the assembly. But what do they do? They elect Sir
William Berkeley _provisionally_, making the continuance of his
authority and their own to determine on the coming of a "lawful
commission." Now, _such commission_, as we have already shown, could
only come from the king; it was his plan of government; it had not
been practiced by the parliament; and the right to exercise it had
been denied to them and renounced by them. Does not this conduct of
the assembly show that they anticipated the restoration of one whose
right they had always maintained?

So far, we have done little more than to express our dissent from Mr.
Bancroft's conclusions. In a single instance, to which we have
adverted, he must be suspected of wilfully misrepresenting his
authorities. We allude to the memorial addressed to Cromwell in favor
of the trade of Virginia, of which he was certainly aware, and which
clearly disproves his own statement. Had this been the only instance
of the sort, we should have passed it over more lightly. But it does
not stand alone.

His main drift, in his account of these transactions, seems to be, to
show that Virginia had taken the infection of Republicanism; that she
was effectually weaned from her allegiance; that she desired nothing
but to set up for herself; and that the use she proposed to make of
the abdication of Richard, and the consequent suspension of executive
power in England, was to establish the supremacy of her legislature.
In this view the assembly are represented as requiring of Berkeley the
distinct acknowledgment of their authority, which he, we are told,
recognized without a scruple. "I am" said he, "but the servant of the
assembly."

Now what will the reader say when he reads the passage from which
these words are copied. It runs thus:

"You desire me to do that concerning your titles and claims to land in
this northern part of America, which I am in no capacity to do; for I
am but the servant of the assembly: _neither do they arrogate to
themselves_ any power, farther than the miserable distractions in
England _force them to_. For when God shall be pleased to take away
and dissipate the unnatural divisions of their native country, _they
will immediately return to their professed obedience_."

Is this an assertion of the supremacy of the assembly? Is it not the
very reverse? He disclaims any power to act in a certain behalf. Why?
Because he is but the servant of the assembly; he has no power but
what is given by them, and _they do not pretend to have any such to
give_. On their principles, they could not. Looking for the
restoration, they expected "some commission" by which any authority
they could establish would be superseded; their provisional government
was the result of necessity, and its powers were limited to the nature
of that necessity. Every thing that could wait was made to wait.

What is the meaning of this strange attempt to pervert the truth of
history, and to represent Virginia as being as far gone in devotion to
the parliament as Massachusetts herself? Why does it come to us,
sweetened with the language of panegyric, from those who love us not,
and who habitually scoff at and deride us? Is it intended to dispose
us to acquiesce in the new notion, "that the people of the colonies,
all together, formed one body politic before the revolution?" Against
this proposition we feel bound to protest. We hold ourselves prepared
to maintain the negative against all comers and goers, with tongue and
pen; and to resist the practical results, if need be, with stronger
weapons. When Virginians shall learn to kiss the rod of power; to
desert their friends in trouble, and to take part with the strong
against the weak, it will then be in character to disparage the memory
of our forefathers, and to say, they were even such as ourselves. But
until we have done something to dishonor our lineage, let us speak of
them as they were,

             "Faithful among the faithless;
  Among the faithless, faithful only they."

We have said nothing of Mr. Bancroft's style. It is our duty as
critics to take some notice of it; and, we apprehend, he might think
himself wronged if we did not. He is obviously very proud of it; and,
in saying this, we fear we have condemned it. An ambitious style is
certainly not the style for history. To say nothing of the frequent
sacrifice of perspicuity to ornament, there is a tone in it which
excites distrust. We find ourselves, we know not how, diffident of
statements which come to us in the language of declamation, antithesis
and epigram.

In our boyhood Hume's history was put into our hands; and we remember
our surprise at hearing something said in praise of his style.
_Style!!_ Was that _style_? A plain story, told just as we should have
told it ourselves? Partridge would as soon have thought of admiring
Garrick's acting. The _king_ was the actor for his money, and Mr.
Bancroft's would _then_ have been the style for ours.

