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THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


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

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


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




SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

Vol. I.]  RICHMOND, JULY 1835.  [No. 11.

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




PROFESSOR BEVERLEY TUCKER'S VALEDICTORY ADDRESS TO HIS CLASS.

The following correspondence and address have been sent us for
publication, by the members of Professor Tucker's class at William and
Mary College. We give place to them with pleasure, and commend the
admonitions of the amiable and learned professor to all young
gentlemen about to enter upon the practice of the law. The friendly
and paternal spirit of his advice, gives an uncommon interest to this
production, and shows that his have indeed been "labors of love."


WILLIAMSBURG, 5th July, 1835.

_Much Esteemed Friend:_--

I am requested, in the name of your class, to solicit you either to
have your Valedictory Address published, or deliver it to us for that
purpose. I sincerely hope for your compliance; and although our
exercises for the present session have ended--although we no longer
stand in the relation of students and professor--and notwithstanding
we are about to part (some of us) perhaps forever, we _must hope_ that
the _tie_ which has bound us together for the last eight months,
instead of _weakening_, will continue to "_grow_ with our growth and
strengthen with our strength," and that the day is _far_ distant when
that union shall break. Go where we may, a fond recollection of your
past services will be long cherished by us. We know the interest you
_have_ felt, and still feel in our welfare, and I hope your exertions
to promote the interest of those who have been placed under your care,
are duly appreciated. You have done _your_ duty, and all that has been
wanting must be charged to _us_. You have given us a chart by which to
steer our political ship, and _should_ we succeed in stemming the
current of opposition, may _you_ live to enjoy our triumph. Permit me
now, in conclusion, to tender you our united sentiments of the highest
esteem and respect.

WM. T. FRENCH.

       *       *       *       *       *

WILLIAMSBURG, July 5, 1835.

_My Dear French:_--

I have great pleasure in complying with the request of my young
friends, so far as to hand the lecture to the printer. I am not aware
of any merit in it, such as your partiality sees, to justify me in
permitting you to incur the expense of publication. But in that
partiality and its source, I have more pleasure and more pride than I
could have in any composition. Self-love will not permit me to believe
that I possess the friendship of those who have been placed under my
care without having deserved it. Self-love is "much a liar," but is
always believed; and she could hardly tell me a tale more acceptable.
To acquit myself faithfully and satisfactorily of the duties of a new
and untried station, was the engrossing wish of my heart during the
whole course. When I remember the manner in which my class went
through their examination, and reflect on the pleasures of our
intercourse, the marks of confidence which I continually received, and
the affectionate feelings with which we part, I am sure I have not
altogether failed. But I should be unjust to you, if I did not say
that I am sensible how much your assiduity has done to supply the
defects of my instructions.

May God bless and prosper you all, (for I speak to all,) and make your
success in life not only honorable to yourselves and me, but to your
friends and country. May each of you be a gem added to the bright
crown with which the glory of her sons encircles the gray head of the
venerable and _kindly_ old college. If ever there was a heart in walls
of brick and mortar, it is surely there; and cold is he whose heart
does not warm to it. In her name, once again I say God bless you.

Yours faithfully,

B. TUCKER.

       *       *       *       *       *

ADDRESS.


Neither duty nor inclination will permit me to take leave of you,
young gentlemen, without offering a few remarks, of general
application to the subject of our late studies.

We part, perhaps to meet no more. Some of you go into the active
business of life, some to pursue your researches under other guidance.
To both alike, my experience may enable me to suggest thoughts, and to
offer advice, which may be found of some practical value.

Whether your immediate destination is to the bar or the closet, you
will alike find the necessity of continuing your studies. To give them
such a direction as may be profitable and honorable to you, is my sole
remaining duty.

There are many branches of the law which you will still find time to
investigate at leisure. Many years will probably elapse, before you
will be called to take the _sole_ management of any case involving
valuable rights or intricate questions. The land law, and the
perplexing minutiæ of chancery jurisdiction, will be of this
description. When engaged in such cases, you will commonly find
yourself associated with older and abler counsel, from whom you will
then obtain, at a glance, more insight into these difficult subjects
than I have been able to afford. Under such guidance, you will have
opportunities to investigate the law, with an eye to its application
to your case. You will then see the practical value of the principles
with which you have been made acquainted, and may execute your first
tasks in that line, as successfully as if you were already imbued with
every thing but that knowledge which nothing but study and practice
combined can afford.

But though, in regard to matters of this sort, a general acquaintance
with the grand principles of the law is as much as you can be expected
to carry to the bar, there are other duties which you must assume, in
a complete state of preparation. Let me particularize a few of these.

You will find it then of the utmost importance, to be thoroughly
acquainted with the science of pleading. I have not concealed from you
that the loose practice of our courts dispenses habitually with many
of its rules, and has done much to confuse them all. But they still
retain all their truth, all their reasonableness, and much of their
authority. The courtesy of the bar will indeed save you from the
consequences of any mistake you may make in the outset. But though
this may screen your errors from the public eye, they will not escape
the animadversion of your brethren. They will be prevented from
forming such an estimate of your acquirements, as will lead them to
recommend you to their clients, in the hope of obtaining from you
valuable aid. It is by such recommendations that young men most
frequently gain opportunities to make an advantageous display of
talent, and an introduction into that sort of business which is, at
once, a source of honor and profit.

It sometimes happens, (though, to the credit of the profession such
occurrences are rare,) that a young man, on his first appearance at
the bar, encounters adversaries who do not extend to him the
forbearance which youth has a right to expect. He is taken at a
disadvantage. His want of experience and readiness lays him open to a
more practised opponent, who ungenerously strikes a blow by which his
client is injured, and he himself is brought into disrepute. To him
who is really deficient in capacity or acquirement, such an attack is
sometimes fatal. To him who, on a fit occasion can retaliate on his
adversary, it is of decisive advantage. Mankind are generally disposed
to take sides with the weak and injured party, and to visit with their
indignation any ungenerous abuse of accidental advantages. A young man
therefore, thus assailed, is sure to have with him the sympathy of the
profession and of the public. They look, for a time at least, with
interest to his course. They are impatient to see him redress himself;
and, until he has done so, all the rules of comity and forbearance
which generally regulate the practice, are suspended in his favor.
_He_ is free to take advantages of his ungenerous assailant, which,
under other circumstances would be denounced as ungentlemanly. And
they would be so, because they would be in violation of the covenanted
rules of the profession. But between him and his adversary there is no
such covenant. A state of war abrogates all treaties. It follows that
all the maxims of courtesy which forbid any advantage to be taken of
slips in pleading, do not restrain him; and he is free to hold the
other up to all the strictness of the law. It is expected he should do
so. If he does not, it is concluded that he does not know how. But if
he has once carefully studied the science and made himself acquainted
with its principles, he stands on strong ground, and sooner or later
his triumph is sure. The older and more hackneyed his adversary, the
greater his advantage; for it is true in law, as in morals, that evil
practice vitiates the understanding. The _habit_ of loose pleading
unsettles the knowledge of the rules and principles of pleading, and
many nice technicalities are totally forgotten. There is not, for
example, one old county-court lawyer in a hundred, who remembers that
$100 means nothing in pleading, and that a declaration in which the
sum should be no otherwise expressed, would be so bad as to make it
doubtful whether even the sovereign panacea of our late Statute of
Jeofails would cure it. But though _this_ be doubtful, there is no
doubt that, on demurrer, it would be fatal. A demurrer then, being
filed and submitted _sub silentio_, it is probable that such a defect
would escape even the eye of the court. In that case a reversal of the
judgment would be sure, and a triumph would be gained that would
gratify the profession, and command the admiration of the multitude.

A thousand cases of the same sort might be suggested, where an old
practitioner, though on his guard, (as he must be against one whom he
has provoked to retaliation,) would, from a mere defect of memory, or
the established influence of vicious practice, fall into blunders
which would place him at the mercy of an adversary who has his
learning more fresh about him. How many, for example, will remember
where to stop the defence, in drawing a plea in abatement, or to the
jurisdiction of the court? How many ever think of the necessity of
entitling their pleadings? How many know how to take advantage of this
defect, even when it occurs to them?

But though you should escape the attack of any illiberal practitioner,
yet cases will occur, in which the nature of the controversy will
require great accuracy in drawing out the pleadings to a precise and
well defined issue. In such cases, no disposition to mutual or
_self_-indulgence in the bar, can prevent the necessity of pleading
correctly. In such cases, opportunities will be offered you of
reciprocating the kindness of your seniors, by lending them the aid of
your pen, and assisting them to recall forgotten technicalities. The
value of such aids will raise you in their esteem, establish you in
their regard, and ensure you their good offices. Out of such
circumstances grow alliances which are strength and honor to both
parties. A well read young lawyer, associated with one of less
learning but more experience, sagacious, vigilant, and versed in human
nature and the established though irregular routine of business, is
like the lame man mounted on the shoulders of the blind. Their powers
are not merely united; they are reciprocally multiplied; they fall
together habitually. Their joint success commands confidence and
practice, and finally the fruit of all their triumphs enures to the
benefit of the survivor.

But there is another point of view in which an intimate knowledge of
the rules and principles of pleading is of permanent advantage,
notwithstanding all the looseness which our practitioners habitually
indulge. It has been well said, that "the record is the lock and key
of the law." You will often find that without this interpreter, the
ancient books are sealed to you. It is by this alone that you will
sometimes be able to discover the point really decided. The concise
notes of the old reporters taken for the use of those already familiar
with the great principles and leading maxims of the science of
pleading, are perfectly unintelligible to the mere sciolist.

It often happens too, that a lawyer undertakes a suit or defence which
cannot be sustained, and thus involves his client in unnecessary
expense. Such blunders would often be avoided by a ready familiarity
with the science of pleading. The attorney has but to ask himself,
"how shall I frame the declaration or plea?" and the answer shows him
the impossibility of making good his case. He advises accordingly;
and, though the advice be at the moment unpalatable, it will be
afterwards remembered with gratitude and respect. No reproach is
keener or more just, than that of a client who has been decoyed into
expensive litigation by the rapacity of the disingenuous, or the
blunders of the unskilful. A place among those whose advice may be
relied on, is the safest and most honorable at the bar. It cannot be
lost without some great error. It gives a lien on posterity. The
father hands down to the son a respect for his constant and faithful
adviser. Friend communicates it to friend; neighbor to neighbor. The
showy qualities which are the gift of nature to others, are
neutralized by it. The plain man, destitute of such endowments,
becomes the patron, the dispenser of business and benefits to him
whose eloquence shakes the court--commands his gratitude, secures his
friendship, and, on all admissible occasions, makes this envied talent
his own.

There is another subject on which an ever ready preparation is even
more indispensable than on the subject of pleading. I mean that of
_evidence_. On this, of necessity, we have touched but lightly. It
would be properly, one of the principal subjects of a second course.
To stop short between a cursory notice of it and a thorough
investigation, such as we have not had time to make, might mislead the
student. He might overrate his knowledge if he found himself as well
acquainted with that as with other branches of the law; and supposing
he had enough, might venture to the bar without acquiring more. But
this is a topic of which a superficial knowledge will not do, even at
the beginning. It must be understood perfectly; it must be understood
distinctly; it must be wrought into the very texture of the mind, and
ever present there. The occasions on which this knowledge is wanted,
can rarely be anticipated. They start up like fire from the ground,
and he whose information is not various, exact and ready, is liable to
be disconcerted, embarrassed and disgraced. They often occur in those
apparently plain cases, which the partiality of friends sometimes
intrusts to the sole management of an untried lawyer. To be baffled,
through want of skill in such cases, is to injure those who have
sought to serve you. It mortifies and discourages your friends, and
what is worse, it disheartens you.

You will be often employed too, to set aside an office judgment, and
plead, _pro forma_, in a case admitting of no defence on the merits.
In such a case, where nothing is expected, your adversary, however
able, may be unprepared through some neglect of his client. Relying on
your rawness and want of skill, he may venture to trial. You strike at
the gap in his armor with the dexterity of a veteran; he is nonsuited,
and your success is the immediate source of honor and emolument. You
find yourself gazed at, followed, and employed by those who never saw
you before, and who know nothing of you but that, in a plain case,
admitting of no meritorious defence, you had just baffled one of the
first men at the bar. The consequence is, you are presently engaged in
business of more consequence, and if you acquit yourself well in it,
your practice is established and your fortune made.

To these two subjects then, of pleading and evidence, I advise you to
apply so much attention as to make you feel sure that you understand
them thoroughly. Having done this, let them be again revised
immediately before you go to the bar, and let them, in all the early
stages of your practice, be the constant objects of your attention and
study. You can never understand them too well, and your knowledge of
the last especially, can never be too ready. It is by ignorance on
these topics, that men lose causes they ought to gain. Such defeats
are disgraceful and ruinous. When the right of the case is against
you, it is your misfortune; but you are never blamed. But to be
defeated with law and fact both on your side, is to be weighed in the
balance and found wanting.

And here let me say a word of the cases which you lose, because the
law is against you. For these there is one short rule. "Though you
lose your case, do not lose your temper." It is easy for a young man
to argue himself into a conviction of the justice of his client's
case; but if you do not make others see it too, you must learn to
distrust that conviction. Remember that the argument which has
convinced you, without convincing others, came to you through the
favorable medium of self-love. A young man who doubts the justice of
his first cause just after having argued it, must be either very dull,
or very philosophical, or the case must have been utterly desperate.
On the other hand, remember that the judge is rarely exposed to any
undue bias. He can scarcely ever have a motive to do wrong; and he is
a man of tried integrity, practised to resist and overcome the
influence of such motives. Then remember that he is old, learned and
experienced, selected from among his fellows for his endowments; and
thus learn to acquiesce in his decisions with that cheerful
complacency which so well becomes a young man, distrustful, as all
young men should be, of his own judgment.

Above all things, never stimulate the dissatisfaction of your client.
You tell him he is wronged. He believes you. _You_ blame the judge.
_He divides_ the blame between the _judge_ and _you_. Was the judge
prejudiced _against you_? Do not say so, or men will not employ you to
practice before him. Was he ignorant? was he dull? was he inattentive?
You had the same chance to awaken his attention, to rouse his dulness,
to enlighten his ignorance, as your adversary. If you did not succeed,
another might, and your client will try another the next time. Let him
believe, if he can bring himself to do so, that he only failed because
the law was against him, and there is nothing to prevent his trying
you again. Better so, than to gratify him for the moment by catering
to his evil passions, at the risque of injustice to another, and
injury to yourself. Apart too from the injustice, prudence forbids
that any blow be struck at men in power, which is not well aimed, and
sure to take effect. He that throws up stones, endangers his own head.
"He that spits against the wind," said Dr. Franklin, "spits in his own
face."

There is another consideration to be regarded here. The profession is
a _unit_. Its respectability depends on that of the head. It is an
arch, of which the bench is the key-stone. Let them who should uphold
it, withdraw their support, and all will fall together. Would you
degrade the seat to which you aspire? Would you dim the lustre of that
honor, which is to be the brightest reward of a life spent in the
labors of your profession? Hardly more unwise is the youth, who would
revoke the prerogatives of age, forgetting that he shall himself be
old.

But there is a present advantage in a gentle and complacent
acquiescence in the unfavorable decisions of the court. It engages the
sympathy, the respect, and good will of all who witness it. Among
others it bespeaks the regard of the judge himself. However impartial
he may be, this will not be without its value. If he is seen to be
your friend, men will employ you, in the _hope_ that his friendship
may produce a bias in your favor. Your very enemies will serve you, by
charging him with partiality, in the hearing of those who may wish to
avail themselves of it by engaging your services. Besides, man is but
man. We lean to conviction from those we love. Why else is the
eloquence of a lovely woman so persuasive? We may man ourselves
against prejudice; but the very effort to do so unfixes the attention,
and the words of one who is odious to us are lost in air. But the
voice of a friend is music to the ear, and sinks into the mind. He is
a poor metaphysician who undervalues the influence of the affections
on the very sense of hearing.

It is of great importance, in this point of view, that you should not
misapprehend the relation between the bar and bench. A young man
entering into life, is apt to magnify the consequence and authority of
office; and he naturally falls into the belief that the incumbent is
disposed to presume upon it, and abuse its powers. There can be no
greater mistake than to apply this notion to a judge. The beautiful
fiction of Law, by which the members of the profession are considered
as brethren, of whom the judge is but the elder, hardly deserves the
name of fiction. There is no corps animated by a spirit so truly
fraternal, nor is there any member of it to whose comfort this spirit
is so essential, as the judge himself. Few men attain to that
elevation, without learning that the sanction of judicial authority is
opinion. The judge is armed indeed with the process of contempt. But
what is its true use? To conciliate the forbearance of others by his
forbearance in refraining from the use of it. In this view, it is
right that he should have it. But his comfort, his respectability, the
very stability of his office are secured, not by the power that he
_does_, but that which he does not exercise. Depend on it, among all
the brethren of your profession, you will find none to whom your
friendship will be so desirable as the judge himself.

Remarks of the same sort may be made with regard to your intercourse
with the members of the bar. You will find them for the most part
gentlemen and friends, disposed to lead you gently by the hand.
Requite their courtesy in kind. If an advantage is taken of you, I
have told you how to retaliate. You will have the whole bar on your
side. But such cases are rare. You will probably meet with nothing
illiberal. None will crow at you until your spurs are fully grown. No
sarcasm will be dealt out against you, unless by a junior like
yourself. In such case, in general, pass it by. It will be thought
that your self-respect restrains you from affording sport to the
by-standers, and you will rise in the respect of others. Men naturally
respect those who are seen to respect themselves. You may indeed be
sometimes provoked to retort, by attacks which will make a retort
necessary and proper. In that case, your previous habit of forbearance
will stand your friend. It will dispose others to presume you to be in
the right, and to approve your conduct. It will enable you to reflect;
to do nothing rashly; to choose your words; to measure the force of
your blow; and to strike without laying yourself open. To such
rencounters apply the advice of Polonius to his son:

                        "Beware
  Of entrance into quarrel, but being in
  Bear it, that the opposer may beware of you."

If you are compelled to strike, let no second blow be necessary, and
you will not soon be called to give another.

I might multiply remarks of this sort without end, and perhaps with
little profit to you; for it is too true, "that no man learns wisdom
by another's experience." I am bound to own that it is not by the
practice of these maxims that I have learned their value. But
experience has perhaps convinced me of it somewhat sooner, because
they were inculcated in my youth, by one whose advice I fear was never
justly appreciated until his voice was hushed forever. My suggestions
to you may answer the same end. If, when my head lies low, the
recollection shall come to your minds accompanied by the feelings it
awakens in mine, my labor will not be lost or unrewarded.

But there is one maxim learned in that same school, which no one who
expects to thrive by his profession must neglect. The success of a
lawyer and his honor as a man depend on his fidelity and punctuality.
I need not recommend these to you. But a single auxiliary rule, in the
observance of which there is perfect safety, may be of use.

"Whenever you receive money for a client, always consider that
_specific_ money as his. Set apart the identical dollars and cents,
just as you received them, done up into a parcel labelled with his
name, and accompanied by a statement showing the amount received and
the balance due after deducting your fees and commissions. Let a
counterpart of this statement be drawn up in a book kept for the
purpose, and always carried with you; and at the foot of this
counterpart, take your client's receipt." In this proceeding there is
something level to the apprehension, and obvious to the senses of all
men. It will engage confidence, and multiply in your hands that sort
of business, which, if not the most honorable, is the least laborious,
and not the least profitable.

And now, my young friends, we close a relation which has been to me
one of the happiest of my life. God grant it may prove equally
profitable to you. If it does not, the fault is in me. I have indeed
the satisfaction to know that my exertions are appreciated by you, at
more than their real value; and that wherever your lots may be cast,
you will long remember the months we have spent together with feelings
responsive to my own. It has been my endeavor to divest the subject of
our studies of its dryness, and to render it, if possible, less
unpalatable than you had expected to find it. The task was difficult,
but I hope I have not altogether failed. I have felt it my duty too,
to lay aside the pedagogue, and to disarm my office of all austerity.
In doing this I had but to yield to my natural disposition. The rules
of our institution indeed placed me _in loco parentis_. But the
relation of an elder brother was more congenial to my feelings. I am
happy to believe that it has been so filled, as to establish the
sentiments appropriate to it in each of our minds; and that, when the
infirmities of age shall overtake me, there is not one of you who
would not extend an arm to stay my tottering steps, as there is not
one on whose shoulder I would not lean with confidence.

But my method of instruction was not adopted merely because it suited
my disposition. I believed it most appropriate to the subject of your
studies. It in some measure prepares you to enter in its true spirit
into that relation to the heads of your profession, of which I have
spoken. You will find few judges to whom the authority of office will
not be as irksome as it is to me; and it will be in your choice to
establish, between yourselves and your brethren of the bar and bench,
the same sentiments which make our separation at once pleasant and
painful.

I cannot take leave of you without offering and inviting
congratulations on the distinguished harmony which has pervaded every
department of our venerable institution. It has been a complete
fulfilment of the reciprocal pledges passed at the commencement of the
course, "that you should be treated as gentlemen, and that you would
so demean yourselves." How far this desirable end has been promoted by
the peculiar character and structure of the society of this place, you
are capable of deciding. We must have been unwise, not to avail
ourselves of the aids afforded by the moral influence of a circle of
gentlemen and ladies, intelligent, refined, polite and hospitable,
zealous for the honor and order of the college and the happiness of
its professors and students. It is this ever present influence that
has enabled us to dispense with the rigor of discipline, elsewhere so
necessary. It is this which enables William and Mary College to
preserve its distinctive characteristics. In any other situation they
would soon disappear. The city and the college have grown together.
They are moulded on each other. Each is a part of each. Each is
necessary to the other. You might learn as much, or more, elsewhere;
but where else would you leave behind, from what other place would you
carry with you so much of those kindly affections, the cultivation of
which is not the least important part of education? On these we have
determined to stake the usefulness, the permanency, and the prosperity
of our institution, and in these we find a reward for our labors,
which nothing can take away.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS ON THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,

By a young Scotchman, now no more.


_Boston, 1832_.

DEAR HENRY,--Mr. Paulding and Miss Sedgewick, are, in my opinion,
inferior in genius to the American writers I mentioned in my last.
They may be classed as the secondary novelists of this country, though
in general literature, Paulding is equal if not superior to Cooper.
His tales are usually short and want interest; but his characters are
well sketched, his incidents natural, and his opinions and
observations characterized by good sense. There is, however, an
affectation of humor in what he writes, that does not please me. It
seems to consist more in the employment of quaint terms and odd
phrases, than in the incident or character itself, and would appear to
be the result of an early and frequent perusal of the works of Swift
and Rabelais. His productions are neat and sensible, but not very
imaginative or striking. The interest or curiosity of the reader is
never powerfully excited, but he never fails to please by the manner
in which he conducts his plots; the easy and perspicuous style he
employs, the clear and happy illustration of the vice or folly he
holds up to indignation or scorn, and the successful though sometimes
exaggerated developement of the character he wishes to portray. In
both Paulding and Cooper there is an overwhelming American feeling,
which bursts forth on all occasions, and which, to a foreigner, seems
to partake of the nature of deep rooted prejudice. It results,
however, I have no doubt, from an ardent love of country, increased
perhaps by the silly contumelies and sarcasms of the reviewers and
travellers of our country. Mr. Paulding has not displayed any great
depth or expansion of mind in anything he has yet written, though he
has tried his wing in both prose and verse. His forte is satire,
which, like that of Horace, is more playful than mordant and bitter.
The productions of Miss Sedgewick which I have seen, are remarkable
for good sense, but without much vigor of imagination. She succeeds
best in quiet life. The delineation of the workings of passion, and of
stormy and powerful emotions, are beyond the reach of her powers; but
what she attempts she always does well. Her plots are generally
without complication, and display no great fertility of invention; the
incidents are not very striking and the characters are sometimes tame,
and occasionally extravagant. They are not like the delineations of
Miss Edgeworth, or Miss Mitford. You cannot form an idea of the
nationality of the individual she sketches, and would as soon take him
for a native of any other country as of her own. There is a manifest
defect in this particular, in all the novelists I have mentioned. With
the exception of the Indians who are occasionally introduced, there is
scarcely any difference between their Americans, and the inhabitants
of other lands. Cooper has indeed presented a finer gallery of
American characters than any other writer, especially in his sketches
of the early settlers or pioneers; but his characters, except in a few
instances, are not usually distinguished by striking national
peculiarities. This may possibly originate from the singular fact that
in this country where men are free to rove where inclination leads,
and to be under no other restraint than that which religion, law, or
decency imposes, there is less peculiarity of character or
individuality, than in any other portion of the globe with which I am
acquainted. They have not yet attempted to give as in England,
sketches of American society as it now exists, or may have existed
since the organization of their government. Whether such pictures
would indeed be interesting I am not prepared to say; but from the
society in which I have mingled, I do not think it has variety enough,
or differs sufficiently from that of other civilized nations to render
such pictures striking or amusing. Genius, however, can accomplish
every thing, and might give to what appears to be vapid and
_ennuyant_, some novelty and interest.

There are some other novelists in the United States, whose
productions, as they have sunk, or are rapidly sinking into oblivion,
it is scarcely necessary to name. One of these is a man of talent,
who, you will recollect, was an occasional contributor to the literary
periodicals of our country, while a resident there. I mean J. Neale.
His romances, from their wildness and extravagance, have been but
little read, and are now nearly forgotten. He still, however, employs
his pen, I understand, in doing what he can to edify and amuse his
countrymen. Novel reading has been legitimatized by Sir Walter Scott,
and though his productions furnish an admirable standard, nothing in
the nature of romance now goes amiss, and the demand for works of
fancy seems to increase in proportion to the number issued from the
press, and the food that is furnished. Although the Americans are
great novel readers, there is not much of romance in their character.
There is too much matter-of-fact about them; they are too calculating
and money-making to serve the purposes of the novelist. They form but
indifferent heroes and heroines of romance, and hence Cooper is
obliged to resort to the sea to rake up pirates and smugglers, or to
go back to the revolution or the early settlement of his country to
find characters and incidents calculated to give verisimilitude and
interest to his tales.

In dramatic literature, but little has yet been done in the United
States. Few appear to have devoted much of their attention to dramatic
composition. I have seen but ten or twelve American plays in the
course of my researches; and these, though they possessed a good deal
of merit, have been suffered to sink into neglect, and are rarely
performed. A much larger number, however, would appear to have been
written and prepared for the stage. According to a catalogue I have
lately seen, no less than 270 dramatic pieces have either been
prepared for the theatre of this country, or written by Americans. Of
these many were of course got up for temporary purposes, and when
these purposes were answered were no longer remembered; but you will
be surprised to learn that of this number, commencing in 1775, there
are no less than _thirty-three tragedies_, the best of which are those
which have been recently brought out, Metamora, Ouralasqui, a prize
tragedy by a lady of Kentucky, and a combination of tragedies, by
Paine, called Brutus, which has been on the stage for several years.
The rest are scarcely remembered. The writer who seems to have devoted
the largest portion of his time to dramatic literature in this country
and who may be called the father of the American drama, is Mr. Dunlap,
who has figured for many years in the various characters of dramatist,
manager, and painter. His dramatic pieces amount to about 50, and he
has already outlived their fame. Some of his translations from the
German are still exhibited; but his original compositions are now
never performed, and are almost forgotten. Mr. J. N. Barker of
Philadelphia, stands next in point of fecundity, having given birth to
ten dramatic bantlings in the course of his life, some of which are
very creditable to their parent, but none are, I believe, stock plays.
The prejudice against native writers was at one time so strong that
the managers deemed it prudent to announce Mr. Barker's Marmion, Sir
Walter's poem dramatized, as the production of Thomas Morton the
author of Columbus. Mr. Dunlap was also I understand obliged to resort
to the same expedient in relation to two or three of his plays; but as
moon as it was known, their popularity, which had at first been
considerable, immediately ceased, and they were laid upon the shelf.
Such are some of the difficulties with which the American writer has
to struggle; but these I am happy to learn are now giving way, and a
more liberal spirit is beginning to prevail. It is to be hoped that
the dramatic muse of America will soon be enabled to triumph over all
the impediments which she has had to encounter, and repose in the same
bower and be crowned with the same chaplet as her more fortunate
sister of romance. Among the American plays which accident brought
under my notice, was a comedy in five acts, entitled the "Child of
Feeling," published in 1809, and written by a citizen of Washington.
It seems to have been a juvenile production, written without much
knowledge of the world, but with a due regard to the unities. The
dialogue wants sprightliness and the plot interest, and I merely
mention it now because its contains among its _dramatis personæ_ a
character which is to me entirely original, and which if he really
existed, the author must I think have caricatured in his copy. He is
called Etymology, and does not belie his name, for he is constantly
occupied in tracing every word that is spoken by himself or others to
its root, and makes as may easily be supposed, some comic and
ludicrous blunders. Till very recently, the author of even a
successful play received scarcely any compensation for his labor, and
the fame he acquired was but of short duration. Now however, it is
otherwise, and both reputation and emolument attend the successful
dramatist. The comedies, by American writers that I have seen, are not
remarkable for their wit or humor, and therefore do not long retain
their hold upon the stage. Dramatic exhibitions are not however held
by the Americans in very high estimation, and this may be one of the
causes of the low state of dramatic literature here. But the principal
causes would appear to be the want of leisure, the devotion of the
people to higher and more lucrative avocations, and the facility with
which dramatic productions of established merit and popularity can be
obtained from England. These causes operate in like manner I conceive,
to prevent the attainment of that high poetical excellence which has
yet to be reached by the worshippers of the muse in this country. The
following remarks on this subject by an American writer are so
pertinent, that I will transcribe them for your information. "We
regret to say," says he, speaking of American poetry, "that much less
has been done than might reasonably have been expected, even during
our short political existence. We have indeed as yet scarcely done
anything at which an American can look with conscious pride, as a
trophy of native poetic genius. The ponderous and vapid Epic of
Barlow, and the still more leaden and senseless heroics of Emmons, are
far from giving reputation to the poetry of our country; and the
fugitive and occasional pieces of Percival, Bryant, Halleck, &c. are
not exactly such as we should select as a proof that we have done much
in poetry. We have been in existence as a nation for upwards of half a
century, and yet we have produced nothing that is certain to reach
posterity, or that can be classed higher than the minor productions of
Moore, Campbell, or Byron, of the present day. There is an apparent
want of originality, and too great an appearance of imitation in the
poetical efforts of our native bards to carry them far down the stream
of time, though it must be conceded that they have discovered in these
efforts no ordinary portion of genius. There would seem to be
something either in the nature of our political institutions, or in
the general character of our pursuits, which is inimical to the
developement of high poetical power. We are not a very imaginative
people; we prefer the reality to the ideal; we pursue the substance
rather than the shadow. Our ambition is early fired by political
distinction, or our exertions are directed to the attainment of
competency or wealth. The public mind has been led into a train of
thinking somewhat adverse to the indulgence of poetical enthusiasm,
and not calculated to render it susceptible of deep and intense
delight from the contemplation of poetical beauty. It has been led to
consider that the highest efforts of genius are those which are
displayed at the bar or in the senate, and to regard the power of
forensic and parliamentary eloquence as the loftiest exhibition of
intellectual excellence. To that which the mind is early taught to
respect and admire its greatest exertions will be directed, and hence
the number of those who resort to the profession of law, the career of
legislation, or the pursuits of commerce," &c.

It is unquestionably true, that no great original poetical work of
distinguished merit has yet made its appearance in the United States,
but it cannot at the same time be denied, that the individuals this
writer has named, with Bryant, Sigourney, Willis, and several others,
possess a fine poetical vein, the _mens divinior_ of Horace. Some of
their effusions contain passages of great beauty and splendor, and may
be fairly classed with those of the first poets of our country. Most
of them however, have merely what Mad. De Genlis calls the "art of
making verses;" and either from the want of encouragement, the
stimulus of praise, or continued enthusiasm, wing their flight briefly
into the regions of poetic fancy, and seldom afterwards attempt any
more lofty or daring excursions. But I must pause. I will endeavor in
my next to bring my remarks on the science and literature of the
United States to a close.




FINE PASSAGE IN HOOKER.


Hooker in his Ecclesiastical Polity says, "The time will come when
three words, uttered with charity and meekness, shall receive a far
more blessed reward, than three thousand volumes written with
disdainful sharpness of wit."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO ----.


  The dial marks the sunny hour,
    Every brilliant moment noting,
  But it loses all its power
    When a cloud is o'er it floating,
            As if gloom should be forgot!

  Thus on Time has Mem'ry dwelt,
    Tracing every fleeting minute,
  When thy radiant smiles were felt
    Courting each, if they were in it,
            Noting none if they were not!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PARAPHRASE

Of a figure in the first volume of Eugene Aram.


  Tho' the Moon o'er yonder river
    Seems a partial glance to throw,
  Kissing waves that brightly quiver
    Whilst the rest in darkness flow,
  There's not a ripple of that stream
  Unsilvered by some hallowed beam.

  Thus in life the bliss that mellows
    Ills, that else the soul would blight,
  Seems to fall upon our fellows
    Like that glance of partial light;
  Yet each spirit sunk in sadness,
  Feels in turn its ray of gladness!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MY SISTERS.


  Tho' I have sworn in other ears,
  And kissing, sealed the oath in tears,
  Have owned a little world divine,
  Between my Sarah's lips and mine,
  And more than mortal blessed have felt,
  While there in Heav'nly bliss we dwelt,
  Yet I _loved_ not.
  But when I look, dear girls on ye,
  E'en in the look my worlds I see;
  No vow has passed--our years have proved
  That we have ever truly loved--
  And in your every prayer I hear,
  My name so kindly whispered there,
  Oh! then I _love_.

ROSICRUCIUS.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.


  Sleep on, thou dear maiden, I'll guard thee from harm,
  No foe shall come nigh thee while strength's in this arm;
  As thy sweet breath comes o'er me wild wishes may rise,
  But honor still whispers--Remember the ties
  Which bind her to one to whom she is dear
  As his hopes of a heaven, she's all he has here.
  Yes, far be it from me my friend to betray--
  To gain thy affections, whilst he, far away,
  But little suspects me, or dreams I would dare
  To deceive his heart's treasure--so lovely, so fair:
  Then sleep on, thou dear maiden, I'll guard thee from harm,
  No foe shall come nigh thee while strength's in this arm.

J. M. C. D.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

GRAYSON GRIFFITH.


There is in a pleasant part of the Old Dominion, a thrifty village
named Goodcheer. The inhabitants, from the first settlement of the
place, were kind, and bland, and social. Indeed many of them went
further. They jested, they fiddled, they danced, they sang songs, they
played at cards, they drank wine, they frolicked. Yet was there among
them a strong and steady current of public opinion against acts of
very low and gross meanness or depravity. They were not liars, or
thieves, or swindlers, or rakes.

In this village lived Gregory Griffith, the tanner, whose industry and
probity earned for him a respectability and an independence rivalled
by none except the old patriarch of the village, more generally known
by the name of the Major. Gregory had married the eldest daughter of
old farmer Ryefield, a woman well suited to make him happy. Her
disposition was easy, and her habits industrious and economical. They
were a bonny couple.

  "The day moved swiftly o'er their heads,
   Made up of innocence and love."

Fourteen months after their marriage, their first born son, a lovely
child, smiled in the face of his parents. Him they called Grayson. Nor
was he the only pledge of their love. They alternately rejoiced over a
daughter and a son, until their quiver was full, having four sons and
three lovely daughters. The death of their second child, who bore her
mother's name, had in the fourth year of their marriage, wrung the
bleeding hearts of these parents, and chastened their feelings to
sober thinking. Between their first born and their third child lay an
interval of nearly five years--a period which Mr. and Mrs. Griffith
always spoke of with deep emotion.