We have no doubt, for example, we should have been delighted with the
following passage, introduced into a description which closes the
author's remarks on the very question we have been discussing. We give
it for the benefit of any of our young friends, who may be preparing
an oration for the fourth of July. It would be nothing amiss, on such
an occasion, for a "moonish youth" not yet out of his first love
scrape. But from a grave historian, with a beard on his chin, we
cannot approve it. We give it as a sample. _Ex pede Herculem_. "The
humming-bird, so brilliant in its plumage, and so delicate in its
form, quick in motion, yet not fearing the presence of man, haunting
about the flowers, like the bee gathering honey, rebounding from the
blossoms out of which it sips the dew, and as soon returning" to renew
its many addresses to its delightful objects, "was ever admired as the
smallest and the most beautiful of the feathered race."

Alas! Alas! If this is the way to write history, we fear we shall have
to leave our northern neighbors to tell the story their own way. It is
a hard case. Let them write our books, and they become our masters.
But we cannot help ourselves. We cannot contend with those who can
write history in this style. Our only defence is not to read. A more
effectual security would be, not to buy. In that case they would not
write; and we should not only avoid being led into error, but might
escape the injury of being misrepresented to others. But Mr.
Bancroft's book is in print, and we must abide the mortification of
having all who may read it, think of our ancestors as he has
represented them. We have comfort in believing that they will not be
very numerous.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WRITINGS OF GEORGE WASHINGTON; being his Correspondence,
Addresses, Messages, and other Papers, official and private, selected
and published from the original manuscripts; with a Life of the
Author, Notes and Illustrations; Vols. II, III, IV, V and VI; by Jared
Sparks.--Boston: Russell, Odiorne & Co.

We regret that we deferred our notice of the second and third volumes
of this interesting and valuable work, until the appearance of the
other three. It has now so grown on our hands, that it is impossible
to do justice to it in an article of any reasonable compass. Yet we
know few works that we would more strongly recommend to the public.

We have little curiosity to peep into dead men's port-folios, and
perhaps the world has seen few that would not suffer in reputation by
being tracked, through all their walk in life, by daily memoranda and
documentary evidence. The man whose history, under this searching
scrutiny, shows "no variableness nor shadow of turning," most differ
very much from the multitude, even of those we call the great and
good. Nothing certainly can show a fuller and firmer consciousness of
rectitude of intention, than to begin life with a purpose of leaving
behind a full and fair account of it. Such memorials carefully written
out and preserved, like the books of a tradesman, bespeak a steadiness
of honesty, that never for a moment distrusts itself. Which of us,
commencing a diary, would feel sure that he might not do something
to-morrow that he would not choose to set down? Which of us opening a
letter book, which should exhibit his whole correspondence, would not
be tempted to leave out something?

Here is a man who chooses that his steps shall all be in the light. He
begins life, by laying down to himself rules of action and deportment.
He commits these to paper, and hands them down to posterity, with a
full register of all his acts and words and thoughts. The remarkable
modesty of General Washington, would alone prevent us from
understanding this as a challenge to the whole world, to compare his
principles, professions and actions throughout, defying any imputation
of inconsistency.

There is nothing more remarkable in this, than the evidence it affords
of the early consciousness of a something distinguishing him from
other men, which seems, most unaccountably, to have found its way into
his humble mind. It is the most striking instance on record of the
_instinct of greatness_. It is a study for the metaphysician and
philosopher. From the beginning, the work is done as if for posterity,
and executed as if intended for the eyes of the world. This in a boy,
who never made any ostentation of himself, his endowments, or his
actions; who formed a very humble estimate of his own powers, and
seemed through life to seek no reward but his own approbation, is one
of those strange phenomena which we refer to the influence of a
peculiar nature, acting by inscrutable impulses, of which the subject
of them is hardly conscious.

Did it occur to General Washington, even at that early age, that he
might be a father, and that his children might find an humble pride in
looking over the unspotted page of his unpretending life? Perhaps so.
Perhaps this thought was all that his young ambition (that passion
which humility itself cannot extinguish in the breast of greatness)
ventured to whisper to his heart. If so, the anticipation has been
nobly and mysteriously accomplished. Like the patriarch of old,
childish though he was, God has made him the father of nations; and it
should indeed be the pride of us his children, to read the history of
his life; to trace his steps; to study the system of moral discipline
by which he trained himself to greatness and virtue; to know him as he
was; and to mould ourselves by his precepts and example. No man ever
left to his posterity so rich a legacy as the extraordinary work
before us; and we owe many thanks to Mr. Sparks for the labor which
has prepared it for the public eye.

We really think that it is in this point of view that this work is
most interesting and valuable. Its importance as affording authentic
materials for what is _commonly called_ history, strikes us less
forcibly; though in this respect it must be highly useful. It
certainly affords the historian more satisfactory materials for his
work, than can be supplied from any other source, or for any other
portion of history. But what is that? What is history, for the most
part, but a narrative of events, the results of which cannot be
effected by our right or wrong apprehensions of them. What matters it
at this day, whether we believe that Cæsar killed Brutus, or Brutus
Cæsar? What will it concern posterity whether the glory of the field
of Waterloo belongs to Wellington or Blucher? But when will it be
otherwise than important and profitable to study the process by which
Washington became what he was? When will it cease to be a lesson of
wisdom, to look narrowly into the private and public history of the
most fortunate man that the world has ever seen, and observe that the
quality which most eminently distinguished him from other men, the
quality to which his success, his prosperity, his usefulness, and his
imperishable glory are mainly attributable, was VIRTUE? Since the day
when the important truth was first proclaimed, that "in keeping God's
commandments there is great reward," when was it so illustrated as in
this instance? Had there been a flaw in the character of General
Washington, could the most malignant scrutiny have detected in his
history anything dishonorable, anything unjust, anything selfish,
anything on which reproach could fasten, he could not have
accomplished what he did. No man could, be his talents what they
might, who did not bring to his task such a character for virtue as
would secure the confidence of the well-intentioned, and shame the
artful and designing from their purposes. A vicious and corrupt people
who fight for conquest; a lawless banditti who fight for spoil, may be
led to victory by talent, enterprise, courage and energy; but the
triumphs of Freedom can only be achieved under the auspices of Virtue.
When men are in a mood to rally to the banner of one whose life is
stained with crime, they do but deceive themselves if they think they
are contending for freedom. _When they are prepared to take such a one
as_ "A SECOND WASHINGTON," _they are only fit to contend for a choice
of masters._ This is eternal truth; but it will not be truth to them.

But we wander from the work before us; though we trust what we have
said will dispose those "who have ears to hear" to set a high value on
the book of which we proceed to give a short account.

The first of these volumes contains all the papers and private and
public letters of General Washington, which could illustrate either
his character, or the history of the country, up to the commencement
of the revolution. It is a portion of history highly interesting,
especially to Virginians, and on which none but a doubtful light is
shed from any other source. Here we have an authentic account of
Braddock's war; a sort of war of which the readers of history have, in
general, no idea but that which is drawn from romances and tales. It
is a warfare which does not recommend itself to the imagination, by
the "pride, pomp and circumstance" so interesting to those who "kiss
my Lady Peace at home." But since the invention of gun-powder, there
is no fighting which gives so much room for the display of prowess,
courage, coolness and address, and in which victory is so sure to be
the prize of these qualities. "Many a brave man," says Don Quixotte,
"has lost his life by the hand of a wretch who was frightened at the
flash of his own gun." Not so in Indian warfare. The man who is scared
never escapes but by flight. How should he? There he stands behind his
tree, while at the distance of a few yards stands his enemy, watching
with the eye of a lynx, with his rifle to his cheek, and ready to put
a ball through any part that is exposed for a moment. To anticipate
him; to get a shot at him; to draw his fire, and then drive him from
his shelter, is a business in which success depends on steadiness,
self-possession, and presence of mind, as well as dexterity and skill.
He who _thus_ kills his man, _is_ a brave man; and hence, among the
Indians, a display of scalps is a proof of courage never questioned.
It was in this sort of warfare that Washington served his
apprenticeship. It was there he learned to look danger steadily in the
face, and to possess his soul in calmness amid the fiercest storm of
battle. There is no such school. The _art_ of war is what a Martinet
may learn. But the faculty of carrying that art into practice, of
applying its rules in the crisis which shakes the nerves, and
unsettles the mind, is only acquired by the "taste of danger." To him
who possesses that, the rest is a school-boy's task.