Grayson, in his childhood, had but feeble health--a circumstance which
secured to him very indulgent treatment. This indulgence rose to
excess after the death of the lovely Martha, his little sister. So
soon after the death of the daughter, as the gay villagers could with
propriety, they planned a general meeting at Mr. Griffith's. They
came, and after some time spent in sober enjoyment, a game of whist
was proposed. The proposal sensibly affected Mrs. Griffith. She seemed
to feel that it was too soon after her babe's death. The tears started
in her eyes, and she sought a place to weep. She went to her toilet
and bathed her face, and returned with an air of constrained
cheerfulness. Meanwhile Mr. Griffith had taken his seat with a second
company who were playing loo. Before Martha's death, Grayson had been
regularly carried to the nursery, as the sun threw his lowest and
latest beams on the summit of a hill in sight from the portico. But
after the death of his sister, he was encouraged to spend the evening
with his parents; and when overcome by sleep, his cradle and his
pillow were the bosom and the lap of parental fondness. And when
company was present, he was often awake until a late hour. On this
evening every one had something to say to Master Grayson. All the
ladies kissed him, and more than one promised him a daughter for a
little sweetheart. When whist and loo became the amusement, Grayson
was much interested, especially when he saw his father dealing out.
The very beaminess of his eye seemed to throw a charm around the
figures on every card. At first he said nothing. At last he went to
his mother and said: "Mamma, won't you teach me to do like papa? O, I
wish sister Martha was not dead, that she might see the pretties papa
has got. Mamma, what are the papers with the hearts on?" The mention
of Martha's name overcame Mrs. Griffith. She led Grayson to her
bed-room, and wept and kissed him until, overcome by sleep, he forgot
his joys and his sorrows until the next day. The nurse having lodged
the sweet boy in the long crib at the side of his parent's bed, Mrs.
Griffith returned to her company. Either her appearance, or a sense of
propriety in her guests, operated a speedy dissolution of the party.
The company being gone, Mr. Griffith said he wished he had not
consented to play that evening--that Martha had been dead but a year,
and that he really thought that as his child had been taken to heaven
when not two years old, it was time for him to begin to think of
preparing to meet her. Mrs. Griffith wept at the mention of Martha's
name, repeated what Grayson had said, observed that she had felt
badly, but that they must not be melancholy. She also said it was very
kind in the neighbors to endeavor to cheer them up. It was after
midnight, in the month of June, before these parents slept at all. At
the very dawn of day Grayson awoke his parents by kissing them often,
and calling their names aloud. So soon as he could get his father's
attention, he said: "O father, what were those pretty things you had
in your hand last night? Father, were they yours? May I have some?
Can't I do as you did with them? Father, what was you doing? Please,
sir, give me some to carry to school to-day." Mr. Griffith was not
displeased that Grayson did not wait for an answer to his
interrogatories. To his request for some to carry to school, he
replied that Mr. Birch, the teacher, was a religious man, and would
not let the boys carry such things to school. Grayson said: "And an't
you religious too, papa?" and kissed him. Mr. Griffith looked at his
wife. They both smiled confusedly.

After breakfast, some of the neighbors called and inquired for the
welfare of the family. Some of the ladies kissed Grayson, as did his
mother, and he went to school. At play-time he told the children what
he had seen, and one of the older boys explained the matter to the
rest of the company. He said the old people loved fun, and also played
for money--and yet they would not let their boys play. "Never mind,"
continued he, "I can make fun, if you will all beg some pins and bring
here to-morrow. Now, fellows, don't forget--bring a good many." The
next morning every mother and sister were faithfully plied for pins,
and every boy's sleeve was brightened with them. Before the teacher
had arrived, the elder boy, before named, had taught all his juniors
two ways of playing pins--one on a hat, and the other called "heads or
points." In a few days one boy had secured all the pins, and kept them
safely in a little case made of a section of reed. The spirit of
gambling, however, did not expire with the loss of the pins. Indeed
the loss of the many was the gain of one, and that one was the object
of profound admiration.

In a day or two, one of the boys came to school with an ear of white
and another of red corn, and a piece of chalk in his pocket, and
whispered to all his play fellows that now they would have fine fun.
Every urchin was restless for play-time. Grayson Griffith was sure the
master's watch must have stopped or must be too slow, and said so. At
length the hour of recreation came, and as soon as all were fairly out
of the teacher's hearing, the aforesaid boy prepared to teach his
fellows the game of fox and geese. With his chalk he chequered a
board, and arranged his white and red grains in proper order--calling
the white grains of corn geese, and the red foxes. Soon he initiated
every boy, and Grayson Griffith among the number, in the mysteries of
the game.

Ere long it was proposed that every boy should ask for a cent at home,
and bring it to school. It was done. Grayson Griffith asked for one
cent, and his father gave him two, and his mother one. They said he
was old enough to have pocket money. He was now nearly eight years
old. In the playtime, all the boys agreed to throw heads or tails,
until they had won or lost the money that could be had. At the end of
the sport, Grayson had seven cents--but on his way home, he dropped
one in the grass, and by throwing heads or tails with another boy, he
lost three more--so that at night he had no more and no less than in
the morning.

That evening he asked if his father would go to the race next day. His
father replied he did not know. "Well," said Grayson, "I bet you three
cents and my barlow knife against ninepence, that Colonel Riley's
Firefly will beat General Hobson's young Medley." "You will bet?" said
Mr. Griffith. "Why, yes," said Grayson, "did not you bet at loo,
father?" Grayson and his father, as by mutual consent, waived the
conversation.

Next day Grayson told at school what had occurred. Mr. Griffith did
not go to the races; but in the evening some of the gentlemen came to
see him, and induced him to bet as high as twenty dollars on a game at
loo. Grayson seemed hardly to notice the occurrence, yet he was in
reality closely observing, and caught several of the expressions of
the gentlemen visiters. The next day, at a game of fox and geese, he
cried "Damme soul." And as he went to school he kept saying, "Clubs
are trumps--high, low, jack and the game." He thought it sounded
pretty.

In the meantime Mr. Griffith's family increased. He had now three sons
and a daughter; and Grayson would often promise to show his little
brother how to play fox and geese when he should grow a little larger.
Mrs. Griffith had also played at cards when any very special company
was present, or she was much urged.

Mr. Griffith about this time gave a hundred dollars towards building a
church in the village, and subscribed twenty dollars a year towards
the minister's salary; and many of the people had become very serious,
and even religious. The good minister, like his master Jesus Christ,
was very fond of children. All the children knew him in six weeks
after he went to live in Goodcheer, and they all loved him. They would
speak to him all the way across the street. One day Mr. Goodnews (for
that was the minister's name) called at Mr. Griffith's, and asked
Grayson if he knew how many commandments there were. His answer was,
"I bet you I do." "But," said Mr. Goodnews, "I never bet, my dear
little boy. Did not you know it was wrong to bet?" "No," said Grayson,
"it is'nt--Father and mother bet." Mrs. Griffith's face colored, and
she stammered out, "My son, you ought not to tell stories, even in
fun. You will make dear Mr. Goodnews think very badly of your
parents." "Any how, mother, it is true," said the boy.

When Grayson was eleven years old, he was allowed to go to the races.
Here his fondness for sport and gaming was much increased. He also saw
many things that he did not understand, and some that made him
shudder. His parents had given him at different times money, which he
had saved, and adding to which, what he received that morning, the sum
total amounted to one dollar and a quarter. The race that day was
chiefly between two noted animals, Major Clark's Rabbit, and Colonel
Nelson's Yellow Gray. Betting ran high. At first Grayson bet
twenty-five cents in favor of Rabbit; then he bet fifty cents against
twenty-five on the Yellow Gray; then he bet his remaining fifty cents
against another fifty cents in favor of Yellow Gray. In the meantime
he bought some beer and some cakes, and paid away twenty-five cents of
his money. When he first remembered that he might lose, he thought he
would not be able to meet all his engagements; but on reflection he
discovered, that let who would win, he could not lose all. The race
was run. Rabbit was beaten, and Grayson got his seventy-five cents,
and paid what he had lost, and had now left one dollar and a half. At
first he thought he would go home, and started--but a boy stepped
forward and said, he could show him some _tricks_--that he had a
rattle-come-snap, &c. Grayson went with him into the bushes, and there
Grayson lost one dollar at some sort of game, became vexed, and went
home. At night he would have determined never to bet any more, had it
not been that some gentlemen came to his father's, and talked
earnestly about their gains. Then the thought entered his mind that it
was entirely owing to good luck that some succeeded, and that he would
have better luck another day.

A few days after the races, Mr. Griffith was called to see his mother
die. She had been a very worldly-minded, proud woman--but her last
sickness had humbled her. With her last breath she spoke of herself as
a great sinner, and of her salvation as doubtful, and most solemnly
warned all her children not to follow her example. The minister at
Goodcheer went over to preach the funeral sermon, and returning in
company with Mr. Griffith, he thought he perceived some seriousness in
his manner, and introduced a very friendly and solemn conversation on
the importance of preparing for death. From that time Mr. Griffith
began to change, and in twelve months he and his wife both joined Mr.
Goodnews's church. They also presented their five children to the
Lord. This was a great change, and was much spoken of by the
villagers. It is thought the father and mother were both truly
converted. The day the children were baptized, Grayson did not behave
well in church, yet he dared not to do anything very wrong. The next
day, when one of the boys laughed at him for being baptized, he at
first thought he would say nothing, and had he done so, all would have
been well. But the laugh tormented him. So in going home from school
he made fun of it, and said the old people had got mighty religious.
When he got home he felt dreadfully at seeing Mr. Goodnews at his
father's; but he soon left the house, and took the old cat in his
arms, and called the dogs, and went to chase cats in the old field.

His parents with difficulty prevailed on him to attend Sabbath school.
He said five days and a half in a week were enough to go to school. He
also disliked to come to prayers. He was frequently out until a late
hour at night, and once was found with some very bad boys in an old
house on a Sabbath night, doing what he called "projecting." His
parents had all along opposed the cold water men, and had allowed
Grayson to have some sweetened dram in the morning out of their cups.
And even after Mr. and Mrs. Griffith joined the church, it did not
seem easy to conquer in a day all their prejudices against the
temperance society. These things led Master Grayson to drink julaps,
and punch, and even grog. But he did not drink much. He had also
learned to use profane language to an extent that was very distressing
to some pious people who had heard him; but his parents supposed he
never swore.

When Grayson was sixteen years old, he read Hoyle on Games; and though
he understood very little of what he read, he conceived that gaming
must be a very profound science. Especially was this impression
deepened by hearing a member of congress say, that Hoyle was as
profound as Sir Isaac Newton. He read Hoyle again, and even on the
Sabbath. His parents began to suffer much uneasiness about him; they
sometimes wept over his case; they took great pains to make religion
appear amiable--but he was eager in his pursuit of vanity.

When Grayson was eighteen or nineteen years old, he became acquainted
with Archibald Anderson, a most unworthy young man, of low breeding
and much cunning. Archie persuaded Grayson to go a pleasuring the next
Sunday--told him he had found a bee-tree, and that they would get some
girls and go and take the bee-tree next Sunday. They went, and
although Grayson tried to think it fine fun, it was a very gloomy day.
A thousand times did he wish himself in church. At night he came in
late, and went immediately to bed. Next day his father inquired where
he had been. But Grayson let him understand that young people must not
be watched too closely. In a day or two Mrs. Griffith became alarmed
at finding in Grayson's apparel evident preparations to elope; but
gentle and kind treatment soon seemed to regain his confidence.

Mr. Griffith had, in the course of business, previously borrowed a
thousand dollars from one of his neighbors, who had since removed to
the city of Allvice--and wishing to raise his bond, he gave Grayson
$1060, being the principal and interest for one year, and money to buy
himself a suit of clothes, and started him to town. Grayson had never
been to the city before, and his hopes were very high. On the evening
of the third day's ride, he arrived in the city of Allvice, and put up
in Blockley Row, at Spendthrift Hotel, next door to the sign of the
Conscience-seared-with-a-hot-iron. After supper he went to the
bar-room, and asked a young man "how far it was to any place where he
could see some fun." "What, the theatre," said the young man. "Any
place where I can see a little fun," said he. The young man said,
"follow me." Ere long they were at the door of the theatre, where
Grayson saw in large letters over a door--"The way to the pit." He
knew not what it meant, but said to the young man, "Don't let us go
that way." "No," said his companion, "we will go to the gallery. You
know _they_ are in the gallery." Grayson knew not who was meant by the
emphatic _they_; but following his guide, was soon in a crowd of black
and white women, and young and old men. Taking the first lesson in the
species of crime there taught, he stepped down a little lower, and
asked to what place a certain door led. He was told, "to the boxes."
Entering that door, he found many a vacant seat, and listened--but
when others laughed, he saw nothing to laugh at, until the clown came
on the stage. At him he laughed--he roared. Yet he felt as if he had
lost something, but could not tell what it was. "In the midst of
laughter the heart is sad," were words he often repeated, as he sat in
a box alone. The play being ended, he endeavored to find his way to
the hotel, but was greatly discomposed at remembering that his money
had been left in his saddle-bags, and they not locked, and that he had
not seen them since he came to town. At length he reached his
lodgings, and found all safe. He went to bed, but could not sleep.
Most of the night was spent in reflection, or rather in wild and vain
imaginations. A little before day a well dressed gentleman was shown
into the room where our young hero lay, there being two beds in the
room. The new inmate took a seat, and sighed; he paced the floor; he
took out his port-folio, and wrote a few words; he dropped his pen and
said, "What a fool." At length Griffith (for he is now too old to be
called by his given name,) ventured to inquire whether he could in any
way assist his room-mate to a greater composure. "O sir," said the
man, and sighed. At length the stranger said: "Eight days ago I left
home with $3,600 to go to the north to buy goods. I came here day
before yesterday, and to-night they have got the last cent from me at
the faro bank. And now, O what a fool!--I had rather take five hundred
lashes than do what I must,--write to my partner or my wife to send me
money to carry me home." Griffith expressed regret, but of course
could offer no consolation. He resolved, however, to pay the $1,060 as
soon as he could find the man to whom it was due. This he accordingly
did before nine o'clock next morning. The rest of the day he walked
the streets. Every little while $3,600 kept ringing in his ears. At
night, not having bought his suit of clothes, he went to the bar, and
there found the same young gentleman who the night before had
accompanied him to the theatre. Griffith took a seat by a window, and
the well dressed young man came to him and said: "Young gentleman, I
see you are fond of real genteel pleasure; let us go down into hell,
and win those fellows' money." Perhaps more mingled emotions never
agitated a bosom. In the first place he had been called a young
gentleman--an honor which, though he had deserved it before, had
seldom been given him. Then the idea of "real and genteel pleasure."
But the very sound of "going down to hell!" He would not go in "the
way to the pit" the night previous--and now could he go to hell? At
length he concluded that it was a mere nickname, and that the place
was really no worse than if it were called heaven, and he replied, "I
don't care if I do." They both left the room and went to the stable.
"Stop a minute," said Griffith, "let me see if Decatur has a good bed
and a plenty to eat." In half a minute he satisfied himself that his
horse fared well, and he followed his young acquaintance into one of
the stalls, through which they passed by a blind door into a long,
narrow and dark entry. "Follow me," said the young man. Presently they
entered a large room. Griffith was struck with the abundance of good
things to eat and drink, which too were all free for visiters. At a
table on one side, sat an old man with a playful countenance. He rose
and said: "Last night a man won $3,600 at this table." Three thousand
six hundred dollars thought Griffith--and "how much had he to begin
with?" said he to the old gentleman. "Only a ten dollar note," was the
reply. In another part of the room, Griffith saw a young man sitting
behind a table, and leaning against the wall, with his hat drawn down
over his forehead, and wearing a heavy set of features. Before him on
the table lay three heaps of money--one of silver--another of gold--a
third of paper. Griffith eat some very fine blanc mange on the table,
and drank a little brandy, after which he concluded he would risk ten
dollars on a card. He did so, and put a ten dollar bill into his
pocket. His next risk was five dollars, which he lost. With various
success he spent an hour, at the end of which he had tripled his
money. He then retired to his room, and slept until a late hour in the
morning. Then he went to a merchant tailor, and ordered his new suit,
and spent the day in musing--visiting factories--attending auctions,
and laying plans for the night. "If I had held on I might have broke
them," said he; "I should have gotten $3,600!" Night came, and with it
a self-confident feeling peculiar to the young gambler. He returned
alone through the stall into "hell," and there lost all he had but
five dollars. The next night he won $150. The next night, which was to
be his last in the city, he went, and for a time succeeded. Once he
had $700 in pocket, but before day-light he had lost every cent he
had, and making known his situation, two men who had won his money,
gave him each five dollars, and advised him to leave town at
day-light. That was a wretched night to Griffith. His couch was a "bed
of unrest." His very dreams were startling. At daylight he paid his
bill, and had remaining three dollars and a quarter. He mounted
Decatur, and with a heavy heart journeyed towards the village of
Goodcheer. When he found himself in sight of home, he felt in his
pocket and found he had seventy-five cents. He also felt for the
cancelled bond, but could not find it. Riding into the woods, he
examined his saddle-bags, and found the bond in a waistcoat pocket.
Seizing it with great joy, he shed a tear, and mounted again. All the
way home he had thought much of the manner in which he should account
for not having the new clothes. At length seeing no way of escape,
from confusion at least, in case his father should inquire respecting
the matter, he cherished the hope that his father would say nothing.
So he paced along, and got home just in time for dinner. There was an
air of affected cheerfulness in young Griffith's gait and manner, that
was unusual. He did the best he could--took care early to deliver the
cancelled bond--said he was not much pleased with the city, and told
something of what he had seen. Next day his father asked if he had
gotten the new suit. He replied that he had concluded not to get it
then, and reddened very much. Mr. Griffith told his wife that he had
fears about Grayson. They both wept, and agreed to pray for him more
than usual.

In the course of time, young Griffith being twenty-one years old, left
his father's, with $700 and Decatur, to seek his fortune in the West.
He soon obtained employment, and in the course of two years was able
to commence business as partner in a new firm. But, unfortunately, he
was not satisfied in the village where he was, but broke up and went
to the town of Badblood, where he opened a store. He was not long here
until a quarrel commenced betwixt him and one of his neighbors. The
occasion of the quarrel was a disagreement as to the beauty of a piece
of music. One declared the other to have a bad taste, and this was
regarded as insulting. Of course a challenge was given, and accepted.
The day of combat arrived. At the first fire no blood was spilt. This
was owing to the great agitation of both the combatants. At the second
fire Griffith wounded his antagonist slightly, but himself received no
wound. At the third fire Griffith's right arm was broken, and his
antagonist was wounded in the thigh. Here the seconds and friends
interfered, and declared they had fought enough. Had it not been for
public opinion, they would have thought that it was enough to be shot
at once a piece. But they were both content to quit, and even to drink
each other's health, before they left the ground. In the course of
eight or nine weeks, they were both in their usual health, and
attending to their accustomed duties.

The effect on Mr. Griffith's family on learning that Grayson was
expected to fight, was very distressing. The day the challenge was
given, Griffith wrote to his father thus:

_My very dear Father:_--On the morning of the day on which this shall
reach you in due course of mail, I shall have settled an affair of
honor. I do not love to fight, because I neither like the idea of
killing or being killed. If I go on the ground, I shall certainly take
life or lose it. I can't help it. I should be posted as a coward, if I
did not. Mr. B. will write you as soon as it is decided. Love to
mother and the children. God bless you. I can't bear an insult. Your's
ever,

G. GRIFFITH.

An entire week was this family in suspense, when at last, by request
of the father, dear Mr. Goodnews, the minister, was at the office, and
got the letter and opened it, and read the account as before given. He
immediately went to Mr. Griffith's, and found both the parents in bed
with a high fever, and their countenances covered with wan despair. As
he entered the door he tried to look cheerfully. "Grayson is dead,"
said the almost frantic mother. "No, he is'nt," said the minister.
"Then he is mortally wounded," said she. "No, he is not," said he.
"Then he is a murderer; he has killed a man! O, my first-born
Grayson!" "My dear Mrs. Griffith," said the good minister, "the Lord
is better than all your fears. Grayson and his antagonist are both
wounded indeed, but neither mortally." "O bless the Lord, bless the
Lord," said Mrs. Griffith, and swooned away. On using proper means she
was restored, and became calm and quiet; but it was an hour before Mr.
Goodnews could read the whole letter to her. Mr. Griffith suffered
greatly, but was much occupied with the care of his wife. He really
feared that things would have terminated fatally. In a few days the
parents rallied, and wrote Grayson a most affectionate and solemn
letter, which he never answered.

The next news of importance which these parents received respecting
their son was, that he was married to an amiable, though a thoughtless
and giddy girl. In a year they heard that he was the father of a sweet
boy. In eighteen months more they heard that he had a sweet daughter.
Not long after, they heard that he made frequent and unaccountable
excursions from home, and presently they heard, that on a steam boat
that ran between the town of Badblood and the Bay of Dissipation, he
had by gambling, lost all his money. What they had heard was true.
Losing his money, he hastened home--made some arrangements for his
family--disposed of as much property as was left--received five
hundred dollars in hand--left two hundred with his wife--and with the
other three hundred set out professedly to visit his parents at the
village of Goodcheer. But the demon of gambling had possessed him--and
Griffith in a few weeks found himself with but one hundred dollars,
remaining at Spendthrift Hotel, in Blockley Row, in the city of
Allvice in the Old Dominion. Here Griffith resolved to retrieve his
fortunes. He sought the faro bank, and in an hour was pennyless. Poor
Griffith was not far from perfect ruin. He spent the night in dreadful
tossings, and in the very room where he had lodged years before. He
fancied that he saw "$3,600" in flaming figures before him. In the
morning he walked the streets. He watched to see whether he could
recognize any old friend among the hundreds he met. He read the names
on the sign-boards; he searched the morning papers; yet no bright
prospect opened before him. In the afternoon he wandered into Purity
Lane, and had hardly entered that street, when he saw on the knocker
at the door, "Amos Kindheart." He asked a servant who was washing down
the white marble steps, whether the "_Reverend_" Mr. Kindheart lived
there, and was answered in the affirmative. Asking to be introduced
into his presence, he was soon shown into the study. "Is this the Rev.
Mr. Kindheart?" said he. "It is," replied the good man, "please to be
seated." "Are you not acquainted with Rev. Mr. Goodnews?" "Yes sir."
"Do you not also know Gregory Griffith?" "Yes sir; I stayed at his
house more than a week some years ago; and if I am not deceived, this
is his son Grayson, who used to exercise my horse night and morning
when I was there." Mr. Kindheart expressed much pleasure at seeing
him, and learned that he had a wife and two children in the town of
Badblood, in the State of Misery; he also learned that he had been a
merchant. Mr. Kindheart treated him very affectionately, gave him a
handsome little present, invited him to dinner next day, and excused
himself for that evening, as he had in a remote part of the city an
engagement that could not be broken. Early next morning a little
ragged servant handed Mr. Kindheart a sealed note from Griffith,
stating that he had been imprudent, and requesting him to send by the
bearer a sum sufficient to meet the expenses of a passage to the
pleasant village of Goodcheer, from which place the amount should be
returned at an early date. Mr. Kindheart replied in a note that he had
not the money then, but would get it before the next evening, when the
first stage would leave, and renewed the invitation to dinner that
day. Dinner came, but no Griffith was there. Several hours before it
was time for the stage to start, Mr. Kindheart called with the money
at Griffith's lodgings, but he was not to be seen. In a short time he
called again, and then again. Still he could not be seen. The truth
was, Griffith's conscience would not let him face a man from whom he
knew he desired money only that he might have the means of gambling.
He had no serious purpose of visiting Goodcheer.

For many days Griffith loitered about the city in perfect
wretchedness, and without one cent of money. At length he went to the
proper city police officer, and told him that there were several
gambling establishments in town, that many persons visited them, and
that he could give important testimony in the case. Then going to
Hardface and Takeall, two gamblers, he told them that unless they
would give him $600, so that he might fairly and speedily escape, he
would be retained as a witness against them at the next sessions. The
gamblers agreed to give him $500, hastened his departure in a private
conveyance, but started after him a man, who overtaking him in the
next post town, horsewhipped him very severely. Griffith bore this
rough treatment like a dog. He squealed, he cried, he howled, he
danced--but he did not resist.

From this time Griffith wandered about, until, in the course of a few
months, he found himself again with his family. At first he seemed
pleased to kiss his babes and embrace his wife; but the next day went
to a faro bank in Badblood, and lost all he had--even his wife's
wardrobe and toilet. At this time he resolved on destroying his own
life. He went to three different shops, and procured laudanum in a
quantity sufficient to take life. He went home, and as he ascended the
first flight of stairs, he emptied the contents of each vial into his
stomach. O woman, what an angel of mercy thou art! His wife met him at
the door, with unwonted demonstrations of love. His little boy
prattled most sweetly; his little girl breathed in her crib as gently
as a May zephyr. His wife told him of several pleasant and smart
things which the children had said and done that day. He began to
weep--then to tremble--then to dislodge the contents of his stomach.
"My dear Nancy," said Griffith, "I shall be dead in a few hours, but
never mind." His wife perceiving that laudanum was in his stomach,
instantly prepared a potent emetic, and mixing it with a large tumbler
of hot water, offered it to her husband, and he consented to drink it,
supposing it could not be improper. In a few minutes, through the
influence of nausea, from the effects of brandy, and from the dose
just given, the stomach was emptied. Poor Griffith suffered much, but
gradually recovered. None save his wife knew of the attempted violence
on his own life.

At length a few benevolent people proposed to him to leave Badblood,
and go into the interior. He consented, and they gave him the
necessary money, as he and his family entered the stage. Griffith was
much affected by their kindness, especially that of one old Baptist
gentleman, who said very tenderly, "God bless you all." They travelled
day and night, until they were two hundred miles from the place of
their recent miseries, when a violent fever and painful dysentery in
their little boy compelled them to stop. The house where they stopped,
though not promising much in outward appearance, was yet neat and
clean. Mr. Felix, the landlord, and his wife, were intelligent,
industrious and pious. They were strict temperance people, and no
liquor could be had for drink within fifteen miles. Griffith of course
became very cool. The first day he was very wretched; he had no
employment--he had no heart to assist in nursing the sick boy. Towards
evening he took a gun and walked into the field, and shot a partridge.
At first he seemed pleased that he might thus promote the comfort of
his little son, but then he remembered that animal food of any kind
would injure him. The next day he was more miserable than ever, until
about noon he saw fishing rods, and on inquiry found that there was a
fish-pond not very distant. He went and angled for hours, but the hot
sun had driven every fish under the banks and tussocks. He sat four
long hours, and had not even a nibble. He returned with a heavy heart;
yet it was pleasant to more than his wife, to observe a growing
earnestness and frequency of inquiry into the health of his child. The
next day, being Friday, a meeting commenced at a church not three
hundred yards distant from the house of their kind landlord, and by a
little persuasion, Griffith was prevailed on to attend. The first
sermon was very animated, and was on that text: Isaiah lii. 3: "Thus
saith the Lord; ye have sold yourselves for naught, and ye shall be
redeemed without money." Griffith sat on the back seat, and paid more
attention than one would have supposed from his appearance. The second
sermon was preached by an old gentleman, on the text, 1 Timothy, i.
15: "This is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptation, that
Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief."
Returning home, Griffith thought the preachers both affectionate and
able; but he really thought some things must be personal. Indeed, the
young man who had preached first, had a very dark and piercing eye,
which when animated in preaching, made almost every one think he was
looking all the while at him alone. When Griffith came home, he sat by
his sick child, and told his wife what he had seen and heard. That
night he was restless and wakeful. In the morning he took a long walk
before breakfast, and at the usual hour repaired to the church. A
sermon was then preached on the Cities of Refuge, and the preacher
earnestly exhorted his hearers to flee for refuge to the hope set
before them in the gospel. The exercises of Saturday afternoon, were
prayer and singing, accompanied by short and solemn exhortations. In
all these services Griffith manifested deep interest, though he said
nothing, except that he detailed to his wife what he had seen and
heard. He also said, that as their boy was now much improved in
health, and as Mr. Felix's oldest daughter would stay at home next
day, his wife must accompany him to church. Sabbath morning came, and
although there seemed to be many difficulties, yet they were all
surmounted, and Mrs. Griffith and her husband, for the first time in
several years, went in company to the house of God. The text was,
Isaiah liii. 5: "He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised
for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and
with his stripes we are healed." During the delivery of this sermon,
Griffith was seen to weep. His wife, however, had two reasons for not
feeling easy. Her apparel was really poor; but she was soon relieved,
by seeing that all the people were plainly attired. She also suffered
much uneasiness about her son. But good Mrs. Felix had directed her
eldest son to return home in an hour after the service should begin,
and bring word whether all was right. Her son came with a message,
which she soon, in a whisper, communicated to Mrs. Griffith. The
message was, that the boy had fallen asleep--that his room had been
made dark--that he seemed to sleep very sweetly, and would perhaps not
wake for an hour or two. Mrs. Griffith got the message just in time to
be entirely composed during the administration of the Lord's Supper,
which service immediately succeeded the first sermon. It was a solemn
scene. There were few dry eyes in the house. At the close of the
communion service, the company of believers rose and sang that
favorite spiritual song--

  "How happy are they
   Who the Savior obey," &c.

Griffith and his wife both thought "how happy are they." They both
hastened home, as did Mrs. Felix also. Finding their boy much better,
and their kind hostess herself determining to remain at home in the
afternoon, both Mr. and Mrs. Griffith returned to the church. When
they came near the church they heard singing, and just as they entered
the door, the congregation sung, and repeated the closing lines of a
hymn as follows:

  "Here, Lord, I give myself away,
   'Tis all that I can do."

Griffith sighed, and said to himself--"O that I could give myself
away, and the gift be accepted." They had just taken their seats, when
the preacher announced his text in Revelation xxii. 17: "And the
spirit and the bride say, come: and let him that heareth say, come:
and let him that is athirst, come: and whosoever will, let him take
the water of life freely." The sermon did not exceed forty minutes in
length, yet it was a faithful, tender and solemn entreaty to all
sinners, the least and the most vile, to come to Christ and live.
After service, one of the ministers went home with Mr. Felix, and
having observed Griffith's behavior at church, he said many good
things in his presence and for his benefit. Griffith and his wife
spent most of that night in solemn reflection and silent prayer. On
Monday morning a neighbor called to complete some arrangements with
Mr. Felix, in reference to supplying the place of their teacher, who
had recently died. In an unexpected train of conversation, they were
led to speak of Griffith as perhaps a suitable man. In a few days it
was mutually agreed that Griffith should teach the school for the rest
of that session, which was but three months. His family being provided
for, he commenced his school. Yet for days and weeks, both he and his
wife suffered much pain and darkness of mind. At length they both,
about the same time, hoped that they had found him, of whom Moses in
the law and the prophets did write. After trial of some weeks, they
were admitted to the communion. The day after this event, Griffith
wrote an affecting letter to his venerable parents. This letter was
evidently blessed, not only to the comfort of their hearts, but also
many of the pious people in Goodcheer were much affected by it.

  "Great is the grace, the neighbors cried,
   And owned the power Divine."

Griffith immediately established the worship of God in his family, and
rejoiced in God with all his heart. Nor was his wife a whit behind in
holy delight at the change. Griffith's conversion led him to inquire
into the lawfulness of gambling. He had three questions to decide. The
first was, whether he should pay a debt of $60 incurred in gambling?
He soon resolved to pay it, as it was the manner of contracting, and
not the payment of the debt, that was the sin. The next question was,
what should he do respecting the $9,000, which he found by estimate he
had lost at different times? To this he could only say, that most of
it was won by strangers, and by men who had long since died in
wretchedness and poverty. He could not get it. By a careful estimate
of what he had won from men whose names and residence he knew, over
and above what they had won from him, and including the $500 extorted
from the gamblers, by threatening to volunteer as witness against
them, he found that he owed in all, rather more than $1,500. Resolving
to pay the whole sum, if spared and prospered, he engaged to teach
school another session of ten months; and although he could not save
much of his earnings, he resolved to save what he could.

How astonished was he, when a few days after he formed this purpose,
as he was going to school in the morning, a gentleman hailed him as
Mr. Griffith, and said: "Sir, I won from you several years ago nearly
$700; there is the money, with some interest. I am a christian. I
cannot keep it; there it is." With these few words, the traveller
proceeded. Griffith was so amazed, that he even forgot to ask his
name, or residence, or the course of his journey. Of the $700,
Griffith sent $200 to the widow of a poor silly drunken man, from whom
he had, not long before his complete downfall, won that amount. He
sent $200 more to a young clerk, whom he had well nigh ruined as to
morals and character, and from whom he had won $180 two years before.
He sent $300 to the father of a little blind girl, from whose deceased
brother he had won that amount, saving the interest, and requesting
that it might be employed to send the blind child to the Asylum for
the blind. By the kindness of Providence, other sums were restored to
him, amounting in all to a few hundreds. His economy and industry, and
good capacity as a teacher, also secured to him a growing income from
his school--so that in a few years he had paid every debt, and
restored all money obtained by gambling. He has since bought a small
tract of land, and built a very neat cabin, with two apartments, upon
it. He calls it the Retreat. He is now forty-three years old--still
keeps a school--has a good income from his own industry--enjoys
tolerable health, and has around him many of the comforts of life. His
wife and children still live, and help to make him happy. His
penitence and humility are deep; yet is thankfulness the reigning
exercise of his heart. The goodness and grace of God, through Jesus
Christ, are themes on which he never tires.




Dryden's genius was of that sort which catches fire by its own motion;
his chariot wheels got hot by driving fast.--_Coleridge_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written in Mrs. ----'s Album.


  Give me a subject! O! propitious fate!
    That by collision with my frigid brain
  Shall strike out fire![1] Love? Honor? Friendship? Hate?
    The jaded ear doth loathe the hackneyed train!

  Give me a subject! thus a Byron sang--
    And from the Poet's mind in perfect form
  Like brain-born PALLAS, forth Don Juan sprang,
    A captivating Demon--fresh and warm.

  Give me a subject! Alexander raved,
    A world to conquer!--and the red sword swept--
  No truant Planet sought to be enslaved,
    And bully Ellick disappointed wept!

  A theme, ye stars! that with yon clouds bo-peep--
    They wink, sweet Madam!--but, alas! are dumb:
  "I could call spirits from the vasty deep"
    To freeze thy gentle blood! But would they come?

  There are no themes in this dull changeless world!
    Spinning for aye on its own icy poles--
  Forever in the self-same orbit whirled,
    A huge TEE-TOTUM with concentric holes!

  Ev'n Heaven itself had not poetic been
    Though filled with seraph hosts in guiltless revel,
  Had not one bright Archangel changed the scene--
    Unlucky wight! to play himself the Devil!

  Then came the tug of Gods! for rule and life--
    The unmasked thunders shook the stable sky--
  But MILTON sings of the immortal strife,
    And lived much nearer to the times than I.

  Prythee! go seek him, if thou would'st be told
    A graphic story, pictured to the ear
  With matchless art, by one who did behold,
    So thou wouldst think--the war storm raging near.

  Hast read the Poem, Ma'am? So have not I,
    But I have heard that what I say is true--
  And by my faith I'm much disposed to try
    And give the Devil's bard and Devil his due!

  But I am modest--and do not intend
    To outsoar Milton in his lofty flight--
  Nor would my Muse poor Byron's ghost offend,
    He hated rivalry--and so--good night!

[Footnote 1: A familiar suggests that an "_oaken towel_" might produce
the desired effect. No doubt; and hence the expression "cudgel thy
brains."]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DIAMOND CHAIN.