The other four volumes of the work contain the papers relating to the
war of the revolution. Such a body of evidence, so completely above
all exception, can hardly be found on the subject of any other war. We
are not sure that any historian has ever yet taken the time and pains
to collate and digest the whole, and to deduce all the essential
results. The means of doing so are here put in the hands of the
public, and we may hope that some one qualified and disposed for the
task will address himself to it, and furnish the world with a history
at once succinct and accurate, in which references to authorities may
stand in place of discussions. It is a fault of contemporary history
that it is almost always given on partial and imperfect evidence,
which is liable to be afterwards explained away, contradicted and
falsified. It is not until some time after the event, that all the
testimony is in the hands of the historian. That time has now come as
to the American Revolution. A concise history may be now written with
references to this work, which taken in connexion with it, will be
more satisfactory and conclusive than any now in existence. But every
one who pretends to acquaint himself with all that is most
interesting, especially to Virginians, should secure a copy of this
book.

Mr. Sparks has given us some interesting specimens of the sort of
history that we contemplate. In his appendices he presents succinct
narratives of the principal actions of the war, the accuracy of which,
the reader has it in his power to test by the evidence in the body of
the work. This is judicious and in good taste.

But after all, the great charm and value of this work is, that it is a
cast from living nature, of the mind of "the noblest man that ever
lived in the tide of time." We cannot dwell too much on the
contemplation of his peculiar character. His high sense of moral
worth, and the lofty aspirations of conscious greatness, looking out
from behind the veil of genuine modesty and humility with which he
delighted to shroud himself: the chivalrous and daring spirit ever
champing on the curb of prudence, but never impatiently straining
against it: the native fierceness of his temper, occasionally flashing
through his habitual moderation and self-command; the promptitude and
clearness of his conceptions, so modestly suggested, so patiently
revised, so calmly reconsidered in all the intervals of action; all
these qualities combined and harmonized by honor, integrity, and a
scrupulous regard to all the duties of public and private life; all
made "to drink into one spirit" all "members, every one of them in the
same body," all working to the same end; _diverse_ yet _congruous_.
What is there in the history of human nature, so grand, so majestic,
so elevating to the heart and hopes of man?

That virtue, which is never selfish in its ends, and ever scrupulous
in its choice of means, can rarely rise to a high place among the
great ones of the earth, unless associated with a strength of wing
which shall enable it to soar above those whose flight is unencumbered
by the clog of self-denial. Virtue in high places is thus so rare a
sight, that when we find it there, it so much engrosses our attention,
that we are apt to overlook the faculties by which it rose. Men like,
too, to delude themselves with the belief that their admiration is a
tribute to virtue; that the honors and emoluments they bestow are
given as the reward of virtue. Thinking thus, they think the better of
themselves, and are ready to take at his word the man who disclaims
any pretension to those more showy endowments which we reward for _our
own_ sakes. So we cheat ourselves; and so we cheat our benefactors;
not indeed of the fame _they_ prize most highly, but of that which
glitters brightest in the eyes of the world. Look at that wonderful
man, the blaze of whose glory pales even the "Julian Star" itself;
before whose power all Europe trembled, and America crouched; and let
us ask ourselves how far the extent of his achievements might have
been curtailed, had he ever permitted himself for a moment to "forget
the expedient in considering of the right;" and submitted to have his
choice of means limited by any regard to the laws of war or peace, of
man or God? His great maxim, that "in War, _time_ is every thing," was
well illustrated by the success of one, who never lost a moment in
working the complex problem of right and expediency. Compare the
rushing, desolating tempest of his career, with the cautious march of
Washington, picking his way with an anxious regard to duty, and ever
watchful of his steps, lest he might tread upon a worm. Compare his
abounding resources, all used without scruple, without reserve, with
the scanty means of the champion of our freedom, rendered yet more
scanty by his uniform care to do wrong to none, and never to soil his
hand, his name or his conscience with any thing unclean.

The fifth and last of _these_ volumes brings down the war to March
1780. How many more there will be, Mr. Sparks himself does not know.
He will go on with his selections until he shall have laid before the
public all that he deems most valuable of the writings of General
Washington. We trust that he will use discreetly and fairly his power
over the purses of his subscribers, who have engaged to take the work
for better for worse, be it more or less, at so much per volume. The
price is so liberal as to afford a high temptation; but we hope Mr.
Sparks will resist it. We should be sorry to see a work commencing so
nobly, degenerate into a mere book-making job. We hope not to have the
remains of the father of our country treated like those of an old
horse, whose heartless owner never thinks he has got all the good of
him, until his skin is sent to the tanner, his fat to the
tallow-chandler, and his bones to the soap-boiler. Such is the
treatment which other great men have experienced at the hands of
"their children after the flesh;" dishonored in their graves by the
reckless and indecent publication of every thing to which their names
could give a market value. Let us bespeak a more considerate and
decorous use of the rich legacy left us by him whom we reverence as
the "father of our liberties."

It is perhaps, beside the general purpose of our remarks, to extract a
letter, illustrating a point in General Washington's character, of
which we have said nothing. That he was stern, and that he seemed cold
we know. It is equally certain that he was kind, courteous, and
tender, and it is delightful to see how eagerly his benevolence
catches at an opportunity to pour balm into the wounds of an enemy.
The following letter is found at p. 266, vol. 5.

"To Lieutenant General Burgoyne.

"_Head Quarters, March 11th, 1778_.

"Sir,--I was only two days since honored with your very obliging
letter of the 11th of February. Your indulgent opinion of my
character, and the polite terms in which you are pleased to express
it, are peculiarly flattering; and I take pleasure in the opportunity
you have afforded, of assuring you, that far from suffering the views
of national opposition to be imbittered and debased by personal
animosity, I am ever ready to do justice to the merit of the man and
soldier, and to esteem where esteem is due, however the idea of a
public enemy may interpose. You will not think it the language of
unmeaning ceremony, if I add, that sentiments of personal respect, in
the present instance, are reciprocal.

"Viewing you in the light of an officer contending against what I
conceive to be the rights of my country, the reverses of fortune you
experienced in the field cannot be unacceptable to me; but, abstracted
from considerations of national advantage, I can sincerely sympathize
with your feelings, as a soldier, the unavoidable difficulties of
whose situation forbade his success; and as a man, whose lot combines
the calamity of ill health, the anxieties of captivity, and the
painful sensibility for a reputation exposed, where he most values it,
to the assaults of malice and detraction.

"As your aid-de-camp went directly to Congress, the business of your
letter to me had been decided before it came to hand. I am happy that
their cheerful acquiescence in your request, prevented the necessity
of my intervention; and wishing you a safe and agreeable passage, with
a perfect restoration to your health, I have the honor to be, very
respectfully, &c. &c."

In General Burgoyne's reply, he says: "I beg you to accept my
sincerest acknowledgments for your obliging letter. I find the
character, which I before knew to be respectable, is also perfectly
amiable; and I should have few greater private gratifications in
seeing our melancholy contest at an end, than that of cultivating your
friendship."

How beautiful! How delightful is this exhibition of the best feelings
of the heart, under circumstances which the ferocious and brutish use
as a pretext for giving free scope to the worst! How truly does the
poet sing!

       "Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light,
          When first by the bewildered pilgrim spied,
        It smiles upon the dreary brow of night,
          And silvers o'er the torrents foaming tide,
        And lights the fearful path by mountain side:
          Fair as that beam, although the fairest far,
        Giving to horror grace, to danger pride,
          Shine martial faith, and courtesy's bright star,
  Through all the wreckful storms that cloud the brow of war."[2]

[Footnote 2: We implore the lenient judgment of our brethren of the
craft of criticism on this long quotation. We know that it is not
_selon les regles_ so to quote in a review. Besides it is trite as
well as long. But what could we do, when our heart was full of the
very sentiment which Scott has expressed so much better than we could?
To our readers, not of the craft, we say "regard rather our precept,
than our example."]