  While Rosa near me sweetly sung,
    And I beheld her blue eyes' light,
  A chain around my heart was flung,
    Its every link a diamond bright.

  But now that we are forced to part,
    And her loved voice no more I hear,
  The chain is withering up my heart--
    Its diamonds each a burning tear.

QUESTUS.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHERE SHALL THE STUDENT REST?

A Parody on Constance's Song in Marmion.


  Where shall the student rest
    Whom the fates destine
  Old law-books to digest,
    That baffle all digesting?
  Where through tomes deep and dry
    Spreads the black letter,
      Where endless pages lie
        Genius to fetter.
          Eleu loro,
          Eleu loro,
      Toil "sans remitter."
  There, while the sun shines bright,
    In law-fogs he's buried;
  There too by candle light,
    On law points he's worried:
  There must he sit and read,
    Puzzled forever--
  When shall his mind be freed?
    Never-more, never.

  Where shall the _lawyer_ rest?
    He the hors-pleader?
  With brass and blunders drest--
    His client's misleader:
  In the lost lawsuit,
    Borne down by demurrer,
  Or forced to withdraw suit,
    Or quaking with terror.
          Eleu loro,
          Eleu loro,
      Fearing writ of error.
  His sham-pleas the court shall chide,
    Disgusted to see them;
  His warm blush the crowd deride
    Ere he can flee them;
  Blund'ring from bad to worse,
    Disgraced forever--
  Clients shall fill his purse,
    Never! oh, never!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE AGE OF REPTILES.


  Poets affect, that when the Earth was young
    All Nature's works were beautiful and bright,
  That Planets in their spheres harmonious sung
    Like Seraphs--joining in celestial flight;
  That flowers bloomed in one eternal spring,
    Scenting with luscious sweets the ambient air,
  That life was luxury, and pain a thing
    Not meant for man, but spirits of despair.

  Lady! it was not so--the world was rude--
    Behold the proof in Mantell's strange narration:[1]
  Its form, and elements, and fabric crude,
    And REPTILES were the "Lords of the Creation:"
  O! ingrate man! bethink thee of thy fate,
    Had thy Creator called thee then to being
  And left thee to the chances of a fate
    Beyond all bearing--hearing--feeling--seeing!

  Then lumbered o'er the rugged Earth strange forms,
    Misshapen--huge--gigantic--living wonders--
  Howling fit chorus to discordant storms,
    That, like a thousand Ætnas, crashed in thunders.
  Cleaving the dismal sky, with rushing sound
    Appalling monsters hurl their cumbrous length,
  And through the murky sea, in depths profound,
    Gambolled Leviathans in mighty strength.

  What thinks Philoclea of the pristine Earth?
    Believ'st thou Nature smiled at such beginning?
  If those huge occupants inclined to mirth,
    Their's was an age of awful ugly grinning!
  The seaman's figure of a seventy-four
    Showing her teeth--her guns in triple tiers--
  Were no hyperbole in days of yore,
    Howe'er extravagant it now appears.

[Footnote 1: See the Edinburg Philosophical Journal and the 21st No.
of Silliman's Journal, for some account of the Geological Age of
Reptiles, by Gideon Mantell, Esq. F.R.S. &c. &c.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ANSWER

To Willis's "They may talk of your Love in a Cottage."


  You may talk of your sly flirtation
    By the light of a chandelier;
  With music to play in the pauses,
    And nobody over near:
  Or boast of your seat on the sofa,
    With a glass of especial wine,
  And Mamma too blind to discover
    The small white hand in thine.

  Give _me_ the green turf and the river--
    The soul-shine of love-lit eyes--
  A breeze and the aspen leaf's quiver,
    A sunset and GEORGIAN skies!
  Or give me the moon for an astral,
    The stars for a chandelier,
  And a maiden to warble a past'ral,
    With a musical voice in my ear.

  Your vision with wine being doubled,
    You take twice the liberties due,
  And early next morning are troubled
    With "Parson or pistols for two!"
  Unfit for this world or another,
    You're forced to be married or killed--
  The lady you choose--or her brother--
    And a grave--or a paragraph's filled.

  True Love is at home among flowers,
    And if he would dine at his ease,
  A capon's as good in his bowers
    As in rooms heated ninety degrees:
  On sighs intermingled he hovers,
    He foots it as light as he flies,
  His arrows, the glances of lovers,
    Are shot to the heart from the eyes!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EPIGRAM.


  Said a Judge to a culprit he'd known in his youth,
    "Well Sandy! What's come of the rest of the fry?"
  "Please your worship," said Sandy, "to tell you the truth,
    They're every one hanged but your Honor and I."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS,

_During the Summer of 1834_.

NO. III.


Whilst at the Salt Sulphur, I found it necessary, for a time, to
exchange that for a water of a somewhat different character; and as
the Blue Sulphur had begun to attract considerable attention, I
determined to resort thither. Accordingly, I took the stage for
Lewisburg, twenty-five miles distant from the Salt Sulphur, and within
thirteen miles of the Blue. We travelled over the White Sulphur road
as far as the splendid Greenbrier bridge on this turnpike, where we
were landed at a hotel, to await the arrival of the Fincastle stage,
to carry us on to Lewisburg. It was already dark before the stage came
up, and although but three miles of our road lay before us, yet the
whole distance was ascending, so that we could not travel out of the
slowest walk. We however reached Lewisburg in time to discuss the
merits of an excellent supper, and get into comfortable lodgings by a
very reasonable bed time.

I was detained at this place for want of a conveyance to the Blue
Sulphur, there being as yet no regular stage. The time, however,
passed off pleasantly. Lewisburg contains about seven or eight hundred
inhabitants; its situation is elevated--the scenery around quite
picturesque; and, if the improvements progress as they have done for
the past few years, it will soon become a very pretty village. This
place is much frequented, during the spring season, by visiters at the
White Sulphur--the distance being only nine miles, over a smooth, and
for the most part, beautiful road.

After two days, I succeeded in obtaining a horse, and on the following
morning set off, in company with a gentleman of the neighborhood, on
the remaining thirteen miles to the Blue Sulphur. The way usually
travelled by carriages is circuitous; consequently, we struck across
through the country, on the most direct route to the Springs. Our road
was exceedingly rough and hilly, without anything peculiarly
interesting. Indeed, we were so completely imbosomed among the hills
and forests, that nothing could be seen except the long ridge of the
Muddy Creek Mountain, which lay before us. Before reaching the base,
the road had dwindled into a blind bridle path, winding amongst the
spurs of the mountain; and on ascending, it became so precipitious,
and so covered with loose and rolling stones, as to render it almost
impassable. We at length succeeded in reaching the summit--not however
without having been obliged to dismount occasionally, and allow our
horses to clamber after us over the worst parts of the way. We then
travelled for two miles along the top of the mountain, over a level
and beautiful road; after which we descended by a rough and rocky
path, similar to that on the opposite side. A few miles more, over a
fertile and cultivated country, brought us into the vicinity of the
Blue Sulphur, or in the language of the country, to the Muddy Creek
settlement.

As the accommodations at the Spring were already occupied, we rode up
to an old fashioned log house, with a long piazza in front, surrounded
by lombardy poplars and apple trees, and screened from the road by an
intervening hill, and obtained accommodations with its kind and
pleasant occupants. No part of my time among the mountains, was
attended with more peculiar or deeper interest than that passed in the
Muddy Creek settlement. Every thing about this region is calculated to
bring one back to the early days of our country. The habits and
customs are all after the unpretending fashion of the pioneers; and
human character is here seen in its native simplicity. Refinement,
with its luxuries and follies, has not yet penetrated this secluded
region, to corrupt the plain and simple customs of its generous,
open-hearted and upright yeomanry. Here too, as a friend remarked, we
realize, to some extent, the amazing and almost startling rapidity
with which our nation has sprung into existence. But a few years ago
this was the undisputed home of the Indian. This identical house was
once the last house on the frontier of civilized America; and one of
the family now alive, was among the little band who first ventured
across the Alleghany mountains, and carried the sounds of civilized
life into these desolate wilds. Hers was the last family on the
western frontier. Not a civilized being stood on the wide waste of
wilderness which stretched far away to the shores of the Pacific. But,
with unexampled rapidity, civilization has transformed the whole face
of the country; and this old lady, who thought she "had gotten to the
end of the world when she got to Greenbrier," has, within her own
recollection, seen a nation springing up west of her, already putting
on the vigor and energy of mature years, and outstripping the nations
of the eastern world.

This interesting old lady, is indeed a complete "chronicler of the
olden time." Her attire is in perfect keeping with her character. She
still preserves the simple style of the by-gone century, uncorrupted
by the supposed improvement of a later generation. The close cut cap,
scarcely concealing the silvered locks of age--the muslin
handkerchief, drawn neatly over the shoulders, covering a part of the
plain tight sleeves, and confined under the girdle of a long-waisted
tea-colored gown, were admirably suited to the bending, yet dignified
and venerable figure which they adorned. Then to sit during the
pensive hours of evening in the old piazza, overlooking the garden a
few feet before us, which was the site of one of the earliest forts,
the fields and the peaks, the scenes of frightful Indian massacres,
and listen to her narratives of the perils and trials of the pioneers
of Greenbrier, is a treat which a few years will probably put it out
of the power of any to enjoy. Her graphic delineations of the horrors
of a frontier life, sometimes excited our imagination to such a pitch,
as to render it difficult to compose the body to repose at the
accustomed time of retirement, or to restrain the mind from frightful
dreams during the sleeping hours. The whole Muddy Creek settlement
abounds with Indian tales. Every mountain, knob and hollow, is
notorious as having been the scene of some bloody deed or memorable
exploit of the red men of the forest, as they made the last struggle,
before giving way to the invaders, and leaving forever their native
wilds.

But our present destination is the Blue Sulphur. The distance thither
from our house is rather more than a mile. The intermediate region is
level low ground, bounded on each side, at some distance, by a ridge
of mountain. These two ridges gradually converge, until they pass the
Spring about one hundred yards, where a third ridge brings a sweep
immediately across the line of their direction, and closes that end of
the valley. The space about the Spring is a perfect level, amply
extensive, and admirably adapted for improvements on a large and
handsome scale.

The Blue Sulphur, like many of the valuable mineral springs of this
state, has heretofore been known only as a place of neighborhood
resort. A few diminutive log cabins had been erected by the farmers of
the adjacent country, who, after the labors of harvest, were
accustomed to bring their families, with a wagon load of goods and
chattels, and take up their residence here during one or two of the
summer months. The virtues of the Muddy Creek Springs have long been
known and esteemed by these visiters. A year or two since the property
was purchased by a company, who are now providing extensive and most
inviting accommodations. I do not know that I can be charged with
disloyalty to my native state, in rejoicing that these Springs have
partly fallen into the hands of northern men. Our own citizens have
generally shown such an astonishing want of energy in carrying on
these valuable watering places, that we believe it to be better that
one of them has come into the possession of those, who are willing, at
any expense, to do it and the public justice; and who, in proportion
to the time they have owned the property, have shown a spirit of
improvement greatly surpassing that of the proprietors of most of the
other Springs. One of the first changes under the auspices of the new
administration, was the substitution of the title of Blue Sulphur for
the more ignoble appellation of Muddy Creek Springs.

The company, immediately after the purchase of the property, commenced
their improvements, and at the period of our visit, were prosecuting
them with a spirit worthy of admiration. These improvements consist of
a long and imposing brick hotel, three stories in height, at the upper
extremity of the valley, and facing the entrance to the Springs. This
is flanked on each side by a row of brick cottages, which at their
outward extremities, unite with similar ranges, running parallel with
the bases of the mountains and each other, until they nearly reach the
Spring, forming together three sides of a hollow square. The
intermediate lawn, can by a little cultivation and exercise of taste,
be rendered very beautiful. A temple, surpassing in appearance that of
any of the other watering places, is to be erected over the Spring,
and the reservoir, &c. to be fitted up in corresponding style. The
Spring is large, discharging a quantity of water nearly equal to the
White Sulphur. The sediment from which the establishment has derived
its modern name, is of a blue or rich dark purple color.

At the time I visited the Blue Sulphur, some of the new buildings were
partly finished, and a tavern keeper from the neighborhood had opened
a boarding house on the ground; and although the accommodations were
quite rough, there were at one time as many as seventy-five visiters.
Most of these were citizens of Charlestown, who had fled from the
cholera, which was then raging on the Kanawha.

The mountains in this vicinity abound with game, and accordingly,
hunting is the favorite amusement of the visiters. Almost every
morning a company started, with hounds and horns, on a "deer drive,"
and they seldom returned without bringing with them one of these noble
animals. On one morning, a fine buck was driven down, and shot within
a few feet of the Spring. Others of the visiters make excursions
through the mountains, to enjoy the attractions which have been
lavished with such profusion on this section of country. Perhaps one
of the most pleasant of these, is a ride of some ten or fifteen miles
to a spring which has lately come to light, and which for a sulphur
spring is rather _sui generis_. It was discovered by an old farmer,
who was engaged in boring for salt water. When he had sunk his shaft
to the depth of some fifty feet, the water bursted up, and rushed from
the opening of the well. But instead of salt, it was sulphur water;
and it has continued to run with unabated freedom to the present time.
Little is as yet known of its peculiar properties. It deposits a white
sediment. The proprietor, I understand, will neither make improvements
himself, nor allow others to do so. Perhaps, however, we can dispense
with his spring. There are enough already improved, among these
mountains, to meet the case of almost any invalid. Among these, the
Blue Sulphur is by no means the least worthy of notice; and we must
not therefore leave it, before we have said something of its medicinal
qualities.

Those who know most of the Blue Sulphur, say that it combines the
valuable properties of the White and Red Sulphur. This is probably
true to some extent. The Blue Sulphur operates upon the liver with
great energy, and at the same time acts as a tonic. These are,
respectively, qualities of the White and Red Sulphur. The White
Sulphur, although it scarcely ever fails to rectify derangements of
the liver, depletes, and generally to some extent, produces debility.
The latter effect, we believe, is never produced by the Blue Sulphur,
owing probably to its tonic properties. We do not know, however, how
far either has claim to preference. As to the similarity between this
Spring and the Red Sulphur, we suppose it ascertained that wherever
there is a derangement of the sanguiferous system, except where the
lungs are affected, the action of the Blue Sulphur is equally, if not
more salutary, than that of the Red. This water is, however, very
exciting; perhaps even more so than the White Sulphur, and should
consequently, like that Spring, be avoided by pulmonary invalids.
There is also an approximation in the action of the Blue and Salt
Sulphur waters. Both of these Springs are efficacious in affections of
the stomach. Where the invalid retains a considerable degree of vigor,
or where the system is irritable, the Salt Sulphur would be decidedly
preferable, as that water occasions very little of the unpleasant, and
in such cases, perhaps injurious excitement caused by the Blue Sulphur
water. Where dyspepsy has advanced so far as to occasion extreme
debility, probably the Blue Sulphur should be resorted to, at least
for a while, as that water would sustain and strengthen the system, at
the same time that it removed the disease. These remarks are the
result of the observation of the practical effects of these waters,
and of the experience of others, without pretension to professional
skill. We believe, however, that they will be found strictly correct.

The similarity between these Springs to which we have alluded, need
not be injurious to either, whilst the probabilities in favor of the
restoration of an individual who comes to these mountains for health,
is increased by this circumstance. It is the opinion of those who have
been most at these watering places, that after two weeks constant use
of any water, it begins to lose its power on the system.[1] If the use
is discontinued for a few days, or if you resort to another Spring for
a short time, a return to the original Spring is attended with the
same effects as when first resorted to. A variety of waters,
therefore, even when their qualities are to some extent similar, is a
decided advantage. The invalid who has gotten his system charged at
one Spring, can resort to another of a sufficiently different
character to secure the object of a change, and yet resembling the
original water sufficiently to suit the necessities of his case. A
turnpike will soon be completed from Lewisburg to the Blue Sulphur,
and again connecting with the Kanawha turnpike, west of the Springs,
which will render this place easily accessible.

[Footnote 1: Perhaps the Red Sulphur is an exception.]

After a sojourn of a week, I again turned my face towards the Salt
Sulphur. I had as a companion an intelligent gentleman, extensively
acquainted with the country; and in accordance with his proposition,
we determined to reach that place by a route somewhat different, and
offering more natural attractions than that by which I had come over.
In the course of the evening, we passed through some of the finest
farms in Western Virginia. I do not believe that the prairies of the
"far West" can exhibit more luxuriant fields of corn than some of
those in this section of Greenbrier. We passed the Muddy Creek
Mountain at a _gap_, and our way, although little more than an
indistinct bridle path, was more pleasant than that by which I had
before crossed. The view from the highest point on this gap, almost
defies description.

From the section of country which we had left behind us, rose Keeny's
Nob, a huge peak upon which the Indians used to light signal fires,
and which derived its name from some romantic circumstance--rearing
its summit far above the adjacent mountains, and spreading out its
swelling sides and the projections of its base over the neighboring
country; from this, and continuing round to the right, before us, were
alternate ridges and vallies, covered with dense forest, as yet
apparently untouched by the woodman's axe, and only broken by the
Greenbrier river, whose high and bleak naked cliffs could be seen at
the distance of some miles. Beyond, was Peter's Mountain, coming down
from the west, and running off to the east, in a straight unbroken
line. Immediately before us, were the variegated fields of a few rich
grazing farms. Farther on, the mountain upon which Lewisburg is
situated, excluding the White Sulphur from the view; and in the
distance, the "back bone" of the Alleghany, which you cross five miles
beyond the White Sulphur on the turnpike, whose line could be
occasionally discerned as it wound among the spurs of the mountain. To
the left lay some cultivated country, terminated by ridges upon ridges
of mountains. The sun was in the last hour of his daily course, and
with his evening rays illumined the hills, giving the varied hues,
from the brightest to the deepest green, to the waste of "silent
wilderness" which stretched far away to that quarter of the horizon.
We were soon, however, obliged to relinquish this scene, combining so
much of the grand, beautiful and sublime, and hasten down the
mountain, in order to get as far as possible through the worst of the
hills and hollows before night should overtake us.

I took the stage at Lewisburg next morning, and by noon arrived at the
Salt Sulphur, which was now thronged, and exhibiting all the life, and
bustle, and fashion, which crowds of the gay and wealthy bring with
them. Every garret and domicil about the establishment, capable of
being slept in, had been called into requisition the night before. We
heard, before reaching the Springs, that the proprietors, on the
previous evening, had sent on to stop visiters bound thither, in
Union, until quarters should be vacated at the Salt Sulphur. All the
crowding, however, could not interfere with the perfect system of this
establishment. Every thing went on with as much regularity, and in the
same comfortable style, as when there were but fifty visiters. After
spending a few days very pleasantly at this place, I secured a seat in
Shank's fine line of coaches for the Sweet Springs, about twenty-two
miles southeast of the Salt Sulphur.

The road was generally good, and the country more beautiful and
picturesque, but less romantic, than any we had seen in this section
of country. Our driver was quite a rapid traveller, and by the aid of
fine teams, he carried us over the ground at very good speed, and
before dinner, had landed us in front of the old white tavern at the
Sweet Springs.

The crowd here surpassed, if possible, that at the Salt Sulphur. On
our arrival, it seemed exceedingly doubtful whether we could remain on
the premises at all. Every room on the ground was full. Many of the
visiters lodged on the bar-room tables, and on the benches of an old
court-house, at present the Spring's church. By dint of perseverance,
and the aid of friends, I at length succeeded in getting a cot
squeezed between two of five or six others, in an old log school-house
on the outskirts of the premises. The accommodations at the Sweet
Springs are generally very good; the fare excellent. The crowd was at
this time so great, as to render it impossible that every one should
be comfortable. The usual dining-room was nothing like large enough
for the company. Two long additional tables were set in the bar-room.

The "Sweet Springs" are considered by some equal in beauty to the
White Sulphur. Nature has perhaps done as much here as at any watering
place among the mountains; but I do not think the improvements or the
arrangement of the buildings at all equal to those at the White
Sulphur. The extensive undulating lawn, and grove of noble oaks--the
cottages on the open green, or peering from amidst the trees, do
indeed present a beautiful scene. But the latter are scattered in rows
or groups over the ground without any regular order, and the lawn has
never undergone any of the operations of art. The Spring rises under
the piazza of a low and long house, at the foot of the hillock on
which the tavern stands, and in a hollow formed by this, with the
small hill on which the cabins are principally built. The reservoir is
a circle of about five feet diameter, surrounded by a railing two or
three feet high. Great quantities of carbonic acid gas are constantly
emitted, which comes bubbling up through the water, giving it somewhat
the appearance of boiling.

The "Sweet Springs" derived its name from the taste of the water. I
thought it, however, a complete misnomer. The taste of the water is
very singular, and at first rather unpleasant--but containing,
according to our perception, very little sweetness. The house
adjoining the Spring contains the baths; the finest cold medicinal
baths, probably, in the country. The water rises from a gravelled
bottom, over perhaps the whole extent of the baths, which are very
spacious.

The Sweet Spring water is a powerful tonic; and after the system has
been thoroughly cleansed at the other Springs, this is an admirable
place for recruiting flesh and strength before leaving the mountains.
The same precaution given to pulmonary invalids, is even more
necessary here than at the White and Blue Sulphur. The water is highly
exciting, and consequently very injurious to such persons.

As soon as possible after arriving here, I obtained a seat in the
stage for Fincastle--and on a fine morning in the latter part of
August, rendered more balmy and delightful by the mountain breezes, we
set off, in company with two other coaches, for the Valley. The press
of passengers in that direction was so great, that notwithstanding the
two extras, our coach carried, including all sizes, fourteen besides
the driver. We commenced ascending the Sweet Spring Mountain, soon
after setting out, and enjoyed the beautiful view of the Valley of the
Springs and the surrounding country, which is afforded from its
summit. Two other mountains still lay in our way. The second of the
three if called the "Seven Mile Mountain," that being the distance
passed in crossing it. On reaching its base, we chartered two
additional horses, and drove "coach and six" to the top, where we left
them, and with the other coaches went rattling and thundering down the
mountain. We soon after passed the last of this formidable trio, and
after a pleasant drive through the flourishing county of Botetourt,
reached Fincastle. At this place we intersected the "Valley Line,"
which carried us over the great Natural Bridge and down the Valley of
Virginia.

The writer did not visit the Warm and Hot Springs, and consequently
does not notice them.




Remark the use which Shakspeare always makes of his bold villains, as
vehicles for expressing opinions and conjectures of a nature too
hazardous for a wise man to put forth directly as his own, or from any
sustained character.--_Coleridge's Table Talk_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Extracts from the Auto-biography of Pertinax Placid_.

MY FIRST NIGHT IN A WATCHHOUSE.

CHAP. I.


The title of this narrative intimates to the reader by a natural
inference, that its writer has spent more nights than one in that
abode of the unruly--a watchhouse. I will be candid, and admit the
fact, that twice during a pretty long and not unadventurous life, it
has been my lot to enjoy the security afforded by that refuge of the
vagrant. _Twice_ only--I confess to no more. The first of these
dilemmas I am about to speak of now--the second may form a subject of
future narration.

There are few of my readers who have not heard of the city of
Montreal, in the Province of Lower Canada, and fewer still who know
much of its peculiarities, social, political or architectural, on
which it is my design hereafter, supposing that I can keep on good
terms with Mr. White, to enlighten them--but not at present. Well, it
was my happiness, at an early period of my life, to reside in the good
city of Montreal. What carried me there, is my own affair, and I shall
merely say that I was neither a trader who cheated the poor Indians
out of their pelteries, a smuggler of teas and silks across the
frontier, a tin pedlar, nor a bank-note counterfeiter, all of which
classes often find it convenient to take up a temporary residence in
Canada. I was a wild ungovernable lad, with no parent or guardian to
direct me, left entirely to my own impulses, and unfortunately
enjoying the pecuniary means of assisting those impulses to bring me
into all manner of scrapes, from which it required much ingenuity to
extricate myself.

The long winters in Canada may convey to a southern reader an idea of
dreariness and discomfort, locked up as the people are in enduring
frosts--buried for months in continual snows--with one unvaried
monotony of dazzling white pervading the face of nature--the streams
fast sealed with "thick ribbed ice"--and a thermometer at from twenty
to thirty degrees below zero for weeks together. In short, a southern
fancy paints Old Winter, ruling with despotic sway, unrestrained by
the checks and balances which limit his authority in our more moderate
climate--usurping a portion of the nominal domains of autumn and
spring--and inflicting through his prime minister, Jack Frost, the
most rigorous exactions of a government of force, on the unresisting
people--penetrating into their dwellings at all hours, interfering
even in the mode of their dress, attending all their movements in town
or in country, and invariably assailing the lonely traveller on the
extended prairie or in the dreary forest. Such is undoubtedly the
picture which a southern imagination draws of a Canadian winter. But
social life can modify the worst extremes of nature's inclemency, and
find in the very evils of our condition sources of delight and
enjoyment. So far from suffering during the winters I spent in Canada,
I recall those joyous periods, when I was engaged in the constant
pursuit of gaiety and pleasure, and when care had no control over my
spirits as the brightest spots on the far off waste of memory.

How different were those winters from the fickle, capricious season
through which we have just passed. Poets and tourists have celebrated
the beauty of Italian skies. I have never seen them--but I can fancy
nothing brighter than the heavens in Canada, on a clear frosty night,
when every breath of vapor is absorbed and rarefied by the intensity
of the cold. Never have I realized in other countries the complete
distinctness with which each star comes forth in the azure vault--the
palpable suspension of each body of light in the field of air. In
other skies the stars and planets seem delineated on a ground of blue.
In a Canadian winter night you realize that each orb is in suspension,
moving and twinkling through the surrounding ether. This is difficult
to describe, and some who have not seen and _felt_ the glories of the
northern heavens as I have--aye, felt them in a double sense, gazing
upon them until my soul was wrapt into sublime ecstasy, and my
upturned nose frost bitten into the bargain--may think that I am
talking nonsense.

But the social delights of a Canadian winter are more to my purpose,
in disabusing the fancy of those who shiver when they think of these
hyperborean regions. Such tremors may be justified when we fancy a
winter tramp across the steppe of Russia, or a visit to a Koureen of
Zapojoreskies. But Canada--dear, delightful Canada! The gaieties of
thy long winters--the dancing--the driving--the dining--the
flirtation--the lovemaking, with which thy frosty months abound, might
keep warm the heart of a dweller underneath the tropics.

It was during the winter of 18--, that after a long cessation of
theatrical representations in Montreal, a new theatre, which had
recently been built, was opened under the management of Mr. T----,
with a company principally picked up from the northern theatres of the
United States. Since the performances of Prigmore's old company,
previous to the declaration of war, in which, I believe, George
Barrett, since a favorite in high comedy, was the Roscius, playing
Romeo, Hamlet, &c. and in which Fennel played as a star, there had
been no regular theatrical establishment in Montreal--although the
officers of the garrison gave occasional dramatic exhibitions, and the
young citizens sometimes enacted a play or two during a season. A
regular theatre was a new thing, and excited much attention. The
manager was perhaps the finest specimen of self-conceit that the world
ever saw.[1] He was a short stumpy kind of man, with a face of most
fixed character, which delineated all the passions with the self-same
expression. His smooth pert visage, lit up by two bead-like black
eyes, seemed so entirely contented with its natural expression, as to
render it unnecessary to assume any other. His voice, shrill and
guttural, emulated his face in its uniformity. He had a _game leg_,
about three inches shorter than its brother, which gave him a halt of
so decided a character as not to be disguised. Yet he believed himself
to be a most distinguished actor, and fully competent to the
representation of Richard III, (for which his lameness was often
quoted by him as a _natural_ advantage) and even the more youthful and
well favored heroes of Shakspeare. The vanity of this man might have
been harmless, had he not been the manager. But in that capacity it
interfered most wofully with the well ordering of affairs. The company
was by no means strong. A Mr. Baker played the high tragedy badly
enough. Mc---- and Richards shared the next grade, the former doing
the seconds in tragedy and the ruffians in melo-drama. Of this man I
must say something, as he is connected with my narrative. For some
misconduct, the nature of which I know not, he had been driven from
the stage in England several years before, and enlisted as a foot
soldier in the 40th regiment. As such, he served in Upper Canada
during the war with this country; and when he obtained his discharge
in Montreal, the theatre being about to open, he was engaged to
personate the Cassios, the Horatios, the Baron Steinforts, &c. If his
temper was ever amiable, it had gained nothing by his military
service. He was morose and troublesome; but as the company was
composed, useful and rather a favorite.

[Footnote 1: He was not only an actor, but a dramatist. He was, or
claimed to be, the author of "Rudolph, or the Robbers of Calabria," a
very tedious piece of Brigandism; and "One o'clock, or the Wood
Dæmon," almost a literal version of Monk Lewis's "Wood Dæmon." He used
to accuse Lewis of having stolen his melo-drama, and told a long and
rather incomprehensible story of the manner in which the theft was
perpetrated. He also wrote a play called "Valdemar, or the German
Exiles," which was performed in the new theatre, at the period alluded
to in my story, and possessed, I think, soma little merit. Besides
being actor and play wright, he was a scene-painter, and kept a tavern
in the good city of Montreal.]

Of the females I shall notice but one, as she is to be the heroine of
my story for the present, and as, but for her, (like Mr. Canning's
needy knife-grinder) I should have no story to tell. What shall I call
her? Not by her _real name_ surely--for she has since held a high rank
among the heroines of the stage. I will call her _Fenella_; leaving
the curious to guess her real name, while I assure them that she is an
actual entity, whose performances I doubt not, many of my readers have
frequently admired. She was then an interesting woman of about twenty.
There was something a little mysterious in the circumstances under
which she made her first appearance in Montreal, which rendered her
the more attractive. She had with her an infant child; and yet she was
advertised as a _Miss!_ Shocking inferences were of course drawn among
the censorious; and sensations of a different description encouraged
the loose and licentious young men about town, to suppose that this
living indication of Fenella's frailty was a guarantee of the success
of their unhallowed addresses. Those who knew her, told a curious
story of her adventures in ----, the turn of which had driven her to a
temporary exile in Canada. The substance of the story was this: She
was the daughter of a poor widow, who earned her living by her needle.
Fenella was, when very young, remarkable for the beauty and vivacity
of her countenance, the grace of her figure, and an intelligence
beyond her advantages. An ambition to rise from her humble condition,
tempted her to resort to the stage. She appeared and was applauded,
for she exhibited true signs of talent of no common order. She was
engaged, but filled a subordinate station for two or three years. The
management of the ---- theatre changed during this period, and the old
gentleman who had assumed the duties of manager, was not long in
perceiving the merits of Fenella as an actress, while her personal
attractions awakened within him the remnant of amatory fire which time
had not extinguished, and subjected her to the unseasonable ecstatics
of a sexagenary lover. This part of her good fortune had few charms
for a sprightly girl of seventeen. But the ancient manager had a son,
who, while he equalled the old gentleman in the perception of female
attractions, had far greater charms in the eyes of the females
themselves, being a handsome well built fellow, and having had some
practice in the delicate task of making himself agreeable to the _beau
sexe_. It so turned out, that, while the old gentleman was making an
inquiry into the state of his feelings towards the pretty young
actress, which ultimately induced him to persecute her on all
occasions with his protestations of passion, the young man had
actually made successful advances to the discriminating fair one, and
had so far succeeded as to create a reciprocal sentiment in her
breast. They had betrothed themselves, (or as we tamely say, _were
engaged_,) but the old gentleman's passion for Fenella, was a serious
obstacle to their happiness. His temper was irascible, and he required
submission from all beneath him to his most unreasonable fancies. His
son was naturally desirous of avoiding his anger, and having
discovered the state of his father's feelings, he was desirous of
keeping secret the true state of affairs. In this dilemma, the young
couple decided upon a private marriage. Even after that event, her
husband thought it advisable to avoid a rupture with his father; but
when, in the natural course of things, Fenella was about to become a
mother, the secret could no longer be kept, unless by her absenting
herself from ----. She therefore left her husband, and entered upon a
temporary engagement in Montreal.

Such was the story then told, and believed by all the charitable
portion of Fenella's admirers. I believed it then, and have had some
reason since to think it true, as, after remaining two years in
Canada, she returned to ---- and joined her reputed husband, lived
with him for several years, until his death, and bears his name to
this day.

Like other young men, I was fond of the theatre, and visited it
frequently. I was a great admirer of Fenella as an actress, but had no
acquaintance with her during her first season. Several of my young
friends were enlisted among her adorers, a numerous train, embracing
all ages, from the beardless boy to the bachelor of threescore. As far
as my observation extended, the managed this retinue of lovers with
great adroitness. To the young, she talked sentimentally, and excited
their fancy--with the old, she was prudent, and went just far enough
to retain their homage without committing herself. I had often rallied
Harry Selden, an inflammable young friend of mine, upon his hopeless
passion, for he was desperately enamored of the bewitching actress. He
confessed his lamentable infatuation, but insisted that I was only
secured from a similar fate by the distance which I kept from the
sphere of her attractions. This opinion I combated, and one evening,
when he proposed to test my stoicism by taking me to Fenella's
lodgings after the play was ended, I was too confident that I could
not be caught by the same snare in which he was entangled, to refuse
the challenge, and readily agreed to his proposition. We went to the
theatre, and Selden having presented me to her in the green room, we
accepted Fenella's invitation to see her home, and partake of a _petit
souper_ at her apartments.

It is proper perhaps, that I should here describe the lady, according
to the regular rules of tale writing, although as I have no great
talent in that line of description, I shall undoubtedly make a
bungling business of it. Fenella was rather above the middle height,
uncommonly well made, and her form fully developed that graceful
outline which denotes the full grown woman, in contradistinction to
the more angular symmetry of girlhood. Her face was oval, so much so
that there was something Chinese in its contour, although in nothing
else: her hair was a light chestnut, and so exuberant in its growth as
to contribute materially to her beauty. Her eyes were blue, bright and
sparkling when her fancy was excited, or languid and voluptuous when
at rest. But the mouth of this attractive creature was the prime
beauty of her countenance. It is difficult to imbody in words the
varied charms that played about her ripe and tempting lips. Certainly
I had better not attempt it. I will therefore leave my gentleman
readers to finish the sketch, by imagining the prettiest and most
attractive woman of their acquaintance--not _absolutely_ a beauty--and
I think they will have a correct idea of Fenella.

I was too young to have known much of women, but I was sternly
resolved not to be overcome. Fancy me then _téte à téte_ with Fenella
and my friend Selden, supping on cold tongue, and sipping white
sherry. At first I felt uneasy, but was still sure I should brave all
consequences. Gradually as I looked upon the animated countenance of
my hostess, the ice of my reserve was thawed, for my apparent coldness
seemed to have inspired her with the determination to warm me into
sentiments more complimentary at least to her powers of fascination. I
afterwards learned that Selden had betrayed to her my ridicule of the
devotion of her admirers. It was therefore merely natural that she
should have resolved to rank me in the number. Nor had she misjudged
her power, or the softness of my nature. I melted beneath her smile,
like wax before the flame--and ere we rose from the table I had become
aware of a new and indefinable sensation towards her: all I can say of
it is, that it was not _love_, although it had a close affinity to
that passion.

The freedom and ease of her conversation was new to me. She spoke of
her numerous lovers without embarrassment, and in some instances with
no little sarcasm; but she constantly qualified her raillery by
confessing that they were _good souls_, and alluded to the presents
which they made her in the most amiable terms.

Time rolled on, and a month or two found me a constant visiter at the
lodgings of Fenella. I then flattered myself that I was a favorite. I
gallanted her frequently to the theatre, and waiting in the green room
until she had changed her dress, attended her home, supped with her,
and often prolonged my stay to a late hour. I never talked love to
her--for I did not _know how_--and she had so much experience in that
matter that I feared I should make myself ridiculous. Her power over
me was complete, yet I cannot charge her with having exerted it in a
single instance unfairly. Her whole design against me seemed to have
been confined to the excitement of a degree of admiration commensurate
with her personal attractions. At that point she appeared satisfied;
but as I grew in intimacy with her she shewed herself sincerely my
friend, frequently checking my fool hardy impetuosity, and giving me
good advice, which might have come with a better grace from the less
lovely lips of my aunt Deborah. I soon accommodated my sentiments and
conduct to those of Fenella, and while I became her most devoted
friend, I dropped entirely the character and feelings of a lover. A
tacit understanding soon became established between us; and I was
admitted to liberties in my new character, which I could have enjoyed
in no other. These familiarities were misunderstood by my friends; but
in spite of their firm belief, there was nothing amatory in our
intercourse.

About this time Fenella's benefit at the theatre was announced, an
event of some importance to her, as the second season of the theatre
had been particularly unproductive, and the limping manager had failed
almost entirely to pay the salaries of his performers. I think Douglas
was the play selected by her, in which she was to personate Lady
Randolph; and in order to the effective _cast_ of the piece, it was
essential that Mc---- should perform Glenalvon. He had frequently
treated Fenella with rudeness, and evidently disliked her; he objected
to the part assigned him, and absented himself from the rehearsals of
the tragedy. But as he was notoriously a devotee of the bottle, and
frequently remiss in his duty, little was thought of his absence. The
benefit night arrived; the time came for the curtain to rise; but no
Glenalvon had appeared behind the scenes; and it was soon made known
that Mc---- had not studied the part, and would not appear that night.
The house was crowded; and to Fenella's great mortification, it was
necessary that some other performer should _read the part_. This was
done, and the play came off lamely enough.

Fenella was not destitute of spirit, and she resented this affront in
the proper manner. Mc----'s benefit took place a few weeks after, and
she resolutely refused to play for him. As she was the only actress in
the company possessing any claim to talent, it was impossible to
_cast_ a piece without her; and the consequence of her name being
absent from the bills for Mc----'s benefit was, that no one attended,
or so few as to render it a most irksome task to go through the
performances. The rage of the disappointed beneficiary was boundless:
he vowed that he would be revenged upon Fenella for the injury she had
done him, although in just resentment of an affront for which he
deserved no better treatment.

Mc---- was a good draughtsman, and frequently sketched figures with
great accuracy. He resorted to his pencil as the instrument of his
revenge, and caricatured Fenella with so much skill, that while no one
could mistake the original of the sketch, the incongruities of the
details were such as to render it highly ludicrous.

The chief quality of a caricature seems to be _disproportion_--an
unfitness of parts to each other. Simple exaggeration does not suffice
to produce the effect desired, for if all the details of the picture
be equally exaggerated, it may present a disagreeable likeness, but it
does not produce that deep sense of the ridiculous which arises from
an incongruous classification of the details. This rule is perhaps
better tested than any other, by the _reductio ad absurdum_, and it is
well illustrated by those extravagant French prints, in which heads of
enormous comparative dimensions are placed upon bodies and limbs
ridiculously diminutive, the effect of the disproportion being
heightened by the accessaries of dress, &c. This is perhaps the most
extravagant kind of caricature, but it requires far less skill than
those sketches in which the more minute incongruities of features,
form and costume, are resorted to. These sometimes exhibit much
graphic ability, and it is a curious fact, that in pictures of this
kind, where every feature is distorted, the strongest likenesses are
sometimes preserved.[2] It is _truth_ presented through the medium of
the ludicrous. Like the burlesque in writing, which exhibits an
argument even more forcibly, because it presents the whole matter in a
ridiculous light. But I am forgetting my story.

[Footnote 2: Some striking examples of this have been produced by the
French caricaturists, who, though far inferior to their English
brethren in broad humor, excel them in the subtilty of their
conceptions. I remember a series of prints representing Charles X and
his ministers, in the forms of various beasts. The king was personated
by the _Giraffe_, then exhibiting at the _Jardin des plantes_ in
Paris--the ministers by other animals, whose instinctive qualities
were intended to represent the several characteristics of those
dignitaries. For instance, as well as I remember, the Fox played
Prince Polignac, the Wolf, Count Peyronnet, &c. to indicate the
cunning and rapacity of those ministers. The accuracy of the
likenesses in those prints was remarkable. I believe Louis Phillippe
and his ministers have more recently been shewn up in a similar
manner.]

I had not seen Fenella for several days, when passing along St. Paul
street one morning, I met an acquaintance, who accosted me with,

"Bless me, Pertinax, where have you been so long? I was last evening
at Fenella's, and she actually hinted a suspicion of your defection
from her cause."

"Why to tell you the truth Nichols, I have absented myself with
_malice prepense_."

"She is of that opinion, and takes it unkindly of you, that while she
is suffering so much vexation, you of all others, who neither flatter
nor make love to her, should prove recreant."

"Vexation! what do you mean?"

"Come, come, you will not pretend that you know of nothing which
should annoy her, when the cause of her annoyance is the talk of the
whole town."

"Nothing whatsoever--I know of nothing that could give her uneasiness,
unless that stupid Lord William Lenox[3] has been besieging her again.
I saw him driving a tandem carriole this morning. Perhaps he drove to
her lodgings and worried her with his vapid talk."

[Footnote 3: This sprig of nobility, is the third son of the Duke of
Richmond, who was then Governor of the Canadas. At that early period,
Lord William had made himself notorious by the seduction of a married
woman, whom he kept as a mistress for some time. The people of
Montreal were much scandalized at that affair. He has since become
well known to the world by his marriage with the celebrated singer,
Miss Paton,--by squandering her earnings in the most profligate
manner, and by his divorce from her. The lady is better known in this
country as Mrs. Wood, and under that name her singing has been
universally admired here. Lord William's last enterprise, it appears,
is a theatrical one--as the English newspapers state that he is now
the manager of a provincial theatre.]

"Nonsense! She has not seen Lord William for a week."

"Well, what _is_ the matter then?"

"And you really have not heard?"

"I tell you I have heard nothing of the kind."

"And you have not seen Selden, nor Seymour, nor Marryatt, nor
Cleaveland."

"Neither of them for two days. I have been a perfect hermit, shut up
among my books, during that period."

"And you have heard nothing of a caricature?"

"Out upon you--caricature! No!"

"You surprise me. Well, I must be the first to inform you, that Mc----
has put his threat of revenge into execution, by making our friend the
subject of a caricature, confoundedly well done, and striking in its
resemblance, but so ludicrous that it is impossible to resist laughing
at it. Here it is"--and he produced the sketch.

Fenella's costume was peculiar, although no way extravagant. During
the winter, her street dress was a tight fitting blue cloth pelisse,
trimmed in front with gold buttons, with two or three on the waist
behind; a black fur tippet round the throat, and a black fur bonnet
and feather. The picture did not shew her face, but represented her
moving from the spectator. The dress was a perfect copy, and the
figure could not be mistaken; but the skill of the artist had given to
it the most masculine character, and the posture was so ludicrously
vulgar, as to produce great effect. Indignant as I was at this
dastardly method of casting ridicule on an amiable woman, I could not
but be sensible of the talent which had rendered a mere figure so
extremely ridiculous.

"And where did you get this, Nichols?" said I.

"Oh, they are to be had for money. This is the first that was
exhibited. Passing by the barber's shop just below the City Hotel,
yesterday morning, I saw it in the window, and purchased it for the
modest sum of two crowns. Before night another was exhibited, and
bought by Cleaveland for three crowns; and this morning another copy
appeared, which Selden bought for _five_. The rascal rises in his
price at every repetition, and is in a fair way to make up for the
loss at his benefit. There is another in the window now, and if we
pass that way you may see it. Our object in buying them was to get
them out of the way, for you cannot conceive how much annoyed Fenella
is, at this vulgar representation of her figure. But as long as we
buy, Mc---- will produce copies."

"Come along. I will have some talk with this barber"--and we made our
way to the shop, at the window of which, as Nichols had stated, the
picture hung, while a crowd of idlers were stopping to laugh at this
ridiculous effigy of a popular actress.

We entered the shop and demanded the price of the caricature.

"Ten dollars," was the reply.

"Have you the audacity," said I, "to demand such a sum for a daub like
this?"

"I have."

"And how do you rate its value so high?"

"By the demand for it. I have not an article in my shop that commands
so ready a sale. Those who buy know the intrinsic value of the picture
better than I do. I only judge of it by the price which it will
bring"--said the fellow with a roguish smile, which tempted me to
knock him down.

"Well," said I, "you have killed the golden goose this time, or I am
mistaken. You shall not sell another of them if I can prevent it."

"Oh I have no fear of that. The lady herself will buy them, rather
than allow them to hang long in my window."

"You are an impertinent varlet, and I trust will be chastised as you
deserve."

I should have said more; but Nichols hurried me away, lest my hot
temper should get me into some awkward scrape--and we walked to
Fenella's lodgings.

What happened there and afterwards, must be deferred to another
chapter, when the reader shall be introduced into the watchhouse, and
his curiosity gratified in regard to my sojourn there.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DISSERTATION

On the Characteristic Differences between the Sexes.

NO. II.


_Religious Differences_.

In no respect do we find the characteristical differences between the
sexes more marked than in regard to religion; and certainly, we see
woman in no attitude more engaging, more interesting or useful, than
in the quiet, but graceful performance of her duties to her Maker.

The belief in the providence of some superior being or beings, has
ever been a source of obligation to mankind in all ages and countries.
Man may be pronounced to be emphatically a religious being. Every
where, whether savage or civilized, do we behold him looking to the
god or gods of nature, and dreading their punishment, not only in the
world to come, but even in this. It is this spirit of devotion which
"calls forth the hymn of the infant bard, as well as the anthem of the
poet of classic times. It prompts the nursery tale of superstition, as
well as the demonstration of the school of philosophy." "If you search
the world," says Plutarch, "you may find cities without walls, without
letters, without kings, without money; but no one ever saw a city
without a deity, without a temple, or without some form of worship;"
and Maximus Tyrius, another of the ancients, declares that, "in such a
contest, and tumult, and disagreement of opinions on other subjects,
you may see this one law and speech acknowledged by common accord,
that there is one God, the king and father of all, and many gods, the
children of God, and ruling together with him. This the Greek says,
and this the Barbarian says; and the inhabitant of the continent, and
the islander, and the wise and the unwise."

This universal consent in the operation of a superintending and
controlling providence, is one of the most luminous and important
facts of our nature. It rests the evidence of natural religion not
upon the unsteady basis of argument or reason--not upon the sophisms
of philosophers, or the edicts of monarchs, or popes, or councils; but
upon the immoveable basis of nature--upon _instinct_ itself. "There is
no era," says Mr. Allison, "so barbarous, in which man has existed, in
which traces are not to be seen of the alliance which he has felt
between earth and heaven; and amid the wildest as amid the most genial
scenes of an uncultivated world, the rude altar of the barbarian every
where marks the emotions that swelled in his bosom, when he erected it
to the awful or beneficent deities whose imaginary presence it
records."

But although there be that within us which leads directly to the
contemplation of divinity, and of the retribution which awaits us in
another world, yet we are not to conclude that this belief is not
strengthened and confirmed by reason and experience. On the contrary,
the argument in favor of a God and rewards and punishments hereafter,
gains strength, with the increasing age, experience and knowledge of
the world. Religion, in the midst of ignorance and barbarism,
degenerates into gross superstition and revolting idolatry. By means
of reason and knowledge, we are the better enabled to overleap the
vast chasm interposed between us and the divine nature; to
contemplate, in the detail and in the aggregate, both the minute and
the great throughout the universe; to observe their beautiful
arrangement and harmony, and the wondrous unity of design in all the
parts: a unity which at once prostrates all the absurdities and
contradictions of the far famed polytheistical religion of the Greek
and the Roman--the fanciful idolatry and star gazing worship of the
Chaldean Shepherd, and the Magi of Babylon--or the more fearful, more
mysterious, and yet more ridiculous superstition of the Egyptian
priests of old, who at a period far back, when time was yet young, and
the history of other nations was scarce begun, officiated in those
mighty temples upon the banks of the Nile, whose awful ruins, now
scattered through the land of Egypt, tell us of the mighty of the
earth, who have lived, and strutted, and bustled for a season, but at
the appointed hour, have been cut down like the flower of the field.
It is this great, this beautiful unity of design, which we see
manifested throughout the works of creation, which proclaims the
existence of the one indivisible God, "Who hath measured the waters in
the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with the span, and
comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the
mountains in a scale, and the hills in a balance." It is this same
unity of design, proclaimed by philosophy and comprehended by reason
alone, which so powerfully supports the monotheistic religion of the
christian, and sustains that beautiful, humane and generous scheme of
salvation foretold by the Jewish prophets of old, and consummated by
the sacrifice on Mount Calvary, of the meek and humble Saviour of the
world.

Again, when we look abroad to animated creation, and see that man
alone has placed within him a principle which guides and directs him,
independently of instinct--a principle which, in spite of all the arts
of sophistry and self-delusion, tells him in language which cannot be
mistaken, that he is responsible for his acts; and when we further see
the immense amount of vice and wickedness in this world which does not
meet with its deserved punishment here, and virtue failing to receive
its reward;--when we behold all this, and reflect, as we cannot fail
to do, that the Creator of the world is a God of justice and
impartiality, we are at once driven into the belief that there must be
a hereafter, where all these things will be equalized. It is when we
see the wicked son, the unnatural father, and the fiendish
mother--when we peruse the histories of such monsters as Nero,
Caligula, Commodus, Louis XI of France, or Richard III of England--of
the Tullias, the Messalinas and the Macbeths, that we are forced to
acknowledge that there must be a _Tartarus_. Again, we meet with
humble virtue and piety in this world, possessed by those who labor
and toil through life, sometimes groaning under the oppression of a
cruel persecutor, who, bloated with vice, is nevertheless wallowing in
apparent luxury and ease, while the victims of his oppression are
overwhelmed with every calamity and misfortune "which flesh is heir
to"--each one of whom, in the hour of death, may truly say, in the
pathetic language of the patriarch of old, "short, but replete with
woe has been my day." When we contemplate this, the mind does not rest
satisfied, without an _elysium_ where the weary are to be at rest, and
the wicked to cease from troubling. "Wherefore do the wicked live,
become old--yea, are mighty in power? Is there no reward for the
righteous? is there no punishment for the workers of iniquity? is
there no God that judgeth in the earth?" It is only the awful
retribution of a hereafter which can satisfactorily explain to all

  "Why unassuming worth, in secret lived
   And died neglected; why the good man's share
   Was gall and bitterness of soul;
   Why the lone widow and her orphans pin'd
   In starving solitude; while luxury,
   In palaces, lay straining her low thought,
   To form unreal wants; why heaven-born truth
   And moderation fair, wore the red marks
   Of superstition's scourge; why licensed pain,
   That cruel spoiler, that imbosom'd foe,
   Imbitter'd all our bliss."

Not only, however, does our belief in the supreme benevolence and
justice of the deity, force upon us the conviction of a future state
of rewards and punishments; but the very contemplation of the human
mind, with its faculties and passions, points us to another world. We
have faculties which are capable of ranging beyond the sphere in which
we move. We have longings which this world, with all its stores of
provisions, cannot satisfy. These faculties and these longings point
distinctly to another world. Lord Bacon has truly asserted, that if
the child in its mother's womb could reason like a philosopher--could
survey its little hands, mouth, eyes, feet, lungs, &c. and perceive
that they discharged no adequate functions in the womb, he would, if
impressed with the belief of the wisdom and design of creation, come
necessarily to the conclusion that this was not the place of his
permanent abode--that he was ultimately to be ushered into some other
world, where all his physical energies and intellectual powers would
be brought into play, and have an ample field to range in. So
likewise, if I may use the beautiful language of Dugald Stewart, "When
tired and disgusted with this world of imperfections, we delight to
contemplate another, where the charms of nature wear an eternal bloom,
and where new sources of enjoyment are opened, suited to the vast
capacities of the human mind." And thus do we find both instinct and
reason contending alike for the truth of the great principles of
religion.

With these preliminary remarks, I will now proceed to examine into the
differences between the sexes in a religious point of view; and here I
may assert at once, without the fear of contradiction, that woman
always has been, and is now, in almost every country upon the face of
the globe, more religious than man. This difference between the sexes
is still more striking under the christian dispensation, than under
any other religion perhaps, which has ever existed in the world. In
our own country, we all know that the female communicants form an
immense majority in all our churches. "Very many of them (says Timothy
Dwight in the 4th vol. of his Travels, and no one was better qualified
to speak on this subject)--very many of them are distinguished for
moral excellence--are unaffectedly pious, humble, benevolent, patient
and self-denying. In this illustrious sphere of distinction, they put
our own sex to shame. Were the church of Christ stripped of her female
communicants, she would lose many of her brightest ornaments, and I
fear, _two-thirds_ of her whole family."[1]

[Footnote 1: I have no doubt that President Dwight has underrated the
number of female communicants in the United States. From conversations
with the most intelligent of the clergy, I should be disposed to say
they formed three-fourths, or four-fifths of the communicants.]

How then does it happen that woman is more religious than man--that
she is every where found yielding a more ready and more perfect
devotion to the God of nature? We have seen that instinct, feeling and
reason concur in the support of religion. Which of these is the main
impelling cause with woman? I am disposed to say the two former. She
is not so much disposed to skepticism as man; she does not wait for
the slow deductions of reason, before she is willing to yield her
assent. She does not withhold her belief, like man, until she can
contemplate the power, majesty and unity of the deity, in the
countless millions of bright orbs, rolling in harmony and
magnificence, along those complicate and luminous paths which have
been assigned to them in the infinitudes of space. She does not wait
until she can descend from the contemplation of this grand, this
sublime prospect, to the infinitesimally minute parts of nature, and
view with the eye of philosophy, their order, harmony and design,
where she may behold the existence of deity proclaimed in those
countless millions of millions of animalculæ, which escape the
unassisted vision of man--each one displaying a form, a structure, a
complexity of organs as perfect, as beautiful, as well adapted to the
sphere in which he moves, on that little atom of creation, which is a
world to him, as the grandest and most imposing animals of nature. No!
She does not require for the generation of her faith, thus to be able
to range from the bottom to the top of creation--from the infinitely
small to the infinitely great--to behold in the vast and the minute

  "The unambitious footsteps of the god
   Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing,
   And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds."

She looks into her own heart, and finds there the want of a consoling
religion. She looks into the pages of holy writ, and builds her faith
on the revealed will of her Maker. "Thus saith the Lord," is the
simple but stable foundation on which her hopes are rested. With man,
religion is much more a matter of speculation, of reason and
philosophy, than with woman.

Let us now investigate, if possible, the causes of this very
interesting difference between the sexes.

_Causes.--1st. Education_.

And in the first place, it is in a great measure attributable to the
peculiar education of the sex. I mean the education which woman
receives from her parents and teachers. The education of man is much
more scientific, according to the present custom of society, than that
of woman. Science, as we shall soon see, whilst it enlarges the powers
of comprehension and ratiocination, by leading us into the mysteries
of nature, and teaching us the "_causas rerum_," is calculated at the
same time rather to curb the feelings, and to control the imagination.
The consequence is, that a scientific education fortifies the mind
against the too ready admission of doctrines, whatever they may be,
and prevents us from yielding assent to truths, when we are not
prepared to give a reason for the faith that is within us. In the
education of woman, every thing is done to preserve her native
feelings in all their original purity and strength. Her studies are of
a more light and literary cast, such as administer to the imagination
or warm the sensibilities. In her case the play of the instincts and
of the feelings is not cramped by the controlling influence of logic
and reason; and hence, no doubt, one cause of the religious
differences between the sexes.

For the same reason, the religious enthusiasm of woman, is very apt to
degenerate into superstition--that of man, into dogmatism and
fanaticism. Woman, generally, cares very little for mere creeds and
doctrines, but is apt to believe in miraculous interpositions, and a
special providence. Woman possesses more devotion and more genuine
love for her God--her eye is fixed on heaven, and the ardor of her
religious aspirations always points her to the glorious mansion
prepared on high; where, in the fulness of her devotion and piety,
surrounded by the bright effulgence of the throne of omnipotence, she
may pour forth the torrent of her love in hymns sung to the praise of
her Maker. She looks to this grand, this glorious end, and prays to
her God that it may be hers, and that he will direct her into the
right path.

Man, on the other hand, is so much taken up by the study and
investigation of the circumstances which attend him on his religious
journey through life, that he forgets in the scrupulous study of his
means, the end and object of all his devotion. It is not only
necessary with him, that he should go to heaven, but he is too often
resolved to go there in no other way than his own. And we may almost
assert with the author of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,
that by his vain reasonings, and quibbles, and sophisms, he sometimes
so narrows the bridge which is to conduct us to a blissful eternity,
as almost to reduce its width to that of a razor's edge, to be walked
over only by those whose sophisticated intellects can comprehend the
absurd jargon of his theologico-metaphysical creed. It was very
difficult during the middle ages, to engage the females in those
tremendous, but nonsensical disputes between the Realists and
Nominalists, which involved the peace and happiness of whole nations.
What cared they about _universals genera and species_. Little did they
concern themselves with the learned disputes of the Thomists, the
Scotists, and the Occamites. The amors of Peter Abelard, were much
more interesting to them, than his voluminous dissertations upon the
Scholastic Theology. And we can well imagine, that few women would
care to read that mighty production of the _Angelical Doctor_ Saint
Thomas Aquinas, bearing the imposing title of _Summa Totius
Theologiæ_, containing the formidable amount of 1,250 folio pages of
very small print in double columns, with 19 more of errata, and 200 of
index. But enough of this. Some of the other sex even may _now_ sicken
at the idea of encountering a work so formidable as this, although it
be upon the vital subject of theology.

Women are much more superstitious, generally, as I have already
remarked, than men. They much more readily believe in dreams, visions
and miraculous interferences. Women deeply in love, have often been
known to die from the effects of unfavorable dreams about a distant
lover, in a perilous situation. McNish, in his interesting work on the
Philosophy of Sleep, tells us of a young lady, a native of Ross-shire,
who was deeply in love with an officer who accompanied Sir John Moore
in the Peninsular war. The constant danger to which he was exposed,
had, of course, a very great effect on her spirits. One night, after
falling asleep, she imagined she saw her lover pale, bloody, and
wounded in the breast, enter her apartment. He drew aside the curtains
of the bed, and with a look of the utmost mildness, informed her that
he had been slain in battle, desiring her at the same time to comfort
herself, and not take his death too seriously to heart. "It is
needless," says McNish, "to say what influence this vision had upon a
mind so replete with woe. It withered it entirely, and the unfortunate
girl died a few days thereafter." Many such instances as these might
be adduced, where all the explanations and consolations of philosophy
have been rejected, and the unfortunate lady has actually died from
the grief produced by the confident expectation of the realization of
a dream or vision. I can well imagine the eagerness with which the
females of antiquity would crowd around their seers, and their
oracles, to have unveiled to them the mysteries of the future. Even
now, women are much more disposed to consult gypsies and fortune
tellers, than men. But they are most apt to incline to these petty
superstitions, if I may use the expression, when under the influence
of strong passion, such as that of love. We all know, that one deeply
in love, is apt to be a little superstitious; and many there are
besides the Phebe of Irving, who can wander forth in the "stilly
night," when the moon is pouring her silvery radiance over the world,
and kneel upon the "stone in the meadow," and repeat the old
traditional rhyme

  "All hail to thee, moon, all hail;
   I pray to thee, good moon, now show to me
   The youth who my future husband shall be."

_2nd. Religious Wants_.

Another reason, no doubt, of the religious differences of the sexes,
is the greater demand or want, if I may use the phraseology of
political economy, which woman experiences for religion. Her whole
education, physical and moral, and her consequent position in society,
contribute to the creation of these religious wants. There are times
and situations in which we all feel in a very peculiar manner the want
of religion. There are periods when the billows of adversity are
rolling high and threatening to overwhelm us with ruin--when all our
ordinary resources have failed--when there is in this world no arm
that can save, no power that can protect us--then does the voice of
nature whisper to us to turn to him who hath promised to be a father
to the fatherless, and a husband to the widow, and to him in the hour
of our peril do we address the fervent prayer. There is no part of the
Journal of the Landers with which I have been more affected, than that
in which John Lander speaks of the disaster of Kirree, while
descending the Niger. Himself and brother had been separated, they met
again on the river, but in the moment of the most heart-rending peril,
when a savage enemy was upon the point of immolating them, and of
destroying at once all those bright visions of glory and usefulness,
which ever float in the ardent imagination of the traveller, and urge
him over seas, and lands, and mountains, and deserts. "This day (says
John Lander,) I thought was to be my last, when I looked up and saw my
brother at a little distance gazing steadfastly upon me; when he saw
that I observed him, he held up his arm with a sorrowful look, and
pointed his finger to the skies. O! how distinctly and eloquently were
all the emotions of his soul at that moment depicted in his
countenance! Who could not understand him. He would have said 'trust
in God.' I was touched with grief. Thoughts of home and friends rushed
upon my mind, and almost overpowered me. My heart hovered over the
scenes of infancy and boyhood. Recollecting myself, I bade them as I
thought an everlasting adieu; and weaning my heart and thoughts from
all worldly associations, with fervor I invoked the God of my life,
before whose awful throne I imagined we should shortly appear, for
fortitude and consolation in the hour of trial. My heart became
subdued and softened; my mind regained its serenity and composure; and
though there was nothing but tumult and distraction without, within
all was tranquillity and resignation." And thus do we find that
adversity often leads us to pay devotion to our God. When the
treasures of this world in which the heart dwelt are swept away, we
are more disposed to look to the imperishable treasures of another
world. "When there is no object on this side the grave on which to fix
our hopes, we delight to extend them beyond the troubled horizon which
bounds our earthly prospects, to wander unconfined in the regions of
futurity,"

  "Where all is calm as night, yet all immortal day
   And truth, forever shines; and love forever burns."

On the other hand, how truly dismal and appalling at such hours as
those I have been describing, is the condition of the genuine Atheist.
When the plans, and projects, and schemes of this world have failed
him, and all his earthly hopes are untimely blighted by the sad
strokes of cruel fortune; where is his consolation--where his refuge?
Shall he turn to those whom the world once called his friends? Alas!
they were with him in summer and sunshine, when his flocks were
feeding on a hundred hills--when his indiscriminate and boundless
hospitality was the theme of praise on the tongue of the selfish and
sycophantic sensualist, who delighted in his "glutton meal;" and his
splendid mansion was the scene of music and of revelry. In the hour of
his bereavement they turn from him, and even mock him in his
misfortunes! Shall he attempt again to mend his broken fortunes and
rise once more in the world's thought? Perhaps some insuperable
barrier stands before him; friends have deserted him, and old age may
be fast incapacitating him to run again the race of earthly ambition;
and the base treachery of friends, and the mortifying neglect of a
cold and selfish world, may have implanted in his heart, the deep and
uneradicable feeling of dark and gloomy misanthropy, which may forever
unfit him for wearing the world's honors, or coveting the world's
praise. Shall he throw his thoughts beyond this world's horizon, and
look with the spirit of prayer and supplication to heaven for that
support and consolation which is denied him here? No! no! His fatal
skepticism prevents his hopes from resting on another world. It shuts
him up here amid all the gloom and horror of his terrestrial
mansion--concentrates all his dismal thoughts within his own
overwhelmed soul, and leaves him a prey to misery and despondency.

        "A woe stricken being, to whose heart
  The visions of earth can no rapture impart,
  On whose brow the pale garlands of Hope have all faded,
  While his soul by the midnight of sorrow is shaded;
  What balm could you bring to his bosom's deep sorrow,
  If eternity promised no glorious to-morrow?"

I hope then I have said enough to show that there are times and
seasons when the heart of man turns instinctively to the God of nature
for support; that there are times when philosophy, and science, and
friendship, all must fail to administer consolation to the oppressed
heart:--it is then that religion and religion alone can furnish the
balm that can neutralize woe. Under its benign influence the billows
of adversity may roll on--they may break over our heads, but cannot
overwhelm the soul when sheltered securely under its divine panoply.

Now let us inquire whether woman experiences oftener than man those
moments of sorrow and affliction, which religion alone can assuage;
and this inquiry, I think, must be answered by all, in the
affirmative. The sorrows, and griefs, and trials of woman, are not of
so palpable, conspicuous, and sometimes violent a character as are
those of man. They do not attract so universally the gaze of the
world--their consequences are not so extensive--they do not so much
occupy the pen of the historian, or draw forth the speculations of
philosophy; but they are more numerous, more secret; and for this very
reason more calculated to turn her to her God for consolation. I have
already in the preceding number shown, that woman, from her position
in society, is obliged to conceal more than man. She experiences many
sorrows and afflictions, which like the Viola of Shakspeare, she never
tells to any one, but keeps them locked up in her own bosom to brood
over in solitude. Rousseau says, a man truly happy, neither speaks
much nor laughs much--he hugs, so to speak, the happiness to his
heart. "_Il reserre, pour ainsi dire, le bonheur autour de son
coeur._" The assertion which Rousseau here makes concerning the
happiness of man, is strictly true, when applied to the misery of
woman--especially to that most numerous class of her griefs which
spring from wounded affections. This species of misery, if I may
borrow the pencil of Rousseau "elle reserre autour de son coeur." Her
shrinking modesty dares not confess it to the world; sometimes even
the penetrating scrutiny of an affectionate mother is shunned and
deceived. What then is her resource? She knows there is a God who
inhabiteth the high and lofty places of eternity, who has promised to
turn from none who seek him--she feels that all her sorrows are known
to him. She can truly exclaim in the language of the Psalmist, "thou
hast searched me and known me. Thou knowest my down sitting, mine
uprising: thou understandest my thoughts afar off. Thou compasseth my
path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways. For there
is not a word in my tongue, but lo, O Lord! thou knowest it
altogether." With this being then, who already knows all her
afflictions, does she commune--to him she pours forth the torrent of
her feelings, and tells the tale of her concentrated woe, which no
vulgar ear shall ever hear. This communion becomes sweet to her in the
hour of her afflictions, and she bestows upon him who has promised to
be the friend of the disconsolate and broken-hearted, that love which
perhaps has been slighted and despised by another. "As the dove (says
Irving,) will clasp its wings to its sides, and cover and conceal the
wound that is preying on its vitals--so is it the nature of woman, to
hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. Even when
fortunate she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she
buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and
brood among the ruins of her peace."

It is at such times as these she feels the great want of religion; and
accordingly we find that on tracing the history of woman, we often see
her religious career commencing after some great disappointment--after
some cruel stroke which has been inflicted on the feelings and
affections. In Catholic countries we frequently see women, after these
great disappointments, retiring from the world and immuring themselves
for the remainder of their lives within the walls of a nunnery, where
at a distance from the world and free from the rude gaze of an
inquisitive society, they may spend the remainder of their days in
silent and pensive melancholy, softened and ameliorated by sweet
communion with God. You rarely hear of this on the part of man. If he
survives the misfortunes that for a time have oppressed him, he
plunges into the active business and bustle of the world, and in the
midst of his employments he finds new occupation for his mind--he
summons it away from the contemplation of his grief. New feelings are
called into play, and often succeed in banishing the old. How often do
we find _ambition_ becoming the succedaneum of _love_.

But woman has not this opportunity of withdrawing herself from the
scenes of her misfortunes and griefs. Every object around her reflects
back their images upon her mind; and, go where she will, she is still
like those unfortunate beings, laboring under the illusions of
spectral apparitions;--the phantoms are around her still, gazing on
her with lurid glare whilst awake, haunting her whilst asleep. Nothing
but religion can afford her solace, under afflictions so oppressive
and crushing. Without it, she may well exclaim in the language of the
"Dirge,"

  "Vain is the boasted force of mind,
   When hope has ta'en her flight;
   Then memory is most unkind--
   And thought is as the dread whirlwind
   That works on earth its blight."

In addition to what is said above, it may be observed that the
physical infirmities of woman, are greater than those of man; she is
liable to sudden changes in health, which endanger her life. Every
child which comes into the world, is an admonition to the mother on
the precariousness of human life, and the necessity of living in a
state of constant preparation for another world.

_3d. Dependence and Physical Weakness_.

Another cause, no doubt, of the more religious character of woman, is
her greater feebleness and dependence upon the powers around her, than
that felt by man. When we look to the stupendous mechanism of the
heavens and the earth, and contemplate the mighty powers that are at
work in the universe, the mind naturally turns, in the spirit of
devotion and prayer, to that infinite, incomprehensible, mysterious
being, who guides and directs those powers. When we contemplate, for
example, the globe on which we stand--think of it as moving at the
rate of more than sixty thousand miles per hour, around that luminous
orb, which at the distance of millions of miles, binds it down to its
prescribed orbit; when we think again of this mass on which we stand,
vast and grand to us, but an atom to him who placed it here, rolling
on its axis, carrying us forward with a compound velocity, which if it
could be suddenly arrested by some opposing mass competent to the
resistance, would be sufficient to tear from their bases all the
mountains and hills of the earth, and hurl their scattered fragments
o'er the vallies--a velocity, whose sudden cessation would prostrate
alike the animal and vegetable kingdoms, burying all in one common
chaotic ruin, from which no one being would escape to sing the funeral
dirge of a _dead world_. When we contemplate all this, and know that
there is a hand competent to the control of these mighty powers; that
under its influence, while thus rapidly hurled along through the
illimitable regions of space, the busy operations of men are going
forward; that the grand tower, the enormous pyramid, the slender reed,
and the delicate spire of grass, stand alike unaffected and unshaken
by this velocity; that the slumbers of the infant on its little couch,
and the spider weaving her delicate web in the "autumnal fields," are
alike undisturbed;--when we look again, and contemplate that thin
elastic medium which we breathe, covering the earth like an invisible
mantle, all quiet and calm at the sunset hour, so that even the
thistle-down lies still and motionless on the earth's surface; then
think again of that same medium, lashed into the fearful tempest,
spreading dismay and destruction along its desolating track, and
scattering the mariner and his cargoes over the billows of the sea; or
when we contemplate that principle of heat which pervades the
universe, constituting the great _vis vivica_, or enlivening power of
nature,--so placid, so sweet, and it would scarcely be metaphor to
add, so _tender_, as it exists around us in the mild and bland
atmosphere of a summer's morning, when

                            "The lark,
  Shrill voiced and loud, the messenger of morn,
  Calls up the tuneful nations. And ev'ry copse
  Deep tangled, tree irregular, and bush
  Bending with dewy moisture o'er the heads
  Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,
  Are prodigal of harmony."

And then think again of this same agent confined in the earth's mass;
by its sudden action laying hold on the globe with the grasp of more
than ten thousand giants, upheaving the dense and mighty stratum which
lies above it, shaking whole continents by its power, and burying the
toppling cities with the accumulated wealth of ages under its fearful
ruins; when we contemplate, I say, all these powers around us, we see
our dependence on _them_, and again _their_ dependence on omnipotence.
The feeling of dependence forced upon the mind, begets a spirit of
devotion and trust towards the God of nature. At first, overwhelmed by
the evidences of mighty power exerted around and over us, we are
almost disposed to cry out in the language of holy writ, "what is man
that thou shouldst be mindful of him, or the son of man that thou
shouldst deign to visit him." But our confidence revives when we
recollect the promise that "if God so clothe the grass of the field,
which to-day is and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much
more clothe you, O ye of little faith."

This spirit of dependence, wherever felt, always begets more or less a
religious spirit of devotion. It is this spirit which, in ages of
ignorance and superstition, begets the worship of heroes, of
statesmen, and philanthropists. It is this spirit which has added such
as Hercules, Castor, Pollux, Isis, Osiris, &c. to the vast catalogue
of the gods in the polytheistic religions of antiquity. It is this
same spirit, which makes the subordinate officer and the soldier, look
with awe and the most confident reliance on the successful military
chieftain, who has so often manoeuvred them like a machine, and has
gained victory after victory by those rapid combinations and skilful
evolutions, which to the mind that does not comprehend, appear to be
the result of inspiration rather than the effects of human wisdom.
Wherever in fine, there is a system of dependence, there you will find
always more or less a spirit of reverence. How intensely does this
spirit manifest itself in a father or mother, who has knelt before an
emperor or king, and obtained the pardon of a condemned son. Now, as I
have already observed, woman feels this dependency much more strongly
than man. She is the weaker vessel, and hence there is a devotional
feeling excited by this dependence, which follows the chain of
dependence up, link by link, until it reaches the throne of
omnipotence. Woman does not feel this dependence from a contemplation
of the mighty physical energies exerted around her by the great powers
of nature; but it arises from her greater weakness and dependency when
compared with the other sex.

Do we not all know that there is something much more devotional in the
love of woman than man--a something much more nearly allied to
religion? Do we not know that this same weakness and consequent
dependence, makes woman more confiding, more trusting, more submissive
than man? She feels much greater veneration for the great and the
powerful, and acquiesces much more readily in the tyranny and
oppression of rulers. Even women of the very first order of intellect
feel this reliance and trust on the greater powers around them. Mrs.
Jameson says, in speaking of the Portia of Shakspeare, "I never yet
met in real life, nor ever read in tale or history, of any woman
distinguished for intellect of the highest order, who was not also
remarkable for this _trustingness_ of spirit, this hopefulness and
cheerfulness of temper, which is compatible with the most serious
habits of thought, and the most profound sensibility. Lady Wortley
Montague was one instance; and Madame de Stael furnishes another much
more memorable."

The physical weakness of woman and her consequent dependence on man,
makes religion more necessary to her for another reason. It is her
interest that every restraint should be imposed on the passions of
man; that he should walk in the paths of virtue and morality; that his
superior strength should be subdued and tempered by motives of
humanity. He is then more kind, more attentive, and more loving to
her. He is then a better father, a better economist,--in fine, a
better citizen, fulfilling more perfectly all the relations of life.
The Christian religion, as we shall soon see, is eminently calculated
to produce this happy result, and consequently woman is deeply
interested in its spread. Let no one start forward with the objection,
that in this way she is the better enabled to _govern_ her husband. I
admit this, if, to govern him, means to restrain him from vice and
immorality; but surely this is a government which no honest good
citizen can object to. Every lady has a fearfully deep interest in the
whole character and temperament of her husband's mind and feelings.
Upon them depend, indeed, her weal or woe. Her condition may be
deplorable, and sometimes irremediable, if a wicked husband choose to
oppress her. But that is certainly a holy and a virtuous selfishness,
if selfishness it can possibly be called, which secures our own
welfare and happiness while adding to that of another, by curbing and
controlling his more violent and malignant feelings and passions, and
attuning the whole inner man to harmony and concord.

_4th. Seclusion and Meditation_.

Again, the life of woman, as has been before remarked, is much more
sedentary, more secluded, and consequently more contemplative than
that of man. Solitude and contemplation are very favorable to the
production of religious impressions and the generation of a spirit of
piety and devotion. Man is so constantly occupied amid the busy scenes
of active employment, so much engrossed with his schemes of ambition
and self-aggrandizement, so rapidly whirled forward by the eddying
current of active life, that he scarcely will take time to pause in
the hurry and bustle of existence to contemplate his Maker, and render
to him the homage that is his due. Public devotion even often breaks
in upon his regular routine of life, and frequently mars some little
pet scheme of the day. He is a Sabbath-day worshipper; a worshipper at
spare times and leisure seasons. But the solitary chamber of a woman,
is often by day and by night, the temple from which in her lone hours
she sends her silent prayers to heaven; the temple from which, in her
silent meditations, her thoughts wander forth and hold sweet communion
with the God of nature.

But, let us investigate a little more philosophically, the effects of
this secluded, meditative, contemplative life of woman. And, in the
first place, all will acknowledge that occasional solitude and
consequent meditation are extremely favorable to the cause of virtue
generally. Whilst we are running our dissipated career, under the
excitement of the passions, we rarely have time, leisure, and
reflection sufficient to determine on reform. "It is not in the
madness of intemperate enjoyment," says Dr. Brown, in one of his most
brilliant lectures, "that we see drunkenness in the goblet, or disease
in the feast. Under the actual seduction of the passion we see dimly,
if we see at all, any of the evils to which it leads." It is in the
hour of solitude and reflection, that the remorseful thought of our
errors and vices, comes across the mind; then, in the coolness and
calmness of solitude, can we trace out the blighting evils that are
likely to follow on our career; then, and then alone, can we
dispassionately view, in the vista of the future, our loss of
character, of health and riches, by the course we are pursuing; then
we behold the melancholy consequences, widening out, until they
embrace our family, friends, neighborhood, and state; we then can
summon, in gloomy review before the mind's eye, our wives and
children, dearer to us than life, living in penury and misfortune, and
perhaps dependent for a scanty subsistence upon the cold hand of
charity. When the mind is capable of reflection--of sketching out this
sad picture, there may be hopes of reform. The individual is never
absolutely, hopelessly lost, who indulges in silent meditations on the
past; such an individual may even be saved at the eleventh hour.
Hence, too, there is virtue in mere intelligence, because intelligence
can always think and meditate. Hence, too, the efficacy of solitary
confinement in the gloomy walls of the prison, and the very
deleterious influence of all prison discipline not based on the
principle of solitary confinement.

Again, any scene of distress, any monuments or associations, which
remind us of the instability of the boasted works of man; anything
which forces a comparison in the mind between the transitory character
and nothingness of the things of earth, when compared with the
eternity of ages that are to follow, or with the perfections and
immutability of God; all such reflections as these are calculated to
make a deep religious impression upon the mind. What classic scholar,
for example, can stand upon the Capitol on the Capitoline Mount, in
Modern Rome, and look over the mouldering but still magnificent ruins
of the imperial city, as they lie scattered and confused over the
vallies and the seven hills, and cast a retrospective glance at the
ages which have gone by, without a deep feeling of religious awe and
of veneration towards the God of nature? When he reflects that the
poet of antiquity describes this classic ground, over which the eye of
the traveller is now wandering in pensive and bewildering gaze, as a
solitary wilderness; when Evander, and afterwards when Æneas came to
the Latian Coast; that the brier and the bramble then grew together in
wild luxuriance on the Tarpeian Hill; that the foxes had their holes
and the birds their nests on the Palatine and the Aventine. When he
looks again to the time of the poet, and beholds the proud imperial
city, the mistress of the world, enthroned in all her gorgeous
splendor and costly magnificence upon the seven hills, wielding the
sceptre of her dominion over the earth,

  "Until the o'ercanopied horizon fail'd,"

and sees upon the Tarpeian hill, the splendid temple with its golden
ornaments and its stately columns, instead of the brier and the
bramble, and beholds,

  "Pretors, proconsuls to their provinces
   Hasting, or on return, in robes of state,
   Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power,
   Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings:
   Or embassies from regions far remote,
   In various habits on the Appian road,
   Or on the Emilian."

And then looks to her again--when in the awful language of the poet,

  "The Goth, the Christian, time, war, flood and fire
   Have dealt upon the seven hill'd city's pride,"

and sees that the temple upon the Tarpeian mount has been overthrown
and rifled, and the brier and the bramble have come back again, that
owl answers owl upon the Palatine, that the din of arms and the active
bustle and hum of citizens and functionaries of imperial Rome, have
ceased forever on the Appian and Emilian ways, that no stately triumph
mounts the Capitoline hill, to administer to the insatiate ambition of
the rapacious and remorseless Roman, that

  "Cypress, and ivy, weed and wall flower grown
   Matted and massed together, hillocks heap'd
   On what were chambers, arch'd crush'd, columns strown
   In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep'd
   In subterranean damps,"

now meets his eye where'er it turns. Well may he exclaim with such a
prospect before him, in the language of the same poet,

  "The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
   Childless and crownless in her voiceless woes.

        *       *       *       *       *

   Alas! the lofty city! and alas!
   The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
   When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
   The conqueror's sword, in bearing fame away.
   Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,
   And Livy's pictured page!"

When he sees all these mutations and revolutions on a single spot of
earth, in the hour of his meditations his mind reverts to Him who
alone is immutable and unchangeable, upon whose brow, time writes no
wrinkles. "Alas, the pride of man goes down with him into the dust! it
withers when the lamp of his transient existence flickers out into the
long slumbering of the tomb." Eternal youth, eternal majesty, eternal
duration, belong only to the great, the unchangeable I AM. The
bustling transitory career of the mighty of the earth, when duly
contemplated, should but the more strongly impress on the mind the
infinity, eternity, and omnipotence of Deity. "Where now are they who
sounded the clarion of war along the plains of Thessaly, the mount of
Marathon and Samos's rocky isle. The trumpet's voice hath died upon
the breeze; the thousands which it aroused have gone to rest; the
castles which have been subdued and won, on whose walls the spear
glittered and the cannon pealed, have crumbled into dust; the ivy
lingers about the decaying turrets; the raven builds her nest in the
casement, and sends upon the ear of midnight her desolate wailings;
the owl hoots where the song was heard; and man, proud man, who once
fought and won--he who reared the structure,"

  "Sleeps where all must sleep."

There is religion, yes a deep abiding religion in such a retrospect as
this, and the mind which can trace back in its reflections the history
of man along the pathway of ages, and see how dynasties have been
overthrown, and thrones crumbled, how nations have risen, flourished
for a day, then have declined and fallen, and been numbered among the
things that are past and gone, cannot fail to turn, upon the principle
of contrast, to the God of nature, whose throne is eternal, and whose
dominion can never pass away.

Such may be the salutary effect of the reflection of man, when man
reflects. Let us now turn to woman, and see the character of her
meditations and reflections. She perhaps may not, in her solitary
musing, so much delight, as man, to look to the history of nations,
and draw the mighty moral from their fluctuations and vicissitudes.
But there are scenes around her--there are events constantly occurring
in her own limited sphere, which much more frequently, upon the
principles just explained, excite her meditations, and lead her on to
religious devotion. Woman, as I before remarked, is the tender,
constant, and affectionate nurse of our race. Hers is the heavenly
office to watch the sorrows of man and mitigate them, by her sweet,
her benevolent ministrations.

                            "The very first
  Of human life must spring from woman's breast.
  Your first small words are taught you from her lips,
  Your first tears quenched by her, and your last sighs
  Too often breathed out in woman's hearing,
  When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
  Of watching the last hour of him who led them."

Now this contemplation of pain and suffering, notwithstanding all the
magnificence which pride or grandeur may spread around the couch of
sickness and death, is calculated to force upon the mind the gloomy
truth of the instability of the things of earth, and that there is
nothing but God upon whom we can rely amid all the vicissitudes of
earthly scenes. "The sight of death," says Dr. Brown, "or of the great
home of the dead, seldom fails to bring before us our common and equal
nature. In spite of all the little distinctions which a churchyard
exhibits in mimic imitations, and almost in mockery of the great
distinctions of life, the turf, the stone with its petty sculpture,
and all the columns and images of the marble monument; as we read the
inscription, or walk over the sod, we think only of what lies beneath,
_in undistinguishable equality_." Here then is the scene to which
woman in her meditations is oftener transported than man. Our last
sufferings are longer remembered by her than by man--they produce a
more mighty influence on her mind, and frequently do we see that the
death of a child, of a husband, of a brother, sister, parent, or even
friend, produces a sudden but lasting impression on woman's mind,
arrests her in her gay and thoughtless career--makes her reflect upon
the vanities of this world, and in the end is the cause of her being
gathered into the fold of the faithful and the righteous, where she
can ever after, with truth and feeling, amid all her earthly
prosperity, exclaim in the beautiful language of Gray, in his
Churchyard,

  "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
   And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave
   Await alike the inevitable hour,
   The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

_5th. Peculiar Character of the Christian Religion_.

But one of the most important causes of the religious differences of
the sexes, remains yet to be told. _It is the character of the
christian religion, and its peculiar suitability to the whole female
nature and economy._ It may boldly, without fear of contradiction be
asserted, that never since the foundation of the world, has there been
propagated a religion so consolatory to woman in all her sorrows and
difficulties--so liberal in promises--so congenial, in fine, with all
the undefined wants and longings of her heart, as the _Religion of
Christ_. Throughout the world, in all ages and countries where this
religion has not been preached, it may be truly said, that the great
religious wants of woman have not been administered to. She has pined,
if I may use the expression, for the want of religious culture, and
has entirely failed to accomplish, in consequence of it, her sweetest
and most graceful destinies on earth.

Shall we turn for example to the boasted polytheistical religion of
Greece and Rome? how illy adapted do we find it to the wants, the
habits, the sensibilities, and I may add, the virtue and chastity of
woman. It is true, that in the innumerable host of their divinities,
they numbered some distinguished female goddesses. Minerva, Juno,
Diana, Ceres, Venus, &c. occupied very conspicuous stations in the
celestial hierarchy. But we are not to infer from this compliment to
the ladies, that the religion was one adapted to the female character.
When we come to examine it, we perceive at once its barbarous and
uncivilized origin, and see that the progress of science and
civilization in Greece and Rome, merely refined and polished it,
without adapting it to the real wants of society, or purging it of its
enormities and vices.

In the first place, Jupiter, the king of the gods, who could shake all
Olympus with his nod, was not omnipotent. He was restrained by the
fates, and in constant apprehension of combinations among other gods,
to resist or cheat him. Nor was Jupiter, with all the gods to back
him, omnipotent. On one occasion, they were all thrown into
consternation, by the formidable array of the giants, who were
attempting to pile mountain on mountain, Ossa upon Pelion, in order
that they might scale the ramparts of heaven. This great dread proved
the want of omnipotence. Again; Xenophon tells us that the
Lacedemonians used to send up their prayers early in the morning, to
be beforehand with their enemies. Sometimes, according to Seneca,
persons bribed the sexton in the temple to secure a place near the
god, so that he might the more certainly hear them. When the Tyrians
were besieged by Alexander the Great, they chained the Hercules in the
temple to prevent his desertion. Augustus Cæsar, after twice losing
his fleet by storm, determined to insult Neptune, the god of the sea,
publicly; and therefore ordered that he should not be carried in
procession with the other gods. And we are told, that after the death
of Germanicus in Rome, who was a great favorite with the people, they
were so much incensed with the gods, that they stoned and renounced
them.

In the Iliad, after the celebrated quarrel between Agamemnon and
Achilles, when the latter urges his mother Thetis, to lay his
complaints before Jupiter, she tells him that Jupiter has gone in
procession with the other gods, to pay honors to the Ethiopians, and
on his return, she will present his petition. But besides the want of
omnipotence in one or all the gods combined, the polytheistical
religion presented a multitude of gods, among whom reigned the wildest
disorders, the fiercest contentions, and the most revolting vices and
crimes. Jupiter was the king of heaven, and he ruled not like the
Jehovah of the christian, with mildness and love, but depended upon
his thunder and his might. By these terrible means and not by love for
him, his subjects were kept in awe. Listen to him in the 8th book of
the Iliad, where he forbids the gods to take any part in the contest
between the Greeks and Trojans. I give Pope's translation. Jupiter
does not speak in the language of mildness, but threatens and
denounces the most cruel punishment for disobedience, merely because
his power enables him to enforce it.

  "What god but enters yon forbidden field,
   Who yields assistance or but wills to yield;
   Back to the skies with shame he shall be driven
   Gash'd with dishonest wounds, the scorn of heaven," &c.

And the gods obeyed, not from love or affection to Jupiter, but from
absolute terror, inspired by his power.

  "The Almighty spoke, nor durst the powers reply,
   A reverend horror silenced all the sky;
   Trembling they stood before the sov'reign's look," &c.

Poor Juno, the _ox-eyed Juno_, the unfortunate wife of the Olympic
thunderer, was the most unhappy of women, eternally quarrelling with
her imperial husband and complaining of his partiality to her enemies.
Minerva, too, more beloved by Jupiter than his own wife, complains of
him as raging with an evil mind, in perpetual opposition to her
inclinations. Old Vulcan, it is well known, got his lameness by being
thrown out of heaven by Jupiter in a mad fit, occasioned by Vulcan's
interference in behalf of Juno, when persecuted by her unreasonable
and irascible husband.

The gods, too, are represented as frequently engaged in actual strife
with men, and with one another. In the 20th book of the Iliad, when
Jupiter permits the gods to enter the hitherto forbidden field of
Troy, and take sides according to their inclinations, we have a
regular battle between them. Diomed wounds no less than two gods in
the engagement; Venus, who went off weeping to Jupiter, and Mars, the
great god of war. In the same engagement, we have Neptune pitted
against Apollo, the god of the sun, and Pallas or Minerva, matched
with Mars, and actually prostrating him by a huge rock, a most
unfeminine, _unlady-like_ act.

  "Thundering he falls: a mass of monstrous size,
   And seven broad acres covers, as he lies."

This wise, but most austere and forbidding old maid, appears truly
terrific in this battle of the gods, and seems an overmatch for all,
save the Olympic thunderer.

But again, the morals of the gods were of the most corrupt and
profligate character. Jupiter was the greatest rake of all the ancient
world. How many wives and maidens was he represented as seducing by
the most unfair means? and so regardless was he of his wife Juno, that
she was obliged to borrow the girdle and charms of Venus, when she
wished to captivate the thunderer. The historian tells us that the
Amphitrion of Aristophanes, was supposed in Greece, to be very
pleasing to Jupiter--that he was like all rakes, exceedingly fond of
the recital of his prowess in the arts of love and seduction. Venus,
the goddess of beauty, as we might well suppose, after hearing a
description of her ungainly hard favored husband, was no better than
the thunderer. Her levities _bred_ disturbances in heaven, and heroes
on earth.[2] In view of these circumstances, no one need wonder at the
account which St. Peter gives of the Gentiles in his time, that "they
walked in lasciviousness, lust, excess of wine, revellings,
banquetings, and abominable idolatries."

[Footnote 2: The Trojan wanderer, the hero of the Æneid, was the son
of Venus, by Anchises a mortal.]

Besides all this, the polytheistical religion was entirely inattentive
to all those rules of morality which civilize and humanize the race of
man, while they bind them together in peace and harmony like a band of
brothers. Minerva, for example, is represented in the 4th book of the
Iliad, as advising Pandarus to endeavor to bribe Apollo with the
promise of a Hecatomb to assist him in assassinating Menalaus,
contrary to the faith of a solemn treaty; and even Jupiter himself
joins with that goddess and Juno in promoting so foul a murder. When
we consider the vices and immoralities of the heavenly host, and then
think of the virtues of the first Romans, we are almost disposed to
assert with Rousseau, that virtue seemed to have been banished from
heaven's confines, to take up her residence on earth. Did human nature
in the ancient world, ever appear in a more stern and dignified
attitude, than when Lucretia was represented as worshipping Venus, and
still plunging the dagger in her bosom, because she had lost her
virtue? What a practical rebuke was here given to the lascivious queen
of beauty.

I need scarcely conclude this little episode in which I have been
indulging, by the assertion that such a religion was unsuited to the
wants of the human race, but particularly of woman. She likes to send
from her closet, or from her silent and solitary chamber her prayers
to heaven. She therefore requires an all-seeing, all-searching eye,
which can behold her in the prayerful moments of her solitude. She
likes to commune with a God who is omnipotent and able to heal and
save. Her nature shudders at the conflicts and broils of the gods of
the heathen--at their immoralities and vices. The female deities are
all gross, lewd, masculine conceptions, unworthy of the delicacy,
chastity, modesty and grace of the virtuous female. The gods were all
unworthy of her confidence and entire _trustingness_. Where is the
virtuous woman of the modern world, who, in the hour of affliction and
trial, would unbosom herself before so terrible, so wicked, and so
licentious a being as the Jupiter of the ancients? Or what female
could bear to contemplate the amours of Venus, or to imitate the acts,
and the monstrous immorality of the goddess of wisdom. Well then might
the worshippers of such beings be described as "dead in trespasses and
sins," and well might St. John, in view of such a religion, exclaim
"the whole world lieth in wickedness."

If we turn from the Polytheistic religion of the ancient world, to the
Monotheistic religion of the Mohammedan, we shall find the whole of
this system more gloomy, more revolting, and more repugnant to woman's
feelings, than even the Polytheistical. The fiery warlike character of
the prophet, the propagation of the religion by fire and sword--the
total degradation of the female character--the seraglio and the
attendant eunuchs, and the low and sensual offices of the black-eyed
Houris in Mohammed's paradise, are all too revolting to the women of
christian countries, to be even contemplated with composure for a
moment. We are not to wonder at the implacable hostility of christian
females all over the world towards the moslem. Women have always
attended in considerable numbers the armies of Europe, when it was
threatened with invasion by the devastating armies of the Turks.
D'Israeli in his very interesting collection of the curiosities of
literature, has a chapter on "events, which have not happened," and
gives us some speculations on the fate of Europe, if the Saracens
under Abderam had beaten Charles Martel at Tours. What woman now
moving with freedom and grace in the social circles of christendom,
but shudders at the bare idea of such a result.

Let us now turn to the _religion of Christ_, and contemplate its
character for a moment. And here shall we find a religion in every
respect suited to the character of woman. It has been truly and
emphatically pronounced to be a _religion of love_. The very scheme of
salvation was conceived by the Almighty in a spirit of love. God is
represented as so loving the world, that he gave his only begotten Son
to save it. And when that Son came into the flesh, and was asked by
the Pharisees for the most important commandments of the law, Christ
answered, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with
all thy soul, with all thy mind; and the second is like unto it. Thou
shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all
the law and the prophets." Now I have already shown in my first
number, that woman loves more tenderly, more devotedly, and constantly
than man. This religion of Christ, then, above every other, is fitted
for that deep abiding love which woman feels so much oftener than man.
It is eminently and peculiarly adapted to that being whose whole
history has been pronounced to be a history of the affections. "There
is nothing surely on earth (says Mrs. Butler,) that can satisfy and
utterly fulfil the capacity for loving, which exist in every woman's
nature. Even when her situation in life is such as to call forth and
constantly keep in exercise the best affections of her heart, as a
wife and a mother; it still seems to me as if more would be wanting to
fill the measure of yearning tenderness, which like an eternal
fountain gushes up in every woman's heart; therefore, I think it is,
that we turn, in the plenitude of our affections, to that belief which
is a religion of love, where the broadest channel is open to receive
the devotedness, the clinging, the confiding trustfulness, which are
idolatry when spent upon creatures like ourselves, but becomes a holy
worship when offered to heaven."[3]

[Footnote 3: In an Epistle supposed to be written by the famous Abbé
Rencé, of la Trappe, this alliance between love and religion is well
described, though rather too much in the peculiar style of a
thoughtless Frenchman, "Je n'avois plus d'amante (says the Abbé,) il
me fallùt un dieu."]

But again--was there ever a being so congenial, so suitable to the
character of woman, as the Saviour of the world. He condescended to be
born of woman. Mary was his mother; and while executing the high
behests of his father on earth, he treated his mother with the most
affectionate and filial tenderness. And then his character was all
mildness and meekness. He who could come forth in all the might of his
father,

                    "Into terror chang'd,
  With countenance too severe to be beheld;
  And full of wrath,"

hurl the fearful host of fallen and rebellious angels into the
bottomless pit, and chain them there through the endless ages of
eternity--could, whilst in this world, bear the scoffings, the
revilings, the buffetings of sinful man, could beg his father to
forgive his persecutors, because they knew not what they did. His
dominion in this world was not based upon violence, devastation and
bloodshed. In his glorious career, he made no widows and orphans.
Wherever he moved, he carried consolation and healing to the lowly and
the humble. He restored the sick, and made the lame to walk, the blind
to see, and the dead to come forth from their sepulchres. His kingdom
was one of peace, and harmony, and forbearance. He commanded his
disciples to love one another, and to serve his father in spirit and
in truth. He did not, like Mohammed, exclude woman from an equal
participation in all the promises of the gospel; and he declared that
Mary and Martha had chosen that good part which should not be taken
from them. Woman ministered to him while on earth; she was with him at
the cross; she was with him at his grave:

  "Not she with trait'rous kiss her Saviour stung--
   Not she denied him with unholy tongue;
   She, while apostles shrank, could danger brave--
   Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave."

The religion of the cross has been very truly pronounced to be a
species of legislation in behalf of the rights of woman. The
promulgation of the new gospel elevated her at once to that station
which she deserves, and which adds so much to the refinement,
happiness and prosperity of the world. Compare the woman of the modern
with her of the ancient world; compare the woman of christendom with
her of the heathen, and then will you behold the mighty agency of the
religion of Christ in the amelioration of her destiny. Well then may
woman cleave to this religion, as the ark of her safety and
dependence. Well may she worship the Saviour of the world, for he was
the true friend of woman--the husband to the widow, and father to the
fatherless.

Woman is most deeply interested in the success of every scheme which
curbs the passions and enforces a true morality. She is the weaker
portion of the human family. When wickedness reigns in the land, and
might is recognized as constituting right, she is always the great
sufferer. Behold her among barbarians--among nations and people
engaged in deadly strife, and how miserable do you always find her
condition. Now the new gospel, in addition to the best religion which
has ever been given to the world, contains likewise the very best
system of morality. I have always thought that it was one of the most
beautifully characterising traits of the christian religion, that it
has ever been found better and better adapted to our condition, as the
human race advances in civilization, knowledge and morality; and in
this respect, no religion was ever found like it. The sermon of Christ
on the mount, contains a system of morality which will be more and
more appreciated as long as the world stands.

_6th. Nervous System_.

In giving an account of the causes of religious differences between
the sexes, I have not adverted to the effects produced by
physiological differences of the nervous systems of the sexes. The
whole frame and nervous system of woman, is said to be much more
delicate and sensitive than that of man. Hence an additional tendency
to the reception of quick and sudden impressions of all kinds. Hence
too, the great proneness of woman to irritation and to hysteric
affections,[4] and her liability to great and frequently overpowering
excitement, in those religious congregations where enthusiasm is
propagated by contagion. I have frequently seen indiscriminate
multitudes assembled together for worship, when every soul was
concentrated, and every mind was mingled in the same thought; when all
hearts were blended in song--"The poor man by the side of the rich,
without being jealous, had forgotten his miseries--the rich man had
learned his indigence." All seemed to have obtained intelligence of
their bright celestial destiny; all seemed prepared for it, rejoicing
together, and all seemed advancing towards it. On these occasions, I
have always witnessed more feeling, more earnestness, and more
enthusiasm among the women than the men; and not unfrequently have I
seen them cry aloud, and continue in a state of violent agitation for
many minutes. The greater nervous irritability of the female then,
must certainly be ranked among the causes of her peculiarly religious
temperament. But I will not dwell longer on the causes of the
religious differences between the sexes. It is sufficient to know that
woman is more religious every where than man, and that the causes
assigned for this difference, if not the only ones, are certainly the
most important and most powerful in their operation. I will conclude
my remarks on this deeply interesting subject, by a brief
consideration of some of the effects of religion on the character of
woman.

[Footnote 4: Babington tells us, that in orphan asylums, hospitals and
convents, the effect of contagion is so great, that the nervous
disorder of one female easily and quickly becomes the disorder of all.
He tells us, upon the authority of a medical work, on which he places
the most implicit reliance, of a large convent in France, where the
example of one female who imitated the mewing of a cat, set the whole
convent to mewing, so as to make every day a complete cat concert. And
upon the authority of Carden, he tells of a nun in a German convent,
who commenced biting her companions like a mad dog. The contagion
spread from one to the other, until all in the nunnery were affected
with this rabid humor, which spread from convent to convent until it
reached Rome. These cases, however, if they actually occurred, were of
a very extraordinary character, and could only happen under such
circumstances as generally attend on the secluded, contemplative and
eccentric life of a convent, which nature never intended to be the
life of a rational, active, social being.]

_Effects of Religion on Woman_.

Religion, I mean the religion of the heart and of the feelings, such
as woman generally possesses, has undoubtedly a tendency to heighten
and improve all those qualities and attributes which we consider as
most essential to the female character. All the great duties of life,
those of wife, mother, friend, &c. she performs with a double relish,
and under the influence of a double motive. Religion furnishes a new
and powerful impulse to virtue. Virtue, it is true, has its own
charms, and may be said, by the happiness which it affords, to
constitute its own reward; but you have never so well fortified it and
guarded it against dangerous assault, as when you have thrown over it
the sacred panoply of the christian religion. Most of the religions of
the world have chimed in with the prevailing tendencies of the corrupt
portions of our nature, and have flattered and ministered to some of
the worst and most malignant passions of the human heart. Not so with
the christian religion; it has exalted the humble and meek in spirit,
and pulled down the proud and wicked: it has waged war on vice and the
indulgence of evil passions of every description, and has proclaimed
the great law on which the whole code of morality hangs, that
"whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to
them."

The religious female then, in addition to all the ordinary motives
which can incite to virtue, has the additional one of wishing to
please her God and of providing for her happiness hereafter. Religion
softens and disciplines the feelings, it quickens and heightens the
tender sensibilities, and increases all the sympathies of our nature.
It throws, in fine, a drapery of grace, of amiableness and loveliness
over the whole female character. Woman is never so lovely as in the
quiet unobtrusive discharge of her religious duties. "Men," says Dr.
Cogan, "contemplate a female atheist with more disgust and horror,
than if she possessed the hardest features embossed with carbuncles."
Even those who do not believe in the truth of christianity, turn
frequently with disgust from unbelieving women; they know too well the
value of religion and piety in the mother and the wife; they know full
well that the religious woman is generally the one who loves most
tenderly, most engrossingly, and most constantly. There is a
mysterious connection between even human love and religion. Rousseau
has long ago remarked upon the similarity of the languages of the
two.[5] How soon does a man in love, convert his mistress into an
_angel_; he is ready to make every _sacrifice_ for her; he kneels at
her _shrine_; he _worships_, he _adores_ her; 'tis _heaven_ where she
is, _torment_ where she is not.

[Footnote 5: He says that "the enthusiasm of devotion borrows the
language of love; the enthusiasm of love borrows the language of
devotion."]

I have already spoken of some of the effects of human love on man; it
is through the medium of the same powerful, mysterious agent, that
woman can frequently do so much for the cause of religion. There are
few men who can be deeply devoted to a pious female without a deep
sense of the beauty, the loveliness, and the holiness of true
religion. I once knew a being who loved, and loved devotedly a pious
lady. I have seen him gaze on her, as she moved before him in all the
loveliness of modesty and grace. Her looks, her words, her actions,
were all the subject of his intensest thoughts. I do believe he had
wrought them into a science, which he did most dearly love to study.

    "She could bend him to her ev'ry will,
  His soul's emotions all were in her power."

This being was not an unbeliever, but yet he was indifferent towards
religion. As soon, however, as he had felt the sweet influence of
human love, his mind assumed decidedly a religious cast; his thoughts
were more frequently turned on high. He declared, in the plenitude of
his affections, that he felt an indescribable pleasure in kneeling
beside the object of his affections at the altar, and mingling his
prayers with hers. He felt a deeper veneration and love for the God of
nature, because that God was loved by _her_, whose pure love, in his
mind at least, could sanctify and hallow every object which it
embraced. Reader! you who have wandered into distant climes, have you
not sometimes at sunset hour, when the great orb of day was pouring
his last flood of dimmed light over a world fast sinking into rest,
when every breeze had died away and every noise was hushed, reflected,
with feelings which no language could adequately describe, that the
same great luminary might be shedding his light on the dear friends of
your bosom, and that she whom you most tenderly loved, might then,
perhaps far away, be gazing on the same object? With feelings like
these, would the being just described direct his prayers and thoughts
to heaven. It almost seemed to him that they met _hers_ there, and
held communion together.

And yet, be not surprised, he never told his tale of love to her! She
might have known it, for acts and looks are more eloquent than words.
But the impression produced on this individual by the absorbing
affection which he felt for one pious woman, remained with him; he
declares that the bare remembrance of her who seems to him even now a
vision of loveliness and piety on earth, has made him a better and a
holier man. He can truly and feelingly declare in those exquisite
lines of Petrarch's, whose beauty no translation can express,

  "Gentil mia donna, io veggio
   Nel mover de' vostri occhi un dolce lume
   Che mi mostra la via che al ciel conduce."

Yes, and there are thousands besides who, like him, have been indebted
to pious females for that "sweet light" which illumines the path to
heaven.

I have already said that the female communicants in our country, form
from two-thirds to three-fourths of the whole church. If you will
examine into this small comparative number of male communicants, you
will find that one-half, or perhaps three-fourths have been brought
into the church either directly or indirectly by female influence. But
we must remember that this great, this salutary influence of woman, is
exercised through the medium of her example, and of the sweet
propriety and purity of her demeanor before God and man. She need not
preach her own goodness, like the Pharisee; she need not obtrude her
sentiments, with the enthusiasm of the fanatic, on those around her.
It is not her province to go upon the highway and compel all to come
in to the feast. She is not the being to force you by denunciation and
terror, to enter the church; all this is offensive, but particularly
so in a modest female.[6]

[Footnote 6: St. Peter speaks in the following terms, to christian
ladies whose husbands were not yet converted to the new faith:
"Likewise ye wives be in subjection to your husbands, that if any obey
not the word, they also without the word, may be won by the
conversation of the wives, while they behold your _chaste conversation
coupled with fear_." This recommendation of the apostle, marks out the
true province of woman in matters of religion.]

Under the present system of education it is rarely the case that woman
can discuss with grace, and elegance, and truth, the doctrinal points
of religion. "Judge not that ye be not judged," is a text which every
woman should bear constantly in mind. A female persecutor is the most
odious of her sex. I have often thought that the bigoted,
bloody-minded Mary, queen of England, was the most unlovely woman
mentioned in the page of English history; and we can scarcely blame
her equally bigoted husband, in withholding all affection and love
from a woman who resembled him so closely. I do not believe that even
the bigoted husband can love a ferocious, blood-thirsty, bigoted wife.

Mrs. Sandford blames those enthusiastic females "who wander about from
house to house, retailing the spiritual errors of the day, feeling the
religious pulse, dispensing prescriptions, and giving notoriety, at
least, to every new nostrum which would impose on the credulity of
weak and wayward christians; going about with their little casket of
specifics, they excite and foster the diseases they affect to cure."
Such enthusiasm as this, she well observes, "bears not the rose of
Sharon, but the apple of discord: not clusters of the celestial vine,
but spurious berries, which have the form, but not the sweetness of
the genuine fruit." There is a something in the quiet, meek, gentle,
and unobtrusive aspect and demeanor of the truly pious woman, which,
of itself, produces a mighty influence on the other sex. In the
collection of Lely's famous Windsor Beauties, there is one which
strikes the eye of the beholder, and rivets it in steadfast and
extatic gaze, it is the picture of Mrs. Nott. In Mrs. Jameson's
description of those Beauties, I have been more struck with Mrs. Nott,
although her tale is untold, than with any in the collection, not
excepting even the beautiful, the lovely Miss Hamilton. This fair
creature is represented with her book, and her flowers, and her
_village church_, in the back ground. These are the beautiful and
graceful appendages of piety and virtue. "As for the picture," says
Mrs. J. "it is some satisfaction to know, that slander has never
breathed upon those features to sully them to our fancy; that sorrow,
which comes to all, can never come there." Gazing on such a lovely, I
had like to have said _holy_ picture, well might she exclaim, "Is
there no power in conjuration to make those ruby lips unclose and
reveal all we long to know? Are they forever silent? The soul that
once inhabited there, that looked through those mild eyes, the heart
that beat beneath that modest vest; are they fled and cold? And of all
the thoughts, the feelings, the hopes, the joys, the fears, 'the hoard
of unsunn'd griefs' that once had their dwelling there; is this--this
surface--where beauty yet lives, 'clothed in the rainbow tints of
heaven,' but mute, cold, impassive--all that remains." And such will
ever be the curiosity which a meek, beautiful, and pious female, will
excite in the bosom of sensibility and affection.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. IV.

  She like a solitary rose that springs
  In the first warmth of summer days, and flings
  A perfume the more sweet because alone
  Just bursting into beauty, with a zone--
  Half girl's--half woman's.--_Marcian Colonna_.


The gentle ease, and simple tranquillity which reigned at Chalgrave,
found me its most obedient vassal. I lounged in the library the whole
day, devouring with a morbid appetite, romance, poetry, and light
fantasy. I shunned the gay circle of its inmates, not through
misanthropy or boyish modesty, but from an utter contempt of the form
and spirit of social intercourse. I communed alone with myself, and in
the wanton dreams which a sickly fancy conjured before me, I was
alternately the victim of caprice, restlessness, and disquietude.
Though secluded I was not solitary--though a hermit I was not a
misanthrope. Arthur Ludwell was a little nucleus, about whom the
affections and friendships of the whole household gathered themselves.
His occasional visits to the library--his frank and open address, and
his serious and manly sense, all conspired to teach me the value of
his usefulness, and the degradation of my own worthlessness. He could
laugh at my sentimental reveries, yet he had a deep and chastened
taste for poetry; and though he was in the full tide of elastic youth,
he could read me a homily on the errors of an ill regulated mind, with
all the grave solemnity of referend age. His expostulations--the
remonstrances of my mother, and the broad hints about bad breeding
which the old dining-room servant gave me, could not seduce me from my
much loved retreat. I adhered to its fascinations even as the ivy to
the falling tower, and was simple enough to believe that wisdom was
gained by the bopeep game between reason, fancy and folly.

One morning while I was engaged in my usual speculations, the door of
the library was suddenly opened, and Lucy entered, exclaiming! "Your
cousin Isa has arrived; shut your books! and do, my dear Lionel,
arrange your disordered dress. Look at your dishevelled hair. 'Twill
curl in graceful ringlets! and now do take it away from your pale and
melancholy brow." Twining her fingers in my hair, "I declare," cried
she, "I will not leave you till you come into the parlor. Isa is a
lovely girl, and is now receiving the affectionate salutations of the
whole family. Do, for my sake! for our mother's! and for the character
of the name you bear, grant my request." I could not hesitate, when
she impressed her entreaty with a kiss; and promising that I would
appear before my cousin, I soon commenced the unusual labors of my
toilette. I felt a wish, from some unaccountable emotion, to impress
my cousin with my appearance, and went into my toilette as a warrior
into an armory. Scipio's countenance was lit up with joy, when I
summoned his assistance; and with much deference he ventured to hope
that I would now let the old books rest--that I would sometimes sail
in our pleasure boat--that I would look at the Janus colts--that I
would let him go with me to our old walks, and that we would be boys
again.

So soon as I had descended into the parlor, my mother advancing
towards me, led me to a recess in the dormant window; and with much
solemnity introduced me in due form to my cousin Isa Gordon! My fair
relative was much abashed at the gravity of my introduction, and
something like fear checked the furtive glance which was beaming over
her countenance. For my own part I was confused, alarmed, and
agitated, and trembled beneath that silent eloquence, and impassioned
sympathy, which in making woman lovely, ever makes man a fool. To me
the situation was painful and singular, for I had never before quailed
under the smiles or frowns of female society. I had gained their
contempt by apathy; and studiously avoiding the little attentions
demanded by the honor of gallantry, I stood among them a heartless
being, whose company was tolerated only because his satire was
dangerous.

"I am truly happy to see you at Chalgrave," were the first words which
were stammered through my confusion!

She blushed more deeply when I had spoken, and was hesitating a reply,
when Lucy advancing relieved her from her embarrassment. At the call
of my mother they moved across the room, and I was left gazing in mute
rapture, at the grace and sylph-like gentleness, which characterized
the footsteps of my cousin.

This was Isa Gordon! that morning star which still shines on with
purity and brightness over the dark horizon of memory, and which even
now pours its bold and mellow light over the dreary waste of my
affections. Though not of tall stature, her form was one of exquisite
grace and symmetry, and her beauty mingled itself with the eye and
memory of the beholder. Her golden locks relieved a blushing cheek,
where laughing summer had set its seal, while her countenance
expressed a sensibility, intelligence, sweetness of temper and
innocence which disarmed flattery, and kindled affection. She was
grave more from gentle thoughtfulness than melancholy; and the low,
rich and soft music of her voice, stole upon the heart like the
swelling cadence of the Æolian harp. To firmness she united delicacy
of character, and possessing softness without weakness, humility
without arrogance, and beauty without affectation, her life became a
rare and happy combination of dignity, elevation and gentleness, with
the virtues which ennoble man, and the winning graces which endear
woman. She was in all the pride and power of conquering seventeen, yet
still no girlishness weakened the unobtrusive dignity of her
character. Romance might have decked her with all the gorgeous hues of
its fond imaginings. Poetry might have lingered around the silent
purity of her life, but reason alone could truly love--and wisdom
adore her.

On that day I felt a new passion adding itself to my dreamy solitude;
and when I returned to my tranquil room, I found myself the victim of
wild and impassioned love, betraying every symptom of its curious and
wayward power. I was alternately humble and arrogant--stubborn and
infirm--now a gallant cavalier, winning woman's heart by martial
prowess--now a finished coxcomb with a plentiful store of that
harmless folly which is frittered away from common sense, and now a
rhyme stricken poet, drawing inspiration from my own distempered
vanity, and struggling for metre in the odds and ends of language. I
loved with a holy and fervent ardor; yet the purity which I fondly
believed was the characteristic of my passion, was stained into
grossness by individual pride. Self love made me a little deity, and
woman's regard was an offering demanded by my insatiate egotism. I do
not know that I erred more than most young lovers, in thus reasoning
from the cause to the effect, and in believing that the existence of
love arises solely from our own latent merits and fascinations.
Kindness makes us arrogant, while pride deduces from a blush or a
smile, positive evidence of woman's unhesitating love. If she reason
with the folly of our passion, she is cold--if she shew the least
sunshine of tenderness, she is indelicate, and if she exercise the
common prudence of a reasoning being, she is a coquette. Man must have
all the constancy of her love, all the devotion of her guileless
heart, and he alone must mould its delicate texture to the wanton
caprice of his own vanity. He grants her all that love which he can
spare from the faction and turmoil of the world, and demands in return
her esteem for his errors, and her adoration for his infirmities. We
treat them as fools, when we breathe our false and treacherous love,
and thus cheat ourselves into a belief of our own purity and truth. A
woman of dignity will smile at the fantastic tricks which duplicity
enacts before her; and if she truly love she will crush our pride by
coldness, and blind the searching eye of our vanity by indifference.
She risks her total happiness--she nobly throws all her treasured
hopes into the scale of marriage, and when once resolved, she
hesitates no longer over the trembling sacrifice of her implicit
confidence. Man calls the considerations of her judgment
insincerity--and the justifiable warfare of defence--coquetry. He
loves from pride; while prudence teaches her to inspire him with that
true passion, which takes its brightness like the diamond, only from
the attrition of its own fragments.

Excited by the influence of my new passion, I became a being of
different habits, and boldly entered into the spirit of that social
circle whose gaiety I had shunned. The rays of love had beamed athwart
the darkness of my solitude, and I basked in their brilliancy till
seclusion lost its philosophy and study its excitement. I was happy
only in the company of Isa Gordon, and revelled like a martyr, in the
funereal pyre, which consumed my tranquillity. With the quick
penetration of her sex she perceived my love, and though it hourly
disported its vagaries before her, it failed to move either her
serenity of temper, or unbend her dignity of character. In her
intercourse with me she was courteous, kind and polite, and I vainly
labored to find some of those thousand signs of reciprocal attachment
with which egotism flatters pride, and with which vanity sustains
folly. I thought she was cold and heartless, and have often gazed on
her beauty with that chilled rapture which would dwell on the rainbow
that lends its glittering canopy to the brow of the glacier.

Time wore away on downy feet, and the period was rapidly approaching
when Isa was to leave Chalgrave, and I was to enter college. I dared
not breathe my love; for though blinded by excess of passion, I had
enough of reason to know that I should be rejected; but could she
refuse when I plainly declared my sentiments? My vanity whispered her
acceptance, and I believed that her indifference proceeded not from
dislike but from my silence on that necessary and important
declaration which the pride and pretended ignorance of every woman
imperiously demands.

"You are singularly romantic, Lionel!" said she, as I was earnestly
employed in repeating some wild stanzas which I had inscribed to the
evening star! "What a curious conceit to make it the bridal torch of
the moon, and why people it with the genius of light. Many a poet has
sighed away his sense in searching for metaphors to exalt it--yet it
still shines on, careless of the poor folly which labors to adorn it."

"There is destiny in it, Isa! and even now as it arrests your gaze,
does it not tell thee of futurity? and does it not give a dreamy
melancholy--an incoherent imagining to thy young, thy cold, thy
uncorrupted heart?"

"My heart cold!" replied she, smiling, "What a happy poet! In one
moment basking in the light of the evening star, and in the next
ungenerously censuring a heart of which you know nothing."

"I do know it! I know that you have chilled its better feelings by the
dictates of reason, and from long obedience to stern prudence, you
cannot, dare not love! You have seen the sincerity of my passion, and
you have trampled on the purity of that love which adores you! Hear
me, dear Isa," I continued, seizing her hand and arresting her
departure, "hear my unworthy love. I am a wretched, desolate being,
and live alone."

"Lionel!" said she, suddenly interrupting me, "I do not love you! You
have noble qualities, and a genius which promises the highest
distinctions of fame. Forget your idle passion, and be assured that I
shall ever retain for you the most affectionate friendship. Enter into
the busy throng of the world, and you will quickly gain that chastened
wisdom which can laugh to scorn all your boyish dreams of romance, and
in the race of ambition you must and will forget your fancied sorrows.
Is it not true that

  'Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies
   And Venus sets--ere Mercury can rise.'"

"I did not reckon on insult," I replied with much temper, "nor did I
wish you to read me a homily on the extravagance of that passion which
you alone have caused. You may scorn, yet I can love."

Lucy, accompanied by Arthur Ludwell, appeared at this moment, and
relieved me from a scene of distress, confusion, and embarrassment.
They returned with Isa to the parlor; and I, in a state of tempestuous
feeling and subdued pride, sauntered to the shores of the Chesapeake.
A _whip-poor-will_ seated on the leafless branch of a ruined oak, was
carolling his funereal notes to the responsive echoes of the forest.
The moon was rising far in the East, and the broad sea before me had
already flushed its rippled surface in her mellow light. Here and
there in the fretted horizon, might be dimly discovered the diminished
sail, or the frail bark of the silent fisherman. All nature was
slumbering in deathlike solitude, while I alone was the rude string
whose vibrations jarred into discord the peaceful scene around me. In
the bitterness of wounded pride I solemnly resolved to conquer my
unrequited passion. I returned to Chalgrave, proud, stubborn and
unconquerable. I looked up to its dreary grandeur and my eye caught
the light form of Isa flitting athwart a window. My obstinacy vanished
like the mist of the morning, and I was again the creature of love,
hope, and imagination.

On the succeeding day she quitted Chalgrave. Her parting interview was
simple and affecting. A kiss for my mother--a tear for Lucy, and a
smile for me, were the little legacies her affections bequeathed. With
strained eye and intense interest, I watched the chariot which bore
her away, and when it had sunk into the forest, I turned off to
meditate on her virtues and dream on her beauty. My old nurse gently
touching me, placed in my hand a little packet which she said Miss Isa
had left for me. I tore off the envelope, and a golden locket fell at
my feet, on which was inscribed in faint though legible lines, "_Dinna
forget_." That momento is now on my heart--a holy relic of the wreck
of my happiness.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO H. W. M.


  When the cup is pledged, and the bright wine flowing,
    At the festal board, in the halls of light;
  And gentle eyes, like stars are glowing,
    In the cloudless sky of a summer's night:
  Oh! breathe but my name o'er the wine, for yet
  I will dare to believe that all will not forget.

  When the moon looks out on the leafy bowers,
    Where the gladsome daughters of beauty are wreathing
  The brightest and fairest of all the flowers,
    To crown their altars with incense breathing,
  Oh, name one flower for the absent one,
  Who forgotten by thee is remembered by none.

  In that home, to thee brightest and best upon earth,
    Where the spirits thou lovest are yearning to greet thee,
  When round the light of the household hearth,
    The smiles and the tears of affection greet thee,
  Mid the beam of the smile and the glow of the tear,
  Shall a thought ever whisper "I wish he were here?"

  For if life were changed, and its beamings of gladness,
    Were shrouded in gloom by the veil of sorrow,
  And the pale cold shade of unaltered sadness,
    Found no ray of hope in the coming morrow;
  Each pang could but render more precious to me,
  The friendship of M----, the beauty of B.

MORNA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written on being accused of coldness of character and manners by some
friends--1830.


  They call me cold--they know me not, nor can they understand
  The warmth of my affections, by the breeze of _kindness_ fanned;
  My feelings may not show themselves in countenance or voice,
  But my _heart_ can weep with those who weep--with those who sing,
        rejoice!
  My best affections lie concealed--I bring them not to light,
  For I know that those with whom I dwell can never read them right;
  But their fountain, tho' it calmly flow, is warm and full and deep,
  And the stream of love within my breast, tho' _silent_, does not
        _sleep_.
  To all the dearest ties of life I cling most tenderly;
  And the few whose unbought love is mine, compose the world to me:
  It is not those who feel the most their feelings best express,
  Nor those the most sincerely fond, who with the _tongue_ can bless--
  The paltry counterfeit may shine with radiancy as bright
  As the costly gem which monarchs wear--may look as pure and white;
  The artificial rose may glow with a color full as fair
  As the lovely flower which nature rears in sunshine and in air;
  'Tis time, and time alone, can show the real gem and flower,
  And time will oft on those we love, exert its magic power;
  It may change the beaming smiles to frowns, kind greetings to
        disdain,
  And cause the _seeming_ friend to scorn our poverty and pain.
  Oh! it is not thus with me, I know, the tide of feeling flows;
  Affection may not speak in looks, but in my bosom glows,
  With a warmth which time can never chill, scarce injuries suppress,
  And my heart responds to every tone of the voice of tenderness.

E. A. S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ON THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL OF THE ASYLUM AT HARTFORD,
CONNECTICUT.


  Yet deem not, though so dark her path,
    Heaven strew'd no comforts o'er her lot,
  Or in its bitter cup of wrath
    The healing drop of balm forgot.

  Oh no!--with meek, contented mind,
    The needle's humble task to ply,
  At the full board her place to find,
    Or close in sleep the placid eye.

  With order's unobtrusive charm
    Her simple wardrobe to dispose,
  To press of guiding care the arm,
    And rove where Autumn's bounty flows,

  With Touch so exquisitely true,
    That vision stands astonish'd by,
  To recognize with ardor due
    Some friend or benefactor nigh,

  Her hand mid childhood's curls to place,
    From fragrant buds the breath to steal,
  Of stranger-guest the brow to trace,
    Are pleasures left for her to feel.

  And often o'er her hour of thought,
    Will burst a laugh of wildest glee,
  As if the living forms she caught
    On wit's fantastic drapery,

  As if at length, relenting skies
    In pity to her doom severe,
  Had bade a mimic morning rise,
    The chaos of the soul to cheer.

  But who, with energy divine,
    May tread that undiscover'd maze,
  Where Nature, in her curtain'd shrine,
    The strange and new-born Thought arrays?

  Where quick perception shrinks to find
    On eye and ear the envious seal,
  And wild ideas throng the mind,
    Which palsied speech may ne'er reveal;

  Where instinct, like a robber bold,
    Steals sever'd links from Reason's chain,
  And leaping o'er her barrier cold
    Proclaims the proud precaution vain:

  Say, who shall with magician's wand
    That elemental mass compose,
  Where young affections pure and fond
    Sleep like the germ mid wintry snows?

  Who, in that undecipher'd scroll
    The mystic characters may see,
  Save Him who reads the secret soul,
    And holds of life and death the key?

  Then, on thy midnight journey roam,
    Poor wandering child of rayless gloom,
  And to thy last and narrow home
    Drop gently from this living tomb.

  Yes, uninterpreted and drear,
    Toil onward with benighted mind,
  Still kneel at prayers thou canst not hear,
    And grope for truth thou may'st not find.

  No scroll of friendship or of love,
    Must breathe its language o'er thy heart,
  Nor that Blest Book which guides above,
    Its message to thy soul impart.

  But Thou who didst on Calvary die,
    Flows not thy mercy wide and free?
  Thou, who didst rend of _death_ the tie,
    Is _Nature's_ seal too strong for thee?

  And Thou, oh Spirit pure, whose rest
    Is with the lowly, contrite train,
  Illume the temple of her breast,
    And cleanse of latent ill the stain.

  That she whose pilgrimage below
    Was night that never hoped a morn,
  That undeclining day may know
    Which of eternity is born.

  The great transition who can tell?
    When from the ear its seal shall part
  Where countless lyres seraphic swell,
    And holy transport thrills the heart.

  When the chain'd tongue, which ne'er might pour
    The broken melodies of time,
  Shall to the highest numbers soar,
    Of everlasting praise sublime,

  When those blind orbs which ne'er might trace
    The features of their kindred clay,
  Shall scan of Deity the face,
    And glow with rapture's deathless ray.

L. H. S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AN ELEGY

Sacred to the memory of the infant children of S. M. and C. W. S. of
Campbell county, Va.

By Frederic Speece.


  O, they were rose-buds, fresh and bright,
  Fair flow'rets breathing of delight;
  Young cherubs from a happier sphere,
  Too gently sweet to linger here.

  The rose-buds withered ere their bloom,
  The flow'rets strewed an early tomb,
  The gentle cherubs tasted pain,
  Then sought their native skies again.

  Infants are bright immortal things
    Though robed in feeble, dying clay:
  Death but unfolds their silken wings,
    And speeds their joyful flight away;

  Beyond these cold, sublunar skies,
    They seek a home among the blest;
  On strong unwearied pinions rise,
    Cleave the blue vault and are at rest.

  What though no marble may attest
    Where slumber lone their cold remains,
  Their little cares are hushed to rest,
    And terminated all their pains.

  Nor Fame may deign a feeble blast,
    To tell the world that _they have been_;
  Nor snatch the record of the past
    From the dark grave that locks it in.

  Barren the theme--the legend trite
    Of joys or griefs it could reveal--
  The interchange of shade and light
    That all _have_ felt and all _must_ feel.

  Though grief has lost its keener edge,
    Remembrance lingers where they lie,
  To muse on ev'ry precious pledge
    The loved ones left beneath the sky.

  And ere oblivion's ebon wing
    Sweep ev'ry vestige from the spot,
  Affection shall its off'rings bring,
    Nor leave them to be quite forgot.

  Each lovely flow'r and drooping bell--
    Bright daughters of the op'ning year,--
  Those beauteous things they loved so well
    Shall weep their annual tribute here.

  Through dreary Winter's storm and cold,
    These sleep from all his terrors free--
  Again their blooming sweets unfold,
    Emblem of all that they shall be.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONNET.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.


    Sunset is past,--and now while all is still,
  And softly o'er the plain the moonbeams fall,
  I'll hold communion with myself and call
    From mem'ry's caverns, feelings deep, that fill
    My soul with gladness.... Now I feel the thrill
  Of past delights;--I stand in that old hall,
  My friends surround me,--yes, I see them all:--
    My heart grows faint, my eyes with tear-drops fill.

  And now they vanish, from my sight they go.
    Farewell ye loved ones, we shall meet again
    As oft we've met, at the dim twilight's wane;--
  In dreams and visions which shall brightly show
  Your sunny faces, and shall bring the glow
    Of by-gone joys, back to my soul again.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MARY.


  Mary, amid the cares--the woes
    Crowding around my earthly path,
  (Sad path, alas! where grows
  Not ev'n one lonely rose,)
    My soul at least a solace hath
  In dreams of thee, and therein knows
  An Eden of sweet repose.

  And thus thy memory is to me
    Like some enchanted, far-off isle,
  In some tumultuous sea--
  Some lake beset as lake can be
    With storms--but where, meanwhile,
  Serenest skies continually
    Just o'er that one bright island smile.

E. A. P.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE VISIONARY--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

  Stay for me there! I will not fail
  To meet thee in that hollow vale.
[_Exequy on the death of his wife, by Henry King, Bishop of
Chichester_.


Ill-fated and mysterious man! Bewildered in the brilliancy of thine
own imagination, and fallen in the flames of thine own youth! Again in
fancy I behold thee! Once more thy form hath risen before me!--not--oh
not as thou art--in the cold valley and shadow--but as thou _shouldst
be_--squandering away a life of magnificent meditation in that city of
dim visions, thine own Venice--which is a star-beloved elysium of the
sea, and the wide windows of whose Palladian palaces look down with a
deep and bitter meaning upon the secrets of her silent waters. Yes! I
repeat it--as thou _shouldst be_. There are surely other worlds than
this--other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude--other
speculations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall call
thy conduct into question? Who blame thee for thy visionary hours, or
denounce those occupations as a wasting away of life, which were but
the overflowings of thine everlasting energies?

It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called the _Ponte
di Sospiri_, that I met for the third or fourth time the person of
whom I speak. It is with a confused recollection that I bring to mind
the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I remember--ah! how should I
forget?--the deep midnight, the Bridge of Sighs, the beauty of woman,
and the demon of romance, who stalked up and down the narrow canal.

It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the piazza had
sounded the fifth hour of the Italian evening. The square of the
Campanile lay silent and deserted, and the lights in the old Ducal
Palace were dying fast away. I was returning home from the Piazetta,
by way of the Grand Canal. But as my gondola arrived opposite the
mouth of the canal San Marco, a female voice from its recesses broke
suddenly upon the night, in one wild, hysterical, and long continued
shriek. Startled at the sound, I sprang upon my feet: while the
gondolier, letting slip his single oar, lost it in the pitchy darkness
beyond a chance of recovery, and we were, consequently, left to the
guidance of the current which here sets from the greater into the
smaller channel. Like some huge and sable-feathered Condor, we were
slowly drifting down towards the Bridge of Sighs, when a thousand
flambeaus flashing from the windows, and down the stair-cases of the
Ducal Palace, turned all at once that deep gloom to a livid and
supernatural day.

A child, slipping from the arms of its own mother, had fallen from an
upper window of the lofty structure into the deep and dim canal. The
quiet waters had closed placidly over their victim; and, although my
own gondola was the only one in sight, many a stout swimmer, already
in the stream, was seeking in vain upon the surface, the treasure
which was to be found, alas! only within the abyss. Upon the broad,
black marble flagstones, at the entrance of the palace, and a few
steps above the water stood a figure which none who then saw can have
ever since forgotten. It was the Marchesa Aphrodite--the adoration of
all Venice--the gayest of the gay--the most lovely where all were
beautiful--but still the young wife of the old and intriguing
Mentoni--and the mother of that fair child, her first and only one,
who now deep beneath the murky water, was thinking in bitterness of
heart upon her sweet caresses, and exhausting its little life in
struggles to call upon her name.

She stood alone. Her small, bare, and silvery feet gleamed in the
black mirror of marble beneath her. Her hair, not as yet more than
half loosened for the night from its ball-room array, clustered amid a
shower of diamonds, round and round her classical head, in curls like
the young hyacinth. A snowy white and gauze-like drapery seemed to be
nearly the sole covering to her delicate form--but the midsummer and
midnight air was hot, sullen, and still, and no motion--no shadow of
motion in that statue-like form itself, stirred even the folds of that
raiment of very vapor which hung around it as the heavy marble hangs
around the Niobe. Yet--strange to say!--her large lustrous eyes were
not turned downwards upon that grave wherein her brightest hope lay
buried--but riveted in a widely different direction! The prison of the
Old Republic is, I think, the stateliest building in all Venice--but
how could that lady gaze so fixedly upon it, when beneath her lay
stifling her only child? Yon dark gloomy niche too yawns right
opposite her chamber window--what, then, _could_ there be in its
shadows--in its architecture--in its ivy-wreathed and solemn cornices
that the Marchesa di Mentoni had not wondered at a thousand times
before? Nonsense! Who does not remember that, at such a time as this,
the eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of its sorrow,
and sees in innumerable far off places, the woe which is close at
hand.

Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the arch of the Water-Gate,
stood in full dress, the Satyr-like figure of Mentoni himself. He was
occasionally occupied in thrumming a guitar, and seemed _ennuied_ to
the very death, as at intervals he gave directions for the recovery of
his child. Stupified and aghast, I had myself no power to move from
the upright position I had assumed upon first hearing the shriek, and
must have presented to the eyes of the agitated group, a spectral and
ominous appearance, as, with pale countenance and rigid limbs, I
floated down among them in that funereal gondola.

All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most energetic in the search
were relaxing their exertions, and yielding to a gloomy sorrow. There
seemed but little hope for the child--but now, from the interior of
that dark niche which has been already mentioned as forming a part of
the Old Republican Prison, and as fronting the lattice of the
Marchesa, a figure, muffled in a cloak stepped out within reach of the
light, and pausing a moment upon the verge of the giddy descent,
plunged headlong into the canal. As, in an instant afterwards, he
stood with the still living and breathing child within his grasp upon
the marble flagstones by the side of the Marchesa, his cloak heavy
with the drenching water became unfastened, and, falling in folds
about his feet, discovered to the wonder-stricken spectators, the
graceful person of a very young man, with the sound of whose name the
greater part of Europe was then ringing.

No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa! She will now receive
her child--she will press it to her heart--she will cling to its
little form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas! _another's_ arms
have taken it from the stranger--_another's_ arms have taken it away,
and borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the palace! And the Marchesa!
Her lip--her beautiful lip trembles: tears are gathering in her
eyes--those eyes which, like Pliny's own Acanthus, are "soft and
almost liquid." Yes! tears are gathering in those eyes--and see! the
entire woman thrills throughout the soul, and the statue has started
into life! The pallor of the marble countenance, the swelling of the
marble bosom, the very purity of the marble feet, we behold suddenly
flushed over with a tide of ungovernable crimson; and a slight shudder
quivers about her delicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the
rich silver lilies in the grass. Why _should_ that lady blush? To this
demand there is no answer--except that, having left in the eager haste
and terror of a mother's heart, the privacy of her own _boudoir_, she
has neglected to enthral her tiny feet in their slippers; and utterly
forgotten to throw over her Venitian shoulders that drapery which is
their due. What other possible reason could there have been for her so
blushing?--for the glance of those wild appealing eyes?--for the
unusual tumult of that throbbing bosom?--for the convulsive pressure
of that trembling hand?--that hand which fell, as Mentoni turned into
the palace, accidentally, upon the hand of the stranger. What reason
could there have been for the low--the singularly low tone of those
unmeaning words which the lady uttered hurriedly in bidding him adieu?
"Thou hast conquered"--she said, or the murmurs of the water deceived
me--"thou hast conquered--one hour after sunrise--we shall meet--so
let it be."

       *       *       *       *       *

The tumult had subsided, the lights had died away within the palace,
and the stranger, whom I now recognized, stood alone upon the flags.
He shook with inconceivable agitation, and his eye glanced around in
search of a gondola. I could not do less than offer him the service of
my own, and he accepted the civility. Having obtained an oar at the
Water-Gate, we proceeded together to his residence, while he rapidly
recovered his self-possession, and spoke of our former slight
acquaintance in terms of great apparent cordiality.

There are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in being minute.
The person of the stranger--let me call him by this title, who to all
the world was still a stranger--the person of the stranger is one of
these subjects. In height he might have been below rather than above
the medium size: although there were moments of intense passion when
his frame actually _expanded_ and belied the assertion. The light,
almost _slender_ symmetry of his figure, promised more of that ready
activity which he evinced at the Bridge of Sighs, than of that
Herculean strength which he has been known to wield without an effort,
upon occasions of more dangerous emergency. With the mouth and chin of
a deity--a nose like those delicate creations of the mind to be found
only in the medallions of the Hebrew--singular, wild, full, liquid
eyes, whose shadows varied from pure hazel to intense and brilliant
jet, and a profusion of glossy, black hair, from which a forehead
rather low than otherwise, gleamed forth at intervals all light and
ivory--his were features than which I have seen none more classically
regular, except, perhaps, the marble ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet
his countenance was, nevertheless, one of those which all men have
seen at some period of their lives, and have never afterwards seen
again. It had no peculiar--I wish to be perfectly understood--it had
no _settled predominant expression_ to be fastened upon the memory; a
countenance seen and instantly forgotten--but forgotten with a vague
and never-ceasing desire of recalling it to mind. Not that the spirit
of each rapid passion failed at any time, to throw its own distinct
image upon the mirror of that face--but that the mirror, mirror-like,
retained no vestige of the passion, when the passion had departed.

Upon leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited me, in
what I thought an urgent manner, to call upon him very early the next
morning. Shortly after sunrise, I found myself accordingly at his
Palazzo, one of those huge piles of gloomy, yet fantastic grandeur,
which tower above the waters of the Grand Canal in the vicinity of the
Rialto. I was shown up a broad winding staircase of mosaics, into an
apartment whose unparalleled splendor burst through the opening door
with an actual glare, making me sick and dizzy with luxuriousness.

I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Report had spoken of his
possessions in terms which I had even ventured to call terms of
ridiculous exaggeration. But as I gazed about me, I could not bring
myself to believe that the wealth of any subject in Europe could have
supplied the far more than imperial magnificence which burned and
blazed around.

Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the room was still
brilliantly lighted up. I judged from this circumstance, as well as
from an air of exhaustion in the countenance of my friend, that he had
not retired to bed during the whole of the preceding night. In the
architecture and embellishments of the chamber, the evident design had
been to dazzle and astound. Little attention had been paid to the
_decora_ of what is technically called _keeping_, or to the
proprieties of nationality. The eye wandered from object to object,
and rested upon none--neither the _grotesques_ of the Greek
painters--nor the sculptures of the best Italian days--nor the huge
carvings of untutored Egypt. Rich draperies in every part of the room
trembled to the vibrations of low, melancholy music, whose unseen
origin, undoubtedly lay in the recesses of the crimson trelliss work
which tapestried the ceiling. The senses were oppressed by mingled and
conflicting perfumes, reeking up from strange Arabesque censers, which
seemed actually endued with a monstrous vitality, as their
particolored fires writhed up and down, and around about their
extravagant proportions. The rays of the newly risen sun poured in
upon the whole, through windows formed each of a single pane of
crimson-tinted glass. Glancing to and fro, in a thousand reflections,
from curtains which rolled from their cornices like cataracts of
molten silver, the beams of natural glory mingled at length fitfully
with the artificial light, and lay weltering in subdued masses upon a
carpet of rich, liquid looking cloth of Chili gold. Here then had the
hand of genius been at work. A chaos--a wilderness of beauty lay
before me. A sense of dreamy and incoherent grandeur took possession
of my soul, and I remained within the door-way speechless.

Ha! ha! ha!--ha! ha! ha!--laughed the proprietor, motioning me to a
seat, and throwing himself back at full length upon an ottoman. "I
see," said he, perceiving that I could not immediately reconcile
myself to the _bienseance_ of so singular a welcome--"I see you are
astonished at my apartment--at my statues--my pictures--my originality
of conception in architecture and upholstery--absolutely drunk, eh?
with my magnificence. But pardon me, my dear sir, (here his tone of
voice dropped to the very spirit of cordiality) pardon me, my dear
sir, for my uncharitable laughter. You appeared so _utterly_
astonished. Besides, some things are so completely ludicrous that a
man must laugh or die. To die laughing must be the most glorious of
all glorious deaths! Sir Thomas More--a very fine man was Sir Thomas
More--Sir Thomas More died laughing, you remember. Also there is a
long list of characters who came to the same magnificent end, in the
_Absurdities_ of Ravisius Textor. Do you know, however,"--continued he
musingly--"that at Sparta (which is now Palæochori), at Sparta, I say,
to the west of the citadel, among a chaos of scarcely visible ruins,
is a kind of _socle_ upon which are still legible the letters [Greek:
LASM]. They are undoubtedly part of [Greek: GELASMA]. Now at Sparta
were a thousand temples and shrines to a thousand different
divinities. How exceedingly strange that the altar of Laughter should
have survived all the others! But in the present instance"--he
resumed, with a singular alteration of voice and manner--"in the
present instance I have no right to be merry at your expense. You
might well have been amazed. Europe cannot produce anything so fine as
this, my little regal cabinet. My other apartments are by no means of
the same order--mere _ultras_ of fashionable insipidity. This is
better than fashion--is it not? Yet this has but to be seen to become
the rage--that is with those who could afford it at the cost of their
entire patrimony. I have guarded, however, against any such
profanation. With one exception you are the only human being besides
myself, who has been admitted within the mysteries of these imperial
precincts."

I bowed in acknowledgement: for the overpowering sense of splendor and
perfume, and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity of his
address and manner, prevented me from expressing in words my
appreciation of what I might have construed into a compliment.

"Here"--he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he sauntered
around the apartment--"here are paintings from the Greeks to Cimabue,
and from Cimabue to the present hour. Many are chosen, as you see,
with little deference to the opinions of Virtû. They are all, however,
fitting tapestry for a chamber such as this. Here too, are some _chéf
d'oeuvres_ of the unknown great--and here unfinished designs by men,
celebrated in their day, whose very names the perspicacity of the
academies has left to silence and to me. What think you"--said he,
turning abruptly as he spoke--"what think you of this Madonna della
Pietà?"

"It is Guido's own!" I said, with all the enthusiasm of my nature, for
I had been poring intently over its surpassing loveliness. "It is
Guido's own!--how _could_ you have obtained it?--she is undoubtedly in
painting what the Venus is in sculpture."

"Ha!" said he, thoughtfully, "the Venus?--the beautiful Venus--the
Venus of the Medicis?--she of the gilded hair?--the work of Cleomenes,
the son of the Athenian? Part of the left arm (here his voice dropped
so as to be heard with difficulty,) and all the right are
restorations, and in the coquetry of that right arm lies, I think, the
quintessence of all affectation. The Apollo too!--is a copy--there can
be no doubt of it--blind fool that I am, who cannot behold the boasted
inspiration of the Apollo! I cannot help--pity me!--I cannot help
preferring the Antinous. Was it not Socrates who said that the
statuary _found his statue in the block of marble_? Then Michæl Angelo
was by no means original in his couplet--

  'Non ha l'ottimo artista alcun concetto
   Chè un marmo solo in se non circunscriva.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

It has been, or should be remarked, that, in the manner of the true
gentlemen, we are always aware of a difference from the bearing of the
vulgar, without being at once precisely able to determine in what such
difference consists. Allowing the remark to have applied in its full
force to the outward demeanor of my acquaintance, I felt it, on that
eventful morning, still more fully applicable to his moral temperament
and character. Nor can I better define that peculiarity of spirit
which seemed to place him so essentially apart from all other human
beings, than by calling it a _habit_ of intense and continual thought,
pervading even his most trivial actions--intruding upon his moments of
dalliance--and interweaving itself with his very flashes of
merriment--like adders which writhe from out the eyes of the grinning
masks in the cornices around the temples of Persepolis.

I could not help, however, repeatedly observing, through the mingled
tone of levity and solemnity with which he rapidly descanted upon
matters of little importance, a certain air of trepidation--a degree
of nervous _intensity_ in action and in speech--an unquiet
excitability of manner, which appeared to me at all times
unaccountable, and, upon some occasions, even filled me with alarm.
Frequently, too, pausing in the middle of a sentence whose
commencement he had apparently forgotten, he seemed to be listening in
the deepest attention, as if either in momentary expectation of a
visiter, or to sounds which must have had existence in his imagination
alone.

It was during one of these reveries, or pauses of apparent
abstraction, that, in turning over a page of the poet and scholar
Politian's beautiful tragedy "The Orfeo," (the first native Italian
tragedy) which lay near me upon an ottoman, I discovered a passage
underlined in pencil. It was a passage towards the end of the third
act--a passage of the most heart-stirring excitement--a passage which,
although tainted with impurity, no man shall read without a thrill of
novel emotion--no woman without a sigh. The whole page was blotted
with fresh tears, and, upon the opposite interleaf, were the following
lines, written in a hand so very different from the peculiar
characters of my acquaintance, that I had some difficulty in
recognizing it as his own.

  Thou wast that all to me, love,
    For which my soul did pine--
  A green isle in the sea, love,
    A fountain and a shrine,
  All wreathed around about with flowers;
    And the flowers--they all were mine.

  But the dream--it could not last;
    And the star of Hope did rise
  But to be overcast.
    A voice from out the Future cries
  "Onward!"--while o'er the Past
    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies,
  Mute, motionless, aghast!

  For alas!--alas!--with me
    Ambition--all--is o'er.
  "No more--no more--no more,"
  (Such language holds the solemn sea
    To the sands upon the shore,)
  Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
    Or the stricken eagle soar!

  And all my hours are trances;
    And all my nightly dreams
  Are where thy dark eye glances,
    And where thy footstep gleams,
  In what ethereal dances,
    By what Italian streams.

  Alas! for that accursed time
    They bore thee o'er the billow,
  From Love to titled age and crime,
    And an unholy pillow--
  From me, and from our misty clime,
    Where weeps the silver willow!

That these lines were written in English--a language with which I had
not believed their author acquainted--afforded me little matter for
surprise. I was too well aware of the extent of his acquirements, and
of the singular pleasure he took in concealing them from observation,
to be astonished at any similar discovery; but the place of date, I
must confess, occasioned me no little amazement. It had been
originally written _London_, and afterwards carefully overscored--but
not, however, so effectually, as to conceal the word from a
scrutinizing eye. I say this occasioned me no little amazement; for I
well remember that, in a former conversation with my friend, I
particularly inquired if he had at any time met in London the Marchesa
di Mentoni, (who for some years previous to her marriage had resided
in that city,) when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to
understand that he had never visited the metropolis of Great Britain.
I might as well here mention, that I have more than once heard,
(without of coarse giving credit to a report involving so many
improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak was not only by
birth, but in education an _Englishman_.

       *       *       *       *       *

"There is one painting," said he, without being aware of my notice of
the tragedy--"there is still one painting which you have not seen."
And throwing aside a drapery, he discovered a full length portrait of
the Marchesa Aphrodite.

Human art could have done no more in the delineation of her superhuman
beauty. The same ethereal figure which stood before me the preceding
night upon the steps of the Ducal Palace, stood before me once again.
But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all over
with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomaly!) that
fitful stain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from
the perfection of the beautiful. Her right arm lay folded over her
bosom. With her left she pointed downwards to a curiously fashioned
vase. One small, fairy foot, alone visible, barely touched the
earth--and, scarcely discernible in the brilliant atmosphere which
seemed to encircle and enshrine her loveliness, floated a pair of the
most delicately imagined wings. My glance fell from the painting to
the figure of my friend, and the vigorous words of Chapman's _Bussy
D'Ambois_ quivered instinctively upon my lips--

                             "He is up
  There like a Roman statue! He will stand
  Till Death hath made him marble!"

"Come!" he said at length, turning towards a table of richly enamelled
and massive silver, upon which were a few goblets fantastically
stained, together with two large Etruscan vases, fashioned in the same
extraordinary model as that in the foreground of the portrait, and
filled with what I supposed to be Vin de Barâc. "Come!" he said
abruptly, "let us drink! It is early--but let us drink! It is _indeed_
early," he continued thoughtfully as a cherub with a heavy golden
hammer, made the apartment ring with the first hour after sunrise--"It
is _indeed_ early, but what matters it? let us drink! Let us pour out
an offering to the solemn sun, which these gaudy lamps and censers are
so eager to subdue!" And, having made me pledge him in a bumper, he
swallowed in rapid succession several goblets of the wine.

"To dream," he continued, resuming the tone of his desultory
conversation, as he held up to the rich light of a censer one of the
magnificent vases--"to dream has been the business of my life. I have
therefore framed for myself, as you see, a bower of dreams. In the
heart of Venice could I have erected a better? You behold around you,
it is true, a medley of architectural embellishments. The chastity of
Ionia is offended by antediluvian devices, and the sphynxes of Egypt
are stretching upon carpets of gold. Yet the effect is incongruous to
the timid alone. Proprieties of place, and especially of time, are the
bugbears which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the
magnificent. _Once_ I was myself _a decorist_: but that sublimation of
folly has palled upon my soul. All this is now the fitter for my
purpose. Like these Arabesque censers, my spirit is writhing in fire,
and the delirium of this scene is fashioning me for the wilder visions
of that land of real dreams whither I am now rapidly departing." Thus
saying, he confessed the power of the wine, and threw himself at full
length upon an ottoman.

A quick step was now heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock at the
door rapidly succeeded. I was hastening to anticipate a second
disturbance, when a page of Mentoni's household burst into the room,
and faltered out, in a voice chokeing with emotion, the incoherent
words, "My mistress!--my mistress!--poisoned!--poisoned! Oh
beautiful--oh beautiful Aphrodite!"

Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, and endeavored to arouse the
sleeper to a sense of the startling intelligence. But his limbs were
rigid--his lips were livid--his lately beaming eyes were riveted in
_death_. I staggered back towards the table--my hand fell upon a
cracked and blackened goblet--and a consciousness of the entire and
terrible truth flashed suddenly over my soul.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PETER'S MOUNTAIN.

An extract from the unpublished Journal of a Tourist.


The third and last mountain over which the traveller passes, as he
proceeds from Fincastle to the Sweet Springs, is Peter's
Mountain--here called the Sweet Spring Mountain. This is, on several
accounts, one of the most remarkable mountains in Virginia. It is
remarkable, in the first place, for the appearance of regularity which
it presents to the eye of the traveller, when viewed from the west. It
extends sixty or seventy miles, between Jackson river on the north,
and New river on the south, apparently in a straight line, and of
nearly a uniform elevation. But this is not its whole extent. The
mountain north of Jackson river, and that south of New river, are
evidently continuations of the same mountain, and exhibit the same
unbroken and regular appearance. While on the east there are numerous
spurs extending from it in every direction, there is nothing of the
kind observable on the west. Were it not for the magnitude of this
mountain, its elevation, and its peculiar structure, we might readily
have imagined it to be, like the Chinese wall, the work of man,
constructed by the line and the plummet, in a former age, as a bulwark
of defence, by some hardier race than ours; but these point us to the
heavens for its great original.

As we looked back upon it from the valley on its west, our thoughts
reverted to the period, when the red men of the forest took up the
line of march, and relinquished the east to the peaceable possession
of their treacherous invaders. Here, it was natural to suppose, they
halted, and pitched their tents, and constructed their villages, and
began again to feel as though they were "monarchs of all they
surveyed." As they looked upon the mountain behind them, feelings of
security would be restored, and they would consider this mountain as a
barrier, reared by the Great Spirit for their protection.

"It is true, the white men made them wings--they flapped the winds,
and passed over the wide waters, and up the big rivers. They gathered
on the plains--they cleared the land, and made it theirs. But their
wings were made for the waters, and not for the rugged mountains--and
their feet are tender--they cannot encounter the flinty rock. Here,
then, shall the waves of pride and oppression be stayed. Here may our
wives and our children once more sit them down secure from foes, and
build their fires, and gather their nuts, while we chase the deer and
the buffalo in the far off west." Such we may suppose to have been the
reflections of some savage chieftain, _nescius auræ fallacis_, as he
looked upon the lofty, and seemingly interminable mountain bulwark
before him. But, if such they were, they proved deceptive. A few
revolving years passed away, and the white man was again on his
borders. His track was seen on the mountain, and the stroke of his
axe, and the shrill sound of his rifle were heard in the hollows. A
few years more, and the Indian again disappeared, and the white man
stood in his place--and the green grass grew, and the corn-blade
rustled, and the farm house was seen, where once stood the rude
villages, in which the chieftains had told the tale of the white man's
fraud, and of their own and their father's wrong, and their own and
their father's valor.

The circumstance which, more than any other, renders this mountain
remarkable, is its intersection with that chain of mountains known as
the Alleghany, which divides the waters that flow east into the
Atlantic, from those which flow west into the Ohio and Mississippi. At
about an equal distance between the Sweet Springs and Peterton, or the
Grey Sulphur, the Alleghany dips under this mountain, and emerges
again on its eastern side. The principal branches of the James river,
head on the west of Peter's Mountain, but east of the Alleghany; while
New river, the principal branch of the Great Kanawha, arises far to
the east of Peter's Mountain, though west of the Alleghany. The waters
of the Warm, Hot and Sweet Springs pass off to the ocean through the
James river; while those of the White, Salt, Red and Grey Sulphur
communicate with the Ohio, through the Kanawha.

This mountain, though uniform in its outline, is sufficiently
variegated in other respects. In some places it sustains heavy
forests, and is arable nearly to its summit; while in other places it
is nearly denuded, sustaining only a stinted shrubbery. In some
places, the large masses of sandstone which project near its summit,
exhibit the most grotesque and romantic appearance. In the
neighborhood of the Hot and Warm Springs, there are several very
picturesque views. There is one in particular, which seen at the
distance of three, four or five miles, has the appearance of a village
in ruins, with some of its public edifices standing, and numerous
villas or country mansions in a dilapidated state, scattered around
it. In the skirts of this rocky village, is what appears to be an
extensive burying-ground, with its vaults and tomb-stones, protecting
the dust of the dead from the unhallowed tread of the living. In other
places, the projections are less extensive, and resemble fortified
outposts. As one gazes on such scenes, the mind is involuntarily led
back to former ages, and the spectator is apt to fancy that he views
one of the castles or fortified places, in which were transacted the
tragical events of which he had heard or read in the records of a
feudal age.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DUEL.


"McCarthy is no more!" said George, as I rushed out on learning his
arrival from the scene of conflict. "Raymond reserved his fire; then
deliberately taking aim, sent his ball through the heart of our
gallant friend, who stood firm and undaunted to receive his fire."

"Good God!" I exclaimed, "was there no man present whose humanity
prompted him to interpose for the prevention of so murderous a deed?"

"The attempt was made," said George, "but unavailingly. Raymond was
the challenged party, and with a savage sternness of purpose insisted
on his right, according to the rules which were agreed upon to govern
the conflict."

"He is a hardened villain," cried I, "stained with the blood of four
victims; and palsied be the hand that has robbed society of so pure
and generous a spirit as McCarthy's."

Struck with horror at the occurrence, and overwhelmed with sorrow at
the loss of so worthy a friend, needing consolation myself rather than
capable of affording any, I hurried nevertheless to the house of the
deceased, to share, if not to alleviate the sufferings of his bereaved
mother and sister. Never, never shall I forget the scene which there
awaited me. The lifeless body of McCarthy, weltering in his own blood,
lay extended on a large folding table. The ball had entered the right
side, and with fatal energy had passed through the body, leaving a
corresponding wound on the left. The mother and sister, with
disordered hair and the wild expression of maniacs, stood at either
side of the corpse, applying their mouths to the wounds from which the
blood was still oozing; nor could anything short of absolute violence
withdraw them from the body. They wept not--they spoke not; but in all
the wild impassioned energy of despair, kept their mouths still
applied to the gaping wounds of the son and brother.

The deceased was a young gentleman, who inherited a handsome estate in
the south of Ireland. He had but the year before become of age, and
returned from Trinity College, where his vigorous understanding and
zeal in the pursuit of literature had won for him the first honors of
that venerable institution. Frank, generous and beneficent, he seemed
intent on applying the energies of his active mind and the resources
of an ample fortune, to the moral and physical improvement of his
tenantry and dependants. A year of unexampled scarcity, gave him an
early opportunity of developing those generous purposes of his pure
and elevated mind. To the lower classes of his tenantry he remitted a
part of their rents, and to the surrounding poor he distributed
provisions, exacting from them in return, only increased attention to
cleanliness and neatness in their persons and dwellings. He had
besides a large tract of unreclaimed peat land, on which, at proper
intervals, he erected comfortable stone dwellings, and let portions of
this land to the industrious poor, requiring no rent from them except
the application to the soil which they were to cultivate for their own
benefit, of some bushels of lime, easily procured from the contiguous
quarries. Thus, in a very short period, he effected a perceptible
change in the condition of his tenantry, while he was in fact
developing new resources for the indulgence of further beneficence.
His tenantry already looked to him as a friend and protector; they
submitted their difficulties to his arbitration, and applied to him
for redress for their grievances, when oppressed or maltreated by any
of the petty gentry of the vicinage. In addition to this generous
devotion to their interests, McCarthy possessed advantages, which are
no where more fully appreciated than among the imaginative and half
chivalrous Irish peasantry. With a Moorish head, and face of the
finest cast, often met with among the Milesian gentry of Ireland, he
had a form developed in muscular and beautiful proportions, much above
the common stature, resembling his ancestors in that particular, who
from their large and muscular frames, obtained familiarly the
appellation of _McCarthy Mores_. The cordial frankness of his manners
too, assured the peasants who approached him, that his was no affected
interest in their welfare and happiness. Thus endowed with every
quality of mind, heart and person that could win esteem and
confidence, was it to be wondered at that he should have become,
almost at once, the idol of a warm-hearted and grateful people? Alas!
they had too many opportunities of contrasting his kindness and
generosity, with the indifference, if not harshness of neighboring
landlords; or with the odious oppressions of mercenary agents to whom
they confided their estates. To this latter class Raymond belonged; he
was one of that wretched faction that so long kept Ireland in
degradation. A Palatine by extraction--a member of the Orange
Club--distinguished for his zeal in the unholy objects of that
mischievous and once powerful association--without fortune and without
education, save a limited knowledge of accounts, he possessed cunning
and contrivance enough to win his way to the agency of a large estate,
belonging to an absentee nobleman, who appeared once in three years
among his tenantry, only to exasperate their feelings by walking at
the head of an Orange procession. Raymond had a pecuniary claim
against one of the humblest of McCarthy's tenantry, and in the hour of
his greatest need, was enforcing it with the spirit of a Shylock.
McCarthy remonstrated--offered to insure the payment, if he would
extend the time until the ripening crop should enable the poor man to
meet the demand. Raymond insultingly refused--charged McCarthy with
rendering the tenantry of the surrounding country insubordinate to
their landlords, and creating discontent among his neighbor's
tenantry, by ill-timed indulgence to his own; and intimated in
McCarthy a purpose inconsistent with loyalty to his sovereign.
Unhappily, instead of inflicting on the miscreant the punishment which
his strong arm could so easily have enforced, yielding to a barbarous
usage which his better judgment must have condemned, McCarthy sent him
a hostile message on the following morning. Proud of meeting such an
antagonist--conscious of his unerring dexterity in the use of a weapon
which on three former occasions had been fatally true in his
hands--and anxious to remove a neighbor whose virtues and whose energy
were a painful rebuke, and promised to be a troublesome check on his
own views--Raymond gladly accepted the challenge, and dictated through
his friend, as vindictive as himself, the terms of the combat. The
result is known; and long shall the impressions made by that result,
leave their traces in the breasts of the inhabitants of Kenmare.
Amidst the general sorrow for what was regarded as a public
bereavement, there was one heart on which it fell with a blight that
withered every joy, and dried up at its very source the fountain of
every hope. The mother and the daughter were privileged in their
wailings; but there was one, who had received from him only the first
evidences of newly kindled love, but who, silent and unobserved, had
reposed on that evidence, slight though it was, all that she hoped for
of earthly felicity. It was Ellen--to whom an expression of tenderness
which her love made her interpret aright, and a hurried earnestness of
manner in his last adieu, had whispered that the heart in which she
had unconsciously garnered up her happiness, reciprocated a feeling
which she strove to conceal even from herself. Daily intercourse with
both, too plainly told me that the world contained but one being
capable of interesting Ellen. I saw the wasting of a flame, which I
feared would consume her; and believing her every way worthy of my
noble-hearted friend, I sought to fix his attention on the charms of
her person, and the elegance and purity of her mind, without wounding
his delicacy by an intimation that I believed he had any hold on her
affections. At first his mind was so occupied with schemes for
ameliorating the condition of his tenantry, that they seemed to render
him indifferent to all besides. The natural enjoyments of his age and
station seemed to be shut out by these thoughts; and it was only when
the approach of the fatal rencontre with Raymond caused him to look
more closely into the recesses of his own breast, that McCarthy felt
that Ellen was not to him an object of indifference. He sought her
presence the evening before his fall. There was in his manner that
which told the watchful eye of a lover that her love was returned. Yet
he breathed no word of love--he sought no pledge of affection, lest
the event of the morrow should pierce too deeply a heart which he now
felt he would not wound for the world. Leaving to other friends the
task of consoling, if possible, the distracted relatives of the
deceased, I sought the home of Ellen. I found her alone; she started
wildly on seeing me.

"Is it true?" she exclaimed; "is he dead? Say, is McCarthy dead?"

"It is too true, Ellen," said I; "our friend--our generous,
noble-hearted friend, has fallen by the hands of a privileged
assassin."

"_Friend!_" said Ellen impetuously, "he was to me--" and checking
herself in the expression which to me was not necessary to convey what
she meant, she sunk back, relaxed and colorless, into her chair; her
bosom heaved as if contending with a tide of emotions--she sobbed
hysterically, and at last found temporary relief in a flood of tears.

Poor Ellen, alas! the relief was but temporary. The wild tide of
passionate sorrow, it is true, subsided soon; but it had left deep
furrows in the broken heart of Ellen, which time could not efface. Her
spirits sunk daily; her beautifully rounded figure became lank and
attenuated; her eye lost its lustre, and she shrunk instinctively from
the gaze of all, as if anxious to hide the secret of that grief which
was consuming her. Her physicians recommended change of air and scene;
they were tried--but no scene had a charm, no air had a balm for poor
Ellen.

Twelve months rolled by, and a gloomy pageant was seen passing through
the streets of Kenmare; that pageant was conducting to the family
vault, the lifeless remains of Ellen Mahony.

The fatal ball which drank the life's blood of the generous McCarthy,
broke also the heart of Ellen. Nor were they the only victims
immolated on the altar of a false honor. The mother of McCarthy sunk
prematurely into the grave; and his lovely sister continued to
manifest for many years, by occasional fits of melancholy madness, the
severe shock which her heart and understanding had received from the
premature fall of an idolized brother.

The pursuit of professional knowledge called me far away from the
scene of these occurrences. The fate of McCarthy and Ellen presented
itself less frequently to my mind, occluded by new scenes and
avocations. In 1818, six years after the fatal catastrophe, I returned
to visit, for the last time, my relatives in Kenmare. Mary, the lovely
sister of my murdered friend, bereft of every nearer relative, was
residing with her uncle, a distinguished officer of the Irish Brigade,
who with a constitution broken down by the fatigues of an eventful
life, had retired to a small estate near the lakes of Killarney. I
owed it to the memory of my deceased friend, to visit the last
surviving object of his affection. The day was full of freshness and
beauty, and the country through which I must travel to reach the seat
of Colonel McCarthy, is not surpassed by any in the world, in the wild
grandeur of its scenery. The road from Kenmare winds along a chain of
lakes, now narrowing into deep channels, hurrying precipitously their
angry and foaming waters into reservoirs below--now expanding into
broad and silvery inland seas, studded with verdant islands, blooming
with Arbutus and Lauristina. From the unruffled surface of these
lakes, you behold reflected, as from an expanded mirror, the images of
the over-hanging mountains, wooded to their tops, and varying in the
hues of the dense foliage that covers them with every varying stratum
of soil, from their bases to their summits. The high and threatening
Turk Mountain yields its reluctant base to the winding road. The
beautiful Peninsula of Mucrus is seen in full view. Its venerable
Abbey, still exhibiting traces of its former grandeur, containing
within its sombre walls the slumbering remains of many a gallant
knight and gentle maiden, of the humble and the great, in
indiscriminate oblivion. The proud mansion of the Herberts, still in
fine keeping--the long vistas opening in every direction on some
cultivated villa or rich demesne; the town of Killarney, with its
spires and undulating lines of white buildings; the mansions of the
Kenmares, the Cronins, and O'Connells,--all seen in distant
perspective, afford a coup d'oeil unsurpassed in beauty and natural
munificence by any in the world. As I revisited these scenes which my
boyhood loved to trace, there stole upon my heart a melancholy joy; it
was indeed "pleasant but mournful to the soul." The friends with whom
I had enjoyed these scenes were gone, or hurried far apart by the
varying engagements of busy life. To one of those friends this journey
was devoted, and his virtues and his fate rose before me in vivid
colors. The tear rose unbidden to my eye, and dimmed for awhile the
bright scene before me. Thus attuned to melancholy, I approached about
ten o'clock the residence of Colonel McCarthy. The modest but tasteful
dwelling was situated on a small eminence in the centre of a basin,
formed by a hill in the rear, and two projecting wings, open and
expanding to the south and southeast, having in full view before it
the ancient castles of Dunloe and Desmond--the beautiful lower lake
and its crowning ornament, the island of Innisfallen--Ross, the
majestic castle of the O'Donoghues--and to the right the bold Mountain
of Tornies, with its foaming cataract, appearing to the distant eye
like the giant guardian of the place, with his silvery beard flowing
on his venerable breast. The grounds were tastefully laid out, and the
regularity and order that was observable in all the decorations of the
place, gave evidence of a superintending mind trained to discipline;
while the surrounding scenery bespoke it an appropriate refuge for the
warrior worn with toil and years.

As I approached, I beheld a female form sitting on a little eminence
to the right of the house, which was decorated with a cluster of white
pines. I could not mistake the light and graceful form of the
beautiful Mary. It was she, much as I had beheld her six years before.
Her large blue eye had the same wildness of expression which was
observable in it after the death of her brother; her figure was if
anything more beautiful, set off by a dress which she had selected in
the wild imaginings of her sorrow, to fit her in a special manner for
communion with the spirits of her mother and brother; her hair was
loose, but carefully combed, flowing gracefully on her shoulders; her
bust was incased in a plain white spencer, most studiously fitted to
her person; and she wore hanging in loose folds around her, a pure and
virgin white drapery, that was rivalled by the pellucid whiteness of
her uncovered neck, hand and arm. This dress, as I afterwards learned,
she always wore when the mind gave way before periodical melancholy;
and its approach was too truly announced by the cautious vigilance
with which she was observed to hide from her friends the preparations
for her strange attire. As I approached, I saw too plainly that Mary
had no thought for any object before her.

"Mary," said I, "do you not know me? do you not know E----, the friend
of your brother?"

"Oh yes," said she, keeping her eye steadily fixed as on some object
towards the lake. "Yes, yes," said she in a hurried manner. Then
placing her soft hand gently in my arm, she said, "Go, good spirit,
go; I want my mother and Sandy. See, they are coming; Mary will yet
have a mother and brother."

I spoke, I reasoned, I entreated her to come with me into the presence
of her uncle.

She replied with a hysterical laugh, and said, "He too is gone with
them."

I turned towards the house, and all there seemed silent and full of
sorrow. The Colonel's servant, with eyes swollen from weeping, replied
to my inquiries about his master, that he had that morning expired,
having for some days suffered intensely from the effects of his old
wounds.

"And who," said I, "remains to give consolation to the poor and
forlorn Mary?"

"Ah," said John, "Miss Mary is always light when any sorrow comes on
the family. The Dunloe family are coming here to take Miss Mary home
with them."

"God grant," said I, "she may be soothed by their kindness. Has she no
attendant, John?"

"Yes sir, but my poor master said it was best not to trouble her when
she is in her strange way."

I wound my way back slowly and mournfully from this house of sorrow. I
have since passed from scene to scene; I have witnessed the agonies of
many a breaking heart, and have been myself the subject of much sorrow
and anguish; but never did I witness blight and desolation equal to
that brought on the house of McCarthy by the murderous hand of
Raymond.

E.

_Henry County_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.


  The dove of my bosom lies bleeding,
    The hopes I once cherished are fled,
  I gaze on their ruins unheeding,
    Earth's brightest is low with the dead.

  The eye that with rapture was beaming,
    Is clouded in silence and gloom,
  And those locks that like sunlight were gleaming,
    Are damp with the dews of the tomb.

  The smile that I sought as a treasure,
    Is gone with the being who gave
  To this bosom its throbbings of pleasure,
    And my heart is with her in the grave.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Above her the wild flowers are growing,
    They were nursed by the thoughts of her love,
  They are wet by the tears that are flowing,
    And shall flow, till I greet her above.

MORNA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY NATIVE HOME.

BY GEO. WATTERSTON.


  When storms howl around me and dark tempests roll,
  And Nature seems mov'd and convulsed to each pole--
  When billows o'er billows tempestuously foam,
  How dear is the thought of my lov'd native home.

  The Laplander's breast, cold and dreary as night,
  Beats wildly with transport, and throbs with delight,
  When mem'ry, sad mem'ry, once chances to roam,
  And recalls the past joys of his lov'd native home.

  The soldier who combats at tyranny's call,
  In far distant climes, where grim terrors appal,
  At the last beat of life, when he ceases to roam,
  While dying, remembers his dear native home.

  Grim slav'ry's poor victim, long destin'd to mourn
  O'er the ruins of peace that will never return,
  Views with heart-bursting grief, old Ocean's white foam,
  And dies as he thinks of his lov'd native home.

  Misfortune's sad child, while he wanders afar,
  Still guided by Destiny's mysterious star,
  Heaves a sigh, while visions of intellect roam,
  And paint on his mem'ry the sweets of his home.

  When sorrows the cheek of remembrance bedew,
  And disease, death, and misery glare dreadful to view,
  How grateful, when far from our country we roam,
  Are the long cherish'd thoughts of our lov'd native home.

  Who wanders o'er far distant realms to enjoy
  Life's baubles of pleasure and wealth's glitt'ring toy,
  In his old age returns, no longer to roam,
  From the long absent shades of his dear native home.

  Would fortune permit me once more to return
  To the cot of my youth, that in sadness I mourn,
  Oh! nothing again shall induce me to roam
  From the scenes, the lov'd scenes of my sweet native home.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MEMOIR OF THE AMBITIOUS LAWYER.

NO. I.

Will your honor hear me through, before you pronounce sentence.--_Old
Play_.


I was the son of a country clergyman, who, passionately fond of
literature himself, determined to send me into the world with a good
collegiate education. I went through the course of study at the
University of ----, studied hard, graduated with considerable
distinction, and was very fully impressed with the idea that I was a
youth of fine parts and acquirements. On leaving college, I determined
to spend a twelvemonth in recreation and amusement, before I entered
upon the study of a profession.

On my first introduction into the society of the active world, I
expected of course, to command that homage to my superior talents and
acquirements which I thought I so richly merited, and which was so
willingly awarded by the young men at the University of ----. But I
was not only treated with indifference, but contempt. I soon acquired
the character of a conceited coxcomb--a dogmatist without knowledge or
talents. Few of the enlightened part of the community condescended to
converse with me on equal terms; my challenges for argument, in order
to discover my abilities, were disregarded: and I had the
mortification of having the reputation of a fool, without the
opportunity as I thought, of correcting the impression. This treatment
determined me to anticipate the time I had allotted for the
commencement of the study of a profession. The consciousness that I
possessed talents, and the illiberal treatment I conceived I had met
with from the world, excited within me, an ambition of the most
corroding nature. I was determined to extort from an envious world,
that respect which I believed was so unworthily withheld. I had a
restless desire to chalk out my fortunes unassisted. With a single eye
to my purpose, I placed myself somewhat in a hostile attitude to the
world. Such was the uncompromising nature of my pride, and such the
ill-judged confidence in my own abilities, that I enjoyed no man's
friendship, and sought the patronage of none. In two months after I
left the University of ----, I purchased a few books, and commenced
the study of the law. For two years, I gave the most unremitting,
untiring attention to my books. Many nights did I toil over the dry
pages of Coke, until the east was streaked with the approach of
returning day. Many times was my mind so far absorbed, by intense and
abstract thought, that I have been forced suddenly to throw down my
books and count the tiles on the roof of the house, to recall my
aberrated thoughts and prevent absolute derangement. There is always
an exhilaration of feeling which attends mental excitement, that
renders the life of a student happy; and, while my health remained
unimpaired, my hours of study passed pleasantly away. But intense
application began to affect my health, and consequently my spirits; a
melancholy sat continually on my "faded brow." I became unhappy,
without then knowing why; yet I never lost sight of my unalterable
resolve, to make those crouch to my importance, who had once spurned
me from their presence. Occasionally the idea would recur, "would it
not be better to return to my social feelings, unbosom myself to my
relatives, and be content with the good opinion of those with whom I
associated;" but pride and ambition would soon silence such
intimations of my better nature, and goad me on to the attainment of
my object at any sacrifice. In looking back through a period of more
than threescore years, I can distinctly recollect that sullen pride,
that mortified but unsubdued ambition which shut me out from the
pleasures of social intercourse, and "preyed like the canker worm, on
the vitals of my repose."

On perceiving the decline of my health and spirits, my father, with
little persuasion, prevailed on me to take out license and commence
the practise of my profession. By devotion to my studies, I had
acquired such a knowledge of the elementary works, as enabled me to
pass a sustainable examination before the judges of ----. In the
twenty-first year of my age, on the twenty-fifth day of October, with
my license in my pocket, I set out for a distant county court. It was
a fine morning; the air was bracing, but not cold. When I had mounted
my horse, and set off in a brisk trot, on a level and beaten Virginia
country road, I felt an exhilaration that the novelty of my purpose
and the healthy nature of my exercise was well calculated to inspire.
It is needless to inform the reader of the multifarious and never
realized visions of distinction and applause, that my heated brain
formed that day. There is something rather enervating in the young
dreams of love; but the early visions of ambition instil an ardor into
the soul, which nerves the faculties to the most daring enterprize, or
the most laborious undertaking. Both, however, heighten self-respect,
and diffuse a pleasing tranquillity over even excited feeling.

The crowd had already gathered when I reached the court house of ----.
The political rivals had commenced haranguing the mob; the shrill cry
of the Yankee pedler vendueing his goods, the hoarse laugh of the
stout Virginia planter, the neighing of horses, the loud voice of the
stump orator, and the menaces of county bullies, met for the purpose
of testing their pugilistic talents, broke upon the tympanum in no
agreeable confusion. Here was a group collected around a decapitated
cask of whiskey, emptying its contents to the health of favorite
candidates; there a collection eyeing with eagerness two combatants
encircled in a ring, struggling for the acclamation of "the best man."
At a respectful distance stood the man of authority, the Virginia
justice, commanding the peace; but his vociferous interference only
met with the response of "Hands off: fair play!" In this promiscuous
assemblage, every grade of society in the county was represented. Here
was the rich, unpopular aristocrat, with his lofty bearing. The
representatives of old, and once rich and aristocratical families, who
had left nothing but a name for their posterity, were here mingling
familiarly with the plebeian herd, seeking popularity as the only
step-stone to political eminence. Here was seen, also, the rich
demagogue--the people's man--the frequenter of militia musters, the
giver of good dinners, without distinction of guests. Here, also, was
the substantial two hundred acre freeholder. Of the most conspicuous
"_minora sidera_," the Kentuckian horsedrover, the horsejockey, the
ganderpuller, might be mentioned. I soon passed this congregated mass,
and reached the bar. One of the fraternity was kind enough to
introduce me to the court and his professional brethren. It is useless
to describe my sensations during the continuance of that term of the
court. I was, generally, either entirely unnoticed, or treated with
marked contempt. So undeserving and discourteous did this treatment
seem, that I asked an old lawyer, who appeared rather more affable
than his brethren, what it meant; he smiled, and whispered that every
young lawyer, and particularly _a college lawyer_, was, _prima facie_,
a fool, until he showed the contrary. I profited so much by this rough
response, as to resolve to push my own way, without soliciting favor,
and careless even of common courtesy.

After about four months attention to my courts, I found a world of
difference between the life of a student and a lawyer. The one deals
with his fellow at the most confiding and innocent age; the other
deals with every variety of character, and meets with every grade of
vice. When I first discovered with what a cold and selfish set of
creatures I had to mingle, I became melancholy, disgusted with my
profession and every thing attached to it. The fearful thought came
over my mind to turn scoundrel, and manage the _world_ in its own way;
to "carve it like an oyster"--"to ride mankind as Pyrrhus did his
elephant." But my better nature prevailed, and I determined to
persevere in the difficult task of mingling with mankind and
preserving my principles uncontaminated by the contact.

When we reflect what a trivial occurrence alters one's fortunes, we
are ready to conclude that life is a complete game of hazard, and man
the creature of circumstances. If it had not been for a singular
accident, I might have toiled on through the prime of my existence,
without success in my profession, and deserted it after my glittering
youth was spent, a disappointed and pennyless misanthrope. I took a
small "tide of fortune at its flood, and it led to glory." It was
twelve months from the time I took out license, that I was touched on
the arm by a stranger, who asked me if I was not Owen the lawyer? I
told him I was; he then retained me to defend him in a prosecution
against him for forgery, and added, that my general celebrity as a
criminal advocate, had induced him to employ me. The application was
of a kind so new to me, (for I had never been spoken to either for
counsel or defence) that in the agitation of the moment I did not
discover that I was mistaken for a lawyer of some eminence, of the
same name, who attended the same court. As soon as he left me, cool
reflection came, and I was convinced that I had been retained through
mistake. I immediately went in search of the forger, to suggest the
mistake. I met with him among a number of by-standers and a few
members of the bar. As soon as he saw me, he accused me of practising
a fraud upon him, by designingly confirming him in his error. I
immediately turned from him, remarking that I could be no gainer by
altercation with a forger. But from the reception that his charge met
with among some of the by-standers and lawyers, I was impressed with
the conviction that they either believed, or affected to believe, the
accusation of the forger. I concealed my chagrin as well as I could
until his trial came on, and availing myself of the invitation of the
prosecutor to assist him, I made a speech containing the bitterest
invective and perhaps the best argument that I have ever made since.
As soon as I look my seat I observed approbation or envy on every
countenance that met my eye, for the criminal was very opprobrious to
the multitude. He was convicted by the unanimous voice of the court. I
was congratulated on every side on the success of my "maiden effort,"
and by numbers of the obsequious crowd who previously withheld from me
even the ordinary civilities of life.

NARRATOR.




LITERARY NOTICES.


THE CRAYON MISCELLANY, No. II. containing Abbotsford and Newstead
Abbey. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1835.

We hailed with pleasure the appearance of the first number of the
Crayon Miscellany, but we knew not what a feast was preparing for us
in the second. In Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey, the author of the
Sketch Book is at home. By no one could this offering to the memories
of Scott and Byron have been more appropriately made. It is the
tribute of genius to its kindred spirits, and it breathes a
sanctifying influence over the graves of the departed. The kindly
feelings of Irving are beautifully developed in his description of the
innocent pursuits and cheerful conversation of Sir Walter Scott, while
they give a melancholy interest to the early misfortunes of Byron. He
luxuriates among the scenes and associations which hallow the walls of
Newstead, and warms us into admiration of the wizard of the north, by
a matchless description of the man, his habits, and his thoughts. The
simplicity and innocence of his heart, his domestic affections, and
his warm hospitality, are presented in their most attractive forms.
The scenes and the beings with which Sir Walter was surrounded, are
drawn with a graphic pencil. All conduce to strengthen impressions
formerly made of the goodness and beneficence of Scott's character,
and to gratify the thousands who have drawn delight from his works,
with the conviction that their author was one of the most amiable of
his species. No man knows better than Washington Irving, the value
which is placed by the world (and with justice) upon incidents
connected with really great men, which seem trifling in themselves,
and which borrow importance only from the individuals to whom they
have relation. Hence he has given us a familiar (yet how beautiful!)
picture of Abbotsford and its presiding genius; but the relics of
Newstead, which his pensive muse has collected and thrown together,
brightening every fragment by the lustre of his own genius, are
perhaps even more attractive. He touches but a few points in Byron's
early history, but they are those on which we could have wished the
illumination of his researches. The whole of the details respecting
Miss Chaworth, and Byron's unfortunate attachment to that lady, are in
his best manner. The story of the White Lady is one of deep interest,
and suits well with the melancholy thoughts connected with Newstead.
An instance of monomania like that of the White Lady, has seldom been
recorded; and the author has, without over-coloring the picture,
presented to his readers the history of a real being, whose whole
character and actions and melancholy fate belong to the regions of
romance. In nothing that he has ever written, has his peculiar faculty
of imparting to all he touches the coloring of his genius, been more
fully displayed than in this work.

We give a short extract from each of these sketches, although they can
afford no idea of their collective charms. The conversational powers
and social qualities of Sir Walter Scott, are thus described:

"The conversation of Scott was frank, hearty, picturesque, and
dramatic. During the time of my visit he inclined to the comic rather
than the grave, in his anecdotes and stories, and such, I was told,
was his general inclination. He relished a joke, or a trait of humor
in social intercourse, and laughed with right good will. He talked not
for effect or display, but from the flow of his spirits, the stores of
his memory, and the vigor of his imagination. He had a natural turn
for narration, and his narratives and descriptions were without
effort, yet wonderfully graphic. He placed the scene before you like a
picture; he gave the dialogue with the appropriate dialect or
peculiarities, and described the appearance and characters of his
personages with that spirit and felicity evinced in his writings.
Indeed, his conversation reminded me continually of his novels; and it
seemed to me, that during the whole time I was with him, he talked
enough to fill volumes, and that they could not have been filled more
delightfully.

"He was as good a listener as talker, appreciating every thing that
others said, however humble might be their rank or pretensions, and
was quick to testify his perception of any point in their discourse.
He arrogated nothing to himself, but was perfectly unassuming and
unpretending, entering with heart and soul into the business, or
pleasure, or, I had almost said folly, of the hour and the company. No
one's concerns, no one's thoughts, no one's opinions, no one's tastes
and pleasures seemed beneath him. He made himself so thoroughly the
companion of those with whom he happened to be, that they forgot for a
time his vast superiority, and only recollected and wondered, when all
was over, that it was Scott with whom they had been on familiar terms,
and in whose society they had felt so perfectly at their ease.

"It was delightful to observe the generous mode in which he spoke of
all his literary cotemporaries, quoting the beauties of their works,
and this, too, with respect to persons with whom he might be supposed
to be at variance in literature or politics. Jeffrey, it was thought,
had ruffled his plumes in one of his reviews, yet Scott spoke of him
in terms of high and warm eulogy, both as an author and as a man.

"His humor in conversation, as in his works, was genial and free from
all causticity. He had a quick perception of faults and foibles, but
he looked upon poor human nature with an indulgent eye, relishing what
was good and pleasant, tolerating what was frail, and pitying what was
evil. It is this beneficent spirit which gives such an air of
bonhommie to Scott's humor throughout all his works. He played with
the foibles and errors of his fellow beings, and presented them in a
thousand whimsical and characteristic lights, but the kindness and
generosity of his nature would not allow him to be a satirist. I do
not recollect a sneer throughout his conversation any more than there
is throughout his works."

It is more difficult to fix upon an extract from the sketch of
Newstead Abbey, but we take the following as coming within the limits
of our notice:

"I was attracted to this grove, however, by memorials of a more
touching character. It had been one of the favorite haunts of the late
Lord Byron. In his farewell visit to the abbey, after he had parted
with the possession of it, he passed some time in this grove, in
company with his sister; and as a last memento, engraved their names
on the bark of a tree.

"The feelings that agitated his bosom during this farewell visit, when
he beheld around him objects dear to his pride, and dear to his
juvenile recollections, but of which the narrowness of his fortune
would not permit him to retain possession, may be gathered from a
passage in a poetical epistle, written to his sister in after years.

  "'I did remind you of our own dear lake
    By the old hall, _which may be mine no more_;
    Lemans is fair; but think not I forsake
    The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:
    Sad havoc Time must with my memory make
    Ere _that_ or _thou_ can fade these eyes before;
    Though, like all things which I have loved, they are
    Resign'd for ever, or divided far.

    I feel almost at times as I have felt
    In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks,
    Which do remember me of where I dwelt
    Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books,
    Come as of yore upon me, and can melt
    My heart with recognition of their looks,
    And even at moments I would think I see
    Some living things I love--but none like thee.'

"I searched the grove for sometime, before I found the tree on which
Lord Byron had left his frail memorial. It was an elm of peculiar
form, having two trunks, which sprang from the same root, and after
growing side by side, mingled their branches together. He had selected
it doubtless, as emblematical of his sister and himself. The names of
BYRON and AUGUSTA were still visible. They had been deeply cut in the
bark, but the natural growth of the tree was gradually rendering them
illegible, and a few years hence, strangers will seek in vain for this
record of fraternal affection.

       *       *       *       *       *

"At a distance on the border of the lawn, stood another memento of
Lord Byron; an oak planted by him in his boyhood, on his first visit
to the abbey. With a superstitious feeling inherent in him, he linked
his own destiny with that of the tree. 'As it fares,' said he, 'so
will fare my fortunes.' Several years elapsed, many of them passed in
idleness and dissipation. He returned to the abbey a youth scarce
grown to manhood, but as he thought with vices and follies beyond his
years. He found his emblem oak almost choked by weeds and brambles,
and took the lesson to himself.

  "'Young oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground,
      I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine,
    That thy dark waving branches would flourish around,
      And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.

    Such, such was my hope--when in infancy's years
      On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride;
    They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears--
      Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.'

"I leaned over the stone ballustrade of the terrace, and gazed upon
the valley of Newstead, with its silver sheets of water gleaming in
the morning sun. It was a Sabbath morning, which always seems to have
a hallowed influence over the landscape, probably from the quiet of
the day, and the cessation of all kinds of week day labor. As I mused
upon the mild and beautiful scene, and the wayward destinies of the
man whose stormy temperament forced him from this tranquil paradise to
battle with the passions and perils of the world, the sweet chime of
bells from a village a few miles distant, came stealing up the valley.
Every sight and sound this morning, seemed calculated to summon up
touching recollections of poor Byron. The chime was from the village
spire of Hucknall Torkard, beneath which his remains lie buried!

"I have since visited his tomb. It is in an old gray country church,
venerable with the lapse of centuries. He lies buried beneath the
pavement, at one end of the principal aisle. A light falls upon the
spot through the stained glass of a gothic window, and a tablet on the
adjacent wall announces the family vault of the Byrons. It had been
the wayward intention of the poet to be entombed with his faithful dog
in the monument erected by him in the garden of Newstead Abbey. His
executors showed better judgment and feeling, in consigning his ashes
to the family sepulchre, to mingle with those of his mother and his
kindred.

       *       *       *       *       *

"How nearly did his dying hour realize the wish made by him but a few
years previously in one of his fitful moods of melancholy and
misanthropy:

  "'When time, or soon or late, shall bring,
      The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
    Oblivion! may thy languid wing
      Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

    No band of friends or heirs be there,
      To weep or wish the coming blow:
    No maiden with dishevelled hair,
      To feel or feign decorous woe.

    But silent let me sink to earth,
      With no officious mourners near:
    I would not mar one hour of mirth,
      Nor startle friendship with a fear.'

"He died among strangers, in a foreign land, without a kindred hand to
close his eyes, yet he did not die unwept. With all his faults, and
errors, and passions, and caprices, he had the gift of attaching his
humble dependants warmly to him. One of them, a poor Greek,
accompanied his remains to England, and followed them to the grave. I
am told that during the ceremony, he stood holding on by a pew in an
agony of grief, and when all was over, seemed as if he would have gone
down into the tomb with his master.--A nature that could inspire such
attachments, must have been generous and beneficent."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CONQUEST OF FLORIDA, by Hernando de Soto; by Theodore Irving.
Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.

There is so much of romance in the details of Spanish conquests in
America, that a history of any one of the numerous expeditions for
discovery and conquest, possesses the charm of the most elaborate
fiction, even while it bears the marks of general truth. These
adventures occurred during the age of chivalry, when danger was
courted for distinction, before the progress of science and literature
had opened other avenues to renown, and when personal valor was looked
upon as the pre-eminent quality--skill in arms as the highest
accomplishment of an aspiring spirit. No nation was more celebrated
during that chivalrous age than Spain, and in none did the genius of
chivalry longer resist the influences under which it finally fell into
decay. Upon the discovery of America, a wide field was opened for the
warlike spirit of the age, and Spain sent forth her hosts of
adventurers, filled with wild visions of boundless wealth, and the
easy conquest of the barbarian nations of those golden regions. There
are in the histories of their exploits, so many displays of dauntless
courage--of skill in overcoming difficulties--of the power of a few
disciplined warriors, to contend successfully with hosts of equally
brave, but untutored savages--and so many exhibitions of the generous
qualities of the soldier, that in the glare of brilliant achievements,
and the excitement of thrilling incident, we are tempted to overlook
the injustice and cruelty which marked the footsteps of the
conquerors.

Mr. Irving's work is one of great interest. The conquest of Florida by
De Soto, while it is contrasted with the conquest of Mexico by Cortez,
(which immediately preceded it) in regard to its results to those
engaged in it, resembles it in the patient suffering and indomitable
bravery of the adventurers, and in the numerous thrilling scenes
through which they passed. While the conquest of Mexico enriched the
followers of Cortez, and poured the wealth of the new world into the
lap of Spain, that of Florida proved fatal to all who attempted it,
and ended in disaster to the ultimate conquerors. Ponce de Leon, the
visionary, who sought in Florida the Fountain of Youth, Vasques de
Ayllon, the ruthless kidnapper, and Pamphilo de Narvaez, the well
known rival and opponent of Cortez, had made fruitless attempts to
colonize this disastrous coast. But the last and most splendid effort
of that day, was made by Hernando de Soto, a cavalier who had served
with Cortez, and had returned to Spain in the possession of immense
wealth derived from the spoil of Mexico. The enjoyment of the highest
favor at the court of his sovereign, the charms of a young and lovely
bride, and the allurements of his splendid position at home, were
insufficient to repress the spirit of adventure which he had imbibed
in the wars in Mexico, and the prevalent belief that Florida presented
a scene for conquest still more magnificent than Mexico. De Soto was
doomed to prove that the golden dreams of wealth with which the
unexplored regions of Florida had been invested, were baseless
illusions. But his adventures and achievements afford a rich mine of
romantic incidents which Mr. Irving has presented in a most attractive
form:

"Of all the enterprises," says he, "undertaken in this spirit of
daring adventure, none has surpassed for hardihood and variety of
incident, that of the renowned Hernando de Soto and his band of
cavaliers. It was poetry put in action; it was the knight-errantry of
the old world carried into the depths of the American wilderness:
indeed, the personal adventures, the feats of individual prowess, the
picturesque descriptions of steel-clad cavaliers, with lance and helm
and prancing steed, glittering through the wildernesses of Florida,
Georgia, Alabama, and the prairies of the Far West, would seem to us
mere fictions of romance, did they not come to us recorded in
matter-of-fact narratives of cotemporaries, and corroborated by minute
and daily memoranda of eye witnesses."

Hernando de Soto was in every respect qualified for the task he
undertook in this ill-starred expedition. But the Floridian savage was
a more formidable foe than his Mexican brother--more hardy of frame,
and more implacable in his revenge. Hence, although the imagination is
not dazzled in the conquest of Florida, with descriptions of boundless
wealth and regal magnificence--although the chiefs are not decked in
"barbaric pearls and gold"--their sturdy resistance, and the varied
vicissitudes created by the obstacles which nature presented to the
conqueror's march, afford numberless details of great interest. The
book abounds with thrilling passages, from which, but for the crowded
state of our pages, we should make a few extracts. Whether it is the
merit of the writer or his subject, (probably it is a combination of
both,) which gives to this work so much fascination, we will not
decide; but it is scarcely possible to commence it, (at least we found
it so) and lay it aside until its perusal is concluded.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHANCES AND CHANGES; a Domestic Story, by the author of "Six Weeks on
the Loire." Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard.

This is an uncommon book. In these days of high excitement and
_powerful_ writing, it is refreshing to be introduced among characters
of so much purity, benevolence and intelligence as those delineated in
"Chances and Changes." The moral of the book, although it is not
ostentatiously pressed upon the attention, is obvious and forcible. A
lovelier being than Catherine Neville, the heroine, can scarcely be
imagined. There is nothing new in the story--the events are such as
might easily be supposed to have occurred, and the leading features of
the plot may be stated in a few words: Colonel Hamilton, a man of
fashion and something of a _roué_, is engaged in a duel with a
baronet, in consequence of an intrigue between the Colonel and the
titled wife of his antagonist. The latter is dangerously wounded, and
Colonel Hamilton seeks a refuge for several months in the remote
dwelling of his former tutor, Mr. Neville, a benevolent and
conscientious clergyman. Hamilton becomes enamored of Catherine
Neville, who returns his passion with all the ardor of a first love.
He at length mingles with the world of fashion again, is involved once
more in his former intrigue, and although struggling to retain and
deserve the affections of Catherine, becomes completely entangled in a
criminal attachment. Catherine, after a long and painful conflict with
her feelings, resolves to conquer her ill-placed affection, and is
ultimately united to a worthier object. The struggles between passion
and duty in her breast, and the conflict of good and evil in Hamilton,
are admirably portrayed. The sentiments and opinions are often
striking, and the style elegant and attractive. We give a few
extracts, taken at random:

"Come along with me," said she, "come and look by the side of the
little stream that runs through the garden."

"This girl, after all, can do whatever she likes with me," thought
Hamilton, as he rose with affected effort, from the chair which he had
just before vowed to himself nothing should induce him to stir from,
until it was time to dress for dinner. Away they went to the brook,
and found Mr. Neville standing there, looking at the daffodils with
all the delight of the poet whose words were on his lips.

  "I wandered lonely as a cloud,
     That flits on high, o'er vales and hills,
   When all at once I saw a crowd,
     A host of dancing daffodils.
   Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
   Fluttering and dancing near the trees.

   Continuous as the stars that shine
     And twinkle in the milky way,
   They stretched in never-ending line,
     Along the margin of a bay.
   Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
   Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

   The waves beside them danced, but they
     Out-did the sparkling waves in glee,
   A poet could not but be gay,
     In such a jocund company.
   I gazed and gazed, but little thought
   What wealth to me the show had brought.

   For oft when on my couch I lie,
     In vacant or in pensive mood,
   They flash upon that inward eye
     Which is the bliss of solitude.
   And then my heart with pleasure fills
   And dances with the daffodils."

Hamilton was so unused to hear Wordsworth quoted in any other tone
than that of ridicule, or absurd parody, that he was amazed to hear
his old tutor, whose taste he revered, not more from habit than
experience of its correctness, repeat these lines with the enthusiasm
of Catherine herself, and conclude them with a panegyric on their
author, as having formed a new school in poetry, and finding

  "Books in the running brooks,
   Sermons in stones, and good in ev'ry thing."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, sir, what do you think of our daffodils?" said Mr. Neville,
pointing to them exultingly, "are they not enough to inspire a poet?"

"I am not poet enough to answer the question," said Hamilton, "but I
remember the eldest of poets says they make very good salads."

"Ah ha!" said Mr. Neville, "I am glad you have not forgotten old
Hesiod--but, however, I did not think of getting into Greek when I
quoted Wordsworth."

"Nor I of hearing anything like common sense spring out of a quotation
from him," said Hamilton. "Not but that all he says may be very fine,
but I am of another school--I am a Byronian--he is the only man that
is read in Town--those Lakeists that go and make faces at themselves
on the waveless waters, and then run home to put their reflections
upon paper, are quite outvoted now; even the ladies never think of
them."

"No, I suppose not," said Mr. Neville, "any more than they would think
of seeing hay-makers in their verandas, or a sheep-shearing in their
drawings-rooms. But 'the children of darkness are wiser in their
generation than the children of light,' and he who sings of nothing
but lawless crimes, and sated vices, does wisely to address his song
to the inhabitants of an overgrown and luxurious metropolis."

"Yes, yes; he is sure enough of sympathy, plenty of dancing daffodils
there,--only of rather an opposite species. What do you say, Miss
Neville, do you like the titled Bard?"

"Quite well enough, as a poet, to wish he had made choice of better
subjects. Edward Longcroft says he has in him a fragment of almost
every other poet's distinguishing excellence, but unfortunately his
own genius is only a fragment itself, and, therefore, he produces
nothing but fragments after all."

"Very wise in Mr. Longcroft--I dare say he could prove every thing he
says most mathematically; but I fancy he will find the generality of
his acquaintance admire diamond sparks more than brick-bats--though
one is only a part, and the other a whole."

"Very good! very good!" said Mr. Neville, "but who have we here?" he
added, as he looked towards the little gate. "Ah ha! here he is
himself--now we can have diamond sparks versus brick-bats, as long as
you like, and see who has the better of the argument."

A matter-of-fact-man is well portrayed in the following:

"Henry Barton," said she to herself, "is a good creature, as ever was
born; and he has great merit, too, in cultivating his mind so
sedulously, surrounded as he is only by the clodpoles his father has
brought him up amongst. But, after all, he is such a mere
matter-of-fact-man, that one soon tires of him--he tells one an
anecdote just as he reads it, and there's an end of it. And then he
moralizes, too, in such a common-place way, and wonders how the Romans
could degenerate so as to suffer themselves to be conquered by the
Goths, and finds out that it was an abominable thing in Henry VIII to
cut off his wives' heads, and not much better in Queen Elizabeth to
sign Essex's death warrant. There is no play of imagination about
him--no whim, no wit--he would as soon think of launching a man of
war, as maintaining a paradox."

The subjoined sentiment is beautifully expressed:

"Ah, is there any happiness like that of the affections! from the
soul-absorbing influence of individual love, through all the endearing
gradations of natural ties, and selected friends, down to the
generalized claims of our fellow-creatures: it will ever be found that
all our real enjoyments are solid only as the feelings of the heart
are connected with them; and long after the traces of external objects
may be effaced from the memory, the kindly sentiments and participated
feelings, with which they may have been connected, remain indelible in
the interior recesses of the breast, which they fill with a sweet
indistinctness of recollected enjoyment."

And how much truth in Catherine's criticism of Byron:

"I cannot feel the beauties of any poetry whatsoever," said Catherine,
"when I think the poet has no feeling himself--I have admired many
passages in Lord Byron's earlier works, even to enthusiasm; but when I
came to his most unfeeling mockery of the agonizing sympathies he had
raised in his description of a storm, by the odious levity with which
he concludes it, I closed the book, and never read another page of his
writing. I thought of it ever after as of those monstrosities in
painting, of beautiful heads, and cloven feet, and it inspired me with
the same disgust."

       *       *       *       *       *

_North American Review, No. LXXXVIII: July 1835_.--The last number of
this periodical contains several admirable articles. We subjoin a list
of its contents:

Art. I. A Tour on the Prairies, by the author of the Sketch Book.--II.
The American Almanac for the year 1835.--III. Memoirs of
Casanova.--IV. Machiavelli.--V. Life and Character of William
Roscoe.--VI. Mrs. Butler's Journal.--VII. Dunlap's History of the
Arts.--VIII. Slavery; an Appeal in favor of that Class of Americans
called Africans, by Mrs. Child.--IX. Audubon's Biography of Birds.-X.
Webster's Speeches.

The first article is a noble eulogy on the genius of Washington
Irving, well according with the merits of the writer, and the honest
pride which every American feels in the possession of such a luminary
in our native literature. Great as has been the praise lavished upon
his works, we feel with the reviewer that full justice has not as yet
been accorded them--and it is with pleasure we perceive that the world
at large is becoming more alive to his merits. The following rapid
glance at the various triumphs of his genius, will be read with a
general concurrence in its truth:

"Compare him," says the reviewer, "with any of the distinguished
writers of his class of this generation, excepting Sir Walter Scott,
and with almost any of what are called the English classics of any
age. Compare him with Goldsmith, one of the canonized names of the
British pantheon of letters, who touched every kind of writing, and
adorned every kind that he touched. In one or two departments, it is
true, that of poetry and the drama--departments which Mr. Irving has
not attempted, and in which much of Goldsmith's merit lies--the
comparison partly fails; but place their pretensions, in every other
respect, side by side. Who would think of giving the miscellaneous
writings of Goldsmith a preference over those of Irving, and who would
name his historical compositions with the Life of Columbus? If in the
drama and in poetry Goldsmith should seemed to have extended his
province greatly beyond that of Irving, the Life of Columbus is a
_chef d'oeuvre_ in a department which Goldsmith can scarcely be said
to have touched; for the trifles on Grecian and Roman history, which
his poverty extorted from him, deserve to enter into comparison with
Mr. Irving's great work, about as much as Eutropius deserves to be
compared with Livy. Then how much wider Irving's range in that
department, common to both the painting of manners and character! From
Mr. Irving we have the humors of cotemporary politics and every-day
life in America--the traditionary peculiarities of the Dutch founders
of New York--the nicest shades of the school of English manners of the
last century--the chivalry of the middle ages in Spain--the glittering
visions of Moorish romance--a large cycle of sentimental creations,
founded on the invariable experience--the pathetic sameness of the
human heart--and lastly, the whole unhackneyed freshness of the
West--life beyond the border--a camp outside the frontier--a hunt on
buffalo ground, beyond which neither white nor Pawnee, man nor muse,
can go. This is Mr. Irving's range, and in every part of it he is
equally at home. When he writes the history of Columbus, you see him
weighing doubtful facts in the scales of a golden criticism. You
behold him, laden with the manuscript treasures of well-searched
archives, and disposing the heterogeneous materials into a
well-digested and instructive narration. Take down another of his
volumes, and you find him in the parlor of an English country inn, of
a rainy day, and you look out of the window with him upon the
dripping, dreary desolation of the back yard. Anon he takes you into
the ancestral hall of a baronet of the old school, and instructs you
in the family traditions, of which the memorials adorn the walls, and
depend from the rafters. Before you are wearied with the curious lore,
you are in pursuit of Kidd, the pirate, in the recesses of Long
Island; and by the next touch of the enchanter's wand, you are rapt
into an enthusiastic reverie of the mystic East, within the crumbling
walls of the Alhambra. You sigh to think you were not born six hundred
years ago, that you could not have beheld those now deserted halls, as
they once blazed in triumph, and rang with the mingled voices of
oriental chivalry and song,--when you find yourself once more borne
across the Atlantic, whirled into the western wilderness, with a
prairie wide as the ocean before you, and a dusky herd of buffaloes,
like the crowded convoy of fleeing merchantmen, looming in the
horizon, and inviting you to the chase. This is literally _nullum fere
genus scribendi non tigit nullum quod titigit non ornviit_. Whether
anything like an equal range is to be found in the works of him on
whom the splendid compliment was first bestowed, it is not difficult
to say."

The articles on Machiavelli, and on the life of Roscoe, are both
excellent in their way. The former has particular attractions, as it
is a luminous disquisition on the character and writings of one who
for ages was an enigma in the political and intellectual world, whose
works, like those of Dante and Faust, have been interpreted by
opposing critics in the most conflicting manner, and whose name, error
and prejudice handed down from century to century, have rendered
synonymous with all that is crafty and corrupt in the art of
government.

The notice of Mrs. Butler's work is the best we have seen. The
reviewer performs his task with redoubtable good humor. The gentleness
with which he calls the lady to account for her literary offences, and
the hearty tribute of praise he bestows on the best portions of her
work, show that he is determined to

  "Be to her faults a little blind,
   And to her merits very kind."

But the review of Mrs. Child's ill-judged appeal on the subject of
slavery, has for us a more powerful attraction than any in the number.
It is not possible that we should be witnesses of the momentous
occurrences of the day, and not feel most sensitively every reference
to a topic in the discussion of which all that we love and reverence
is involved. The impatient zeal of pretending enthusiasts, who in the
pursuit of what to them seems good, disregard the frightful evils
which their blind impetuosity may produce, cannot but awaken in those
upon whom these evils must fall, a trembling anxiety for the future,
and an indignant resentment against the madmen who are blindly
jeoparding the peace of the country and the lives of thousands. We
cannot trust our feelings upon this subject. We see too clearly the
horrors in perspective, which fanaticism is preparing for us, and we
humbly hope that the results of its insane excess, may be averted. The
reviewer in the North American, thinks and feels correctly on this
subject, and we regret that we can only make room for the closing
passages of his remarks:

"That we must be rid of slavery at some day, seems to be the decided
conviction of almost every honest mind. But when or how this is to be,
God only knows. If in a struggle for this end the Union should be
dissolved, it needs not the gift of prophecy to foresee that our
country will be plunged into that gulf which in the language of
another, 'is full of the fire and the blood of civil war, and of the
thick darkness of general political disgrace, ignominy, and ruin.'

"There is much error upon this as well as other subjects, to be
corrected, before the public can act deliberately or wisely in
relation to it. It is too common to associate with the slave-holder
the character of the slave-merchant. And we regret to see the
abolitionist of the day seizing upon the cruelties and abuses of power
by a few slave-owners in regard to their slaves, in order to excite
odium against slave-holders as a class. This is alike unreasonable and
unjust. Very many of them are deeply solicitous to free the country of
this alarming evil, but no feasible means by which this is to be
accomplished has yet been offered for their adoption. Such
denunciations are no better than the anathemas of fanaticism, and
ought to be discountenanced by every well wisher of his country. The
subject of slavery is one, in regard to which, more than almost any
other, there are clouds and darkness upon the future destinies of
these states. It is one upon which all think and feel more or less
acutely, and it is moreover one upon which all may be called upon to
act. It is, therefore, we repeat, with regret that we see intellects
like that of Mrs. Child, and pens like hers, which may be otherwise so
agreeably and beneficially employed, diverted from their legitimate
spheres of action, and employed in urging on a cause so dangerous to
the union, domestic peace, and civil liberty, as the immediate
emancipation of the slaves at the South."

       *       *       *       *       *

_American Republication of Foreign Quarterlies_.--The London, Edinburg
and Westminster Reviews for April, 1835, have been republished by Mr.
Foster, in his cheap and valuable series of periodicals. The Edinburg
Review contains an article on American Poetry, in the course of which
a general glance at the literature of this country is taken; and a
more favorable opinion expressed of its achievements than that work
has hitherto entertained. This fact is worthy of remark, when it is
recollected that the taunting query, "Who reads an American book?"
emanated from that journal not many years since. The most attractive
articles in the Westminster, are those upon "Lucy Aiken's Court of
Charles II," and "Dunlop's Memoirs of Spain." To us, an article in the
Quarterly on "Maria, or Slavery in the United States, a picture of
American Manners, by Gustave de Beaumont, one of the authors of a work
on the Penitentiary System in the United States"[1]--"The Stranger in
America, by F. Leiber," and "New England and her Institutions, by one
of her sons," is the most attractive in the April number. The work of
M. de Beaumont has not, as we have heard, been translated or
republished in this country. His views of our manners and institutions
are exhibited in the form of a novel, which the Quarterly declares to
possess considerable interest, and to display in parts a large share
of the true genius of romance, notwithstanding that the incidents are
few and the commentaries copious. The author declares in a preface,
that "though his personages are fictitious, every trait of character
has been sketched from the life, and that almost every incident in his
tale may be depended on as a fact that had fallen under his own
observation." The reviewer is somewhat scandalized at the author's
avowal of "his belief that the democratic system of government, as now
established in America, is the best machinery that ever was invented
for developing the political independence and happiness of mankind,"
and endeavors to show that M. de Beaumont's strictures upon our
manners and condition (and he cannot be charged with undue lenity in
his censure) are inconsistent with that avowal. The reviewer makes
copious extracts from the work, which show that the author is disposed
to censure severely the condition of the colored population in this
country, without a fair consideration of the circumstances which
produced it. But we can scarcely judge of the book from the extracts
in the review, which are probably the most unfavorable that could be
found, as the reviewer displays a strong desire to draw from the
opinions of the French author, support for the assertions of English
travellers.

[Footnote 1: "Marie, ou l'Esclavage aux Etas-Unis, Tableau de Moeurs
Americaines par Gustave de Beaumont, l'un des Auteurs de l'ouvrage
intitulé Du Systeme Pénitentiare aux Etas-Unis."]

       *       *       *       *       *

MY LIFE, by the author of Tales of Waterloo, &c. New York: Harper &
Brothers. 1835.

This is the production of a lively and spirited writer. He describes
skirmishes, onslaughts and battles, with the familiarity of one who
has not seldom taken a part in such actions--traces the Irish
character with great fidelity, and best of all, his book abounds in
humorous incidents. The _contre-pieds_ between the hero and his
cousin, "Jack the Devil," are admirably detailed. Jack is a rare
specimen of the Wild Irishman, and we have seldom been more amused
than we were with the history of the scrapes in which he involved
himself and his cousin. The battle of Waterloo is sketched briefly,
but with a graphic pen. The last struggle of that day, when Ney led
the Old Guard to the charge, and the description of the "field red
with slaughter," after the work of death had concluded, give evidence
of the painting of an eye-witness.

       *       *       *       *       *

BELFORD REGIS, or Sketches of a Country Town, by Miss Mitford.
Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard. 1835.

Like "Our Village," these are delightful productions, abounding with
wholesome satire of folly and prejudice, and displaying in strong
relief the humble virtues of retired life. Some of the characters are
conceptions of great loveliness, and many of the scenes are wrought
with most pathetic effect. The story of Hester is admirable. We have
seldom dwelt with more delighted interest over a picture of juvenile
virtue and self-devotion.




EDITORIAL REMARKS.


We have but a few words to offer upon the contents of the present
number. Generally they must speak for themselves; but in regard to
others we may be permitted a passing comment.

No. II of the Dissertation on the characteristic differences between
the sexes, sustains the high character of the first number. And
although the branch of the subject--Religious Differences--which the
author has discussed in the present number, seems to promise little
amusement for the general reader, it will be found upon perusal, to
have been so ingeniously treated, so beautifully illustrated, that
even he who entirely eschews polemics, will be edified and delighted.
It was upon this point that we felt the most solicitude for the
success of the writer, for there is no part of his subject so
difficult to manage, or in which he was so liable to fall below the
expectations of his readers. But he has overcome its difficulties, and
presents us with a disquisition, entirely free from the narrowness of
sectarian views, and deeply grounded in the philosophy of the human
mind. His view of the religion of woman is accurate and
beautiful,--her proneness to lean on the strength of a more powerful
being, her confiding nature, her facility in believing where man
cavils and doubts, and the tendency of her religious sentiments to
degenerate into superstition, contrasted with the besetting evils of
man's religious faith--bigotry and fanaticism--are admirably
portrayed. His illustration of this contrast is clear and convincing,
whilst his style throughout is easy and attractive. He seems to have
drawn the true inspiration from his subject, and is doubtless a
believer in the doctrine of the ingenious Biron--

  "From woman's eyes this doctrine I derive:
   They sparkle still the right promethean fire;
   They are the books, the arts, the academes,
   That show, contain, and nourish all the world;
   Else, none at all in aught proves excellent."

Grayson Griffith is a religious story. We approve of the moral, as a
matter of course--who will not? But we do not come quite up to the
writer's standard of perfection, for we candidly confess we cannot see
the germs of perdition in a social game of whist; and while we detest
gambling and gamblers, the proscription of amusements innocent in
themselves, because some remote analogy may be traced between them and
practices at once immoral and every way destructive, seems to us
irreconcileable with sound logic or true philosophy. The attempt to
trace the vices of men to early habitudes is not always successful, as
the power of good or evil impressions over the mind and habits, is
essentially modified by the character of each individual. Besides,
accident often determines the destinies of men, so far as we can see,
in very spite of every previous tendency. We doubt, for instance,
whether the fascinations of the faro-table would not have been as
great to Grayson if he had never seen a card, as they proved to be, as
related in the story. But we are getting into the discussion of a
question which requires more time and space than we have to spare.

The "Letter on the United States, by a _Young Scotchman_," is
generally amusing; but some of the passages in it strike us with
surprise. He tells us that, "although the Americans are great novel
readers, there is too much matter-of-fact about them; they are too
calculating and money-making [this from a Scotchman!] to serve the
purposes of the novelist. They form but indifferent heroes and
heroines of romance, and hence Cooper is obliged to resort to the sea
to rake up pirates and smugglers, or to go back to the revolution or
the early settlement of his country to find characters and incidents
calculated to give verisimilitude and interest to his tales." This
seems to us hasty and jejune criticism. Cooper was not, as we know,
"_obliged_" to rake up pirates and smugglers; but as this writer has
told us in the ninth number of the Messenger, "He (Cooper) had been
for some years an officer in the American Navy, where he acquired a
knowledge of all the minutiæ of nautical life, which was of great
service to him in the composition of some of his tales. These are
justly considered as his best"--and he might have added, are written
with power peculiar to Cooper, of whom it may truly be said:

  "His march is on the mountain wave
     _His home_ is on the deep."

And well would it have been for his fame had he never abandoned his
proper element. On shore he generally makes as awkward a figure as one
of his nautical heroes would do, after a voyage, before he had gotten
rid of his "sea legs." We have read Cooper's last, the Monikins, but
at too late a period to allow a regular notice of it in this number.
_En passant_, however, we must say that it is an entire
failure--vapid, pointless, and inane. It appears to be an attempted
satire on mankind, a bungling imitation of Swift's account of the
_Houynhmins_, Mr. Cooper's monkies are a tedious race, and his Yankee
captain, "Noah Poke," the principal interlocutor, as the lawyers would
term him, is little better. We believe that all who have read this
work, will agree, that the sooner its author is "_obliged_" to take
again to salt water, and "rake up pirates and smugglers," the better
it will be for his own reputation, and the purses of his booksellers.

In regard to the poetry of this number, we must content ourselves with
drawing attention to the pathetic effusion "on the Deaf, Dumb and
Blind Girl."




TO CORRESPONDENTS.


Many favors have been again unavoidably postponed. The communication
of _Scriblerus_ exhibits talent, and is written well, but is not
adapted to the pages of the Messenger. The writer would doubtless
succeed upon other subjects, and we invite him to make the experiment.
"A fragment of the thirteenth century," has held us in doubt for some
days; but we have finally decided upon its exclusion. We are not
better pleased with the poetry of _Timandi_, than with his prose.

The quantity of rhyme poured in upon us, is indeed a matter of
admiration. The effusions which we consign to outer darkness monthly,
are past enumeration. Such, for instance, as