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Italian Sketch-Book_. _Philadelphia: Key & Biddle_. This is a
very handsome duodecimo, and presents more than ordinary claims to
attention. It is the work of an American, and purports to be written
during a sojourn at Venice, Florence, Naples, and Rome. The book is
chiefly made up of sketches and descriptions of these world-renowned
cities. It will be seen that there is nothing very novel in the
subject, and the question naturally arises "Who has not already heard
all that is worth knowing about Venice, Florence, Naples, and Rome?"
But, notwithstanding the triteness of his theme, our American
traveller has contrived to throw an uncommon interest over his pages.
They are finely diversified with stories well-told, essays tending to
illustrate points of local or social interest in Italy, and much
descriptive writing which has all the force and fidelity of painting.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Outre-Mer, or a Pilgrimage Beyond the Sea, by Professor Longfellow_,
is a work somewhat in the same style, and equally well written
throughout. "I have travelled"--says the Professor--"through France
from Normandy to Navarre--smoked my pipe in a Flemish inn--floated
through Holland in a Treckschuit--trimmed my midnight lamp in a German
university--wandered and mused amid the classic scenes of Italy--and
listened to the gay guitar on the banks of the Guadalquiver." The book
before us is a kind of running comment on the text of his travels,
and, as we have said before, has many of the peculiar traits which
distinguish the Italian Sketch-Book. It is, however, more abundant in
humor than that work, and is far richer in legend and anecdote. The
Professor tells a comic story with much grace, and his literary
disquisitions have always a great deal to recommend them.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Voyage of the U.S. Frigate Potomac, under the command of Commodore
John Downes, during the circumnavigation of the globe in the years
1831-32-33 and 34: including a particular account of the engagement at
Quallah-Battoo, on the Coast of Sumatra_. _By J. N. Reynolds_. This is
a thick volume of nearly 600 pages, well printed, upon good paper,
with some excellent engravings, and published by the Harpers. Mr.
Reynolds, the author, or to speak more correctly, the compiler, will
be remembered as the associate of Symmes in his remarkable theory of
the earth, and a public defender of that very indefensible subject,
upon which he delivered a series of lectures in many of our principal
cities. With the exception, however, of seven chapters, the matter
forming the work now published is gleaned from the ship's journal,
from the private journals of the officers, and from papers furnished
by Commodore Downes himself. This fact will speak much for the
authenticity of the details, and very valuable information scattered
through the book. Mr. R. himself was not with the Potomac during the
circumnavigation, having joined her in 1832 at Valparaiso. Our readers
are, of coarse, acquainted with the object of the Potomac's voyage,
and with the outrage perpetrated by the Malays on the ship Friendship
in 1831, which rendered it an indispensable duty on the part of our
government to demand an indemnity. The result of this demand, and the
action at Quallah-Battoo are graphically sketched by Mr. Reynolds.
Every body will be pleased, too, with his description of Canton and of
Lima. He writes well, although somewhat too enthusiastically, and his
book will gain him reputation as a man of science and accurate
observation. It will form a valuable addition to our geographical
libraries.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The History of Ireland, by Thomas Moore, vol. 1_, in which the
records of that country are brought down from the year B.C. 1000, to
A.D. 684, has been republished by Carey, Lea & Blanchard. We intend a
very high compliment to the bard of Paradise and the Peri, in saying
that we think his prose very little inferior to his poetry. We have
not forgotten Captain Rock and Fitzgerald. The Epicurean (a very
anomalous Epicurean by the bye) is a model of fine writing. The Life
of Byron, in spite of a thousand errors, both of the head and of the
heart, and in spite too of its perpetually exciting our risibility at
the expense of the little cockney biographer himself, is a book to be
proud of after all, and should not be mentioned in comparison with a
certain absurd tissue of maudlin metaphysics, attributed (we hope
falsely) to Mr. Galt. And now, lastly, we have before us a specimen of
Moore's versatile abilities, in as temperate, as profound, as well
arranged, and in every respect as well written a history as Green Erin
can either desire or deserve. Very truly, Anacreon Moore is, in our
opinion, no ordinary man.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Blackbeard, or a Page from the Colonial History of Philadelphia_.
_Harper & Brothers, New York_. This book differs in many striking
points from the ordinary novels of the day. The scene is laid in
Philadelphia, and the author is largely indebted for many pictures of
manners, things, and opinions in the olden days of the city of
Brotherly Love to the "Annals of Philadelphia." We think these volumes
will be read with interest in England, but as a mere novel they have
very few claims to attention. The style is clumsy and embarrassed. The
character of Oxenstiern is a piece of pure folly and exaggeration;
while the atrocities of Blackbeard, which are intended to produce a
great effect upon the mind of the reader, utterly fail of this end
from a want of the _ars celare artem_ in the writer. The book may be
characterized in a few words as odd, vulgar, ill-written, and
interesting.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Pencil Sketches or Outlines of Character and Manners_. _Second
Series_. _By Miss Leslie_. _Philadelphia, Carey, Lea, & Blanchard_.
This volume contains the Wilson-House--the Album--the Reading
Parties--the Set of China--Laura Lovel--John W. Robinson, and the
Ladies Ball. All these stories have been published before in different
periodicals, and have been extensively copied and admired. Miss
Leslie's writings have obtained her much reputation, both at home and
abroad, and we think very deservedly. She is a lively and _piquante_
sayer of droll and satirical things; and has a way of showing off _à
peindre_ the little weak points in our national manners. _The Gift_,
an Annual, edited by Miss L. and published by Carey and Lea, will make
its appearance in October. It will be splendidly embellished, and in
literary matter, cannot fail of equalling any similar publication.
Among the contributors will be found Washington Irving, Paulding, Miss
Sedgewick, and a host of _stellæ minores_. It will also have the aid
of Fanny Kemble's fine _countenance_, and very spirited pen.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The American Quarterly Review for June_ has articles on National
Music--Poetry of the Troubadours--Judge Story's Conflict of
Laws--Immunity of Religion--Sigourney's Sketches--Memoir of Tristram
Burges--Shirreff's Tour through North America--Fenimore Cooper--French
Question--and Pitkin's Statistics. It includes also some Miscellaneous
Notices. This is, upon the whole, one of the best numbers of the
Quarterly which has been issued for some time. Most of the papers,
however, are still liable to the old charge of superficiality. The
_Poetry of the Troubadours_ is prettily written, and evinces a noble
feeling for the loveliness of song. But it is _feeble_, inasmuch as it
exhibits nothing of novelty, none of those lucid and original views,
in default of the power to produce which, a writer should forbear to
enter upon a subject so hackneyed. We depend upon our reviews for much
of our literary reputation abroad, and we have a right therefore, as
in a matter touching our national pride, to expect something of energy
at their hands. They should build up a reputation of their own, and
admit papers on no themes which can be found better treated elsewhere.
In the article on _National Music_, among much sensible, and some very
profound writing, there are occasional sallies which will not fail to
startle many an European _literateur_, and some broad assertions which
are very plausible and very unsusceptible of proof. For example. "It
may be observed"--says the reviewer--"that, accustomed as we are to
separate poetry and music, we must never forget that they were
inseparable among the Greeks." This we know is a very general
opinion--but, like some other passages in the review, should be
swallowed _cum grano salis_. The _Immunity of Religion_ contains some
animadversions on a sermon preached at Charleston in 1833, by the Rev.
J. Adams, D.D. President of Charleston College. This whole paper is,
in our opinion, a series of truisms from beginning to end, and the
writer, in gravely deprecating the union of church and state, and the
employment of force in matters of religion, forgets that he is
insisting upon arguments which not one enlightened person in a
million, at the present day, will take the trouble of gainsaying. The
review of _Mrs. Sigourney's Sketches_ we really do not like. The
harmony--the energy--the fire--the elevated tone of moral feeling--the
keen sense of the delicate, the beautiful, and the magnificent, which
have obtained for this lady the name of the American Hemans, have not
found an echo--so it seems to us--in the unpoetical heart of her
reviewer. But, because this is most evidently the case, are we to
think of blaming Mrs. Sigourney?

The other papers are generally respectable. The most interesting, in
our opinion, is that on Shirreff's Tour in North America.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Life of Kosciuszko_.--The Foreign Quarterly Review for March 1833,
contains a notice of the biography of Thaddeus Kosciuszko, by Charles
Falkenstein, re-printed with additions and corrections during the last
year at Leipzic. From the opinions expressed by the reviewers, we are
led to believe that this work possesses great merit, and that opinion
is strengthened by the copious extracts made in the review. Indeed the
narrative of a life so filled up with romantic adventure and
enthusiastic patriotism as that of Kosciuszko, could scarcely fail to
excite great interest. The history of his life has a peculiar charm to
Americans, from the association of his name and his achievements with
the annals of our revolution. The recent struggle of the Poles for
emancipation from the yoke of their barbarian master--its unfortunate
termination--and the wretched enslavement of that generous people,
which France and England tamely suffered to be sealed by the blood of
her patriots, give to every portion of Polish history which relates to
her many contests for freedom, a romantic interest. It is well said by
the reviewer whose notice has made us acquainted with Falkenstein's
work, that "There is in the Polish character a something of barbaric
splendor and rudeness, of the very spirit of Orientalism, mingled with
European education and refinement, an ardor of patriotic valor,
alloyed by versatility, both no doubt heightened, if not produced, by
the strange exciting, or rather distracting constitution of the old
and truly republican monarchy of Poland,--combined with such a gay,
light, mirthful gallantry--whence the Poles were once termed the
French of the north--that all, blending together, give the nation a
peculiar hold upon the imagination.... In fact what we have said of
the Polish nation applies with peculiar force to the nation's
champion, Kosciuszko. His whole life is a romance, and as such, is
really quite refreshing in these matter of fact days of steam engines,
rail roads and compendious compilations of cheap literature." We
presume this book has never been translated; certainly we have never
heard of it in an English form, and we were much interested in the
summary of its contents given by the reviewer. Kosciuszko, was it
appears, like many other great men, crossed in his first love. He
attempted an elopement, was intercepted by the haughty parent of his
lady love, when a sanguinary conflict ensued. Kosciuszko was wounded,
and the lady dragged back to her paternal home. It was this
unfortunate affair which caused his resignation of his commission in
the Polish army, and induced him to cross the Atlantic and offer his
services to our forefathers. We are told that he reached the new world
utterly unprovided with letters of recommendation or introduction, and
nearly penniless. His biographer thus described his first interview
with Washington:

"'What do you seek here?' inquired the General with his accustomed
brevity.--'I come to fight as a volunteer for American independence,'
was the equally brief and fearless reply.--'What can you do?' was
Washington's next question; to which Kosciuszko, with his
characteristic simplicity, only rejoined, 'Try me.' This was done.
Occasions soon offered, in which his talents, science, and valor, were
evinced, and above all his great character was duly appreciated. He
was speedily made an officer, and further distinguished himself."

The first acquaintance of Kosciuszko and Lafayette, (two men who
resembled each other in many respects besides being pure and fearless
and disinterested patriots and philanthropists) is thus described:

"He had not been long in America, when he had occasion to display his
undaunted courage, as captain of a company of volunteers. Generals
Wayne and Lafayette, notwithstanding the heat of the battle in which
they themselves were fully engaged, observed with satisfaction the
exertions of that company, which advanced beyond all the rest, and
made its attacks in the best order.

"'Who led the first company?' asked Lafayette of his comrades, on the
evening of that memorable day (the 30th of September).

"The answer was 'It is a young Pole, of noble birth, but very poor;
his name, if I am not mistaken, is Kosciuszko.' The sound of this
unusual name, which he could hardly pronounce, filled the French hero
with so eager a desire for the brave stranger's acquaintance, that he
ordered his horse to be immediately saddled, and rode to the village,
about a couple of miles off, where the volunteers were quartered for
the night.

"Who shall describe the pleasure of the one, or the surprise of the
other, when the general, entering the tent, [would it not rather be a
room or hut?] in a village, saw the captain, still covered from head
to foot with blood, dust, and sweat, seated at a table, his head
resting upon his hand, a map of the country spread out before him, and
pen and ink by his side. A cordial grasp of the hand imparted to the
modest hero his commander's satisfaction, and the object of a visit
paid at so unusual an hour."

       *       *       *       *       *

_Tocqueville's American Democracy_.--M. Alexis de Tocqueville, one of
the commissioners sent to this country by the French government, to
investigate the penitentiary system of the United States, and whose
report on that subject met with much attention, has recently published
an elaborate work under the title "De la Democratie en Amerique," 2
vols. 8vo. The work has not reached us, but from the extracts which we
have seen in the northern journals, we are induced to believe that it
possesses much merit, and presents the operations of our government in
a novel and striking point of view.

       *       *       *       *       *

_German work on America_.--The first number of a work to be entitled
"The United States of North America in their historical,
topographical, and social relations," by G. H. Eberhard, is announced
as forthcoming at Hildburghausen. The publishers declare their
intention in this work, to "present a digested epitome of all that is
worth knowing respecting the United States, combining the utmost
completeness with accuracy and impartiality." The qualifications of
Mr. Eberhard for the task he has assumed, are said to be ample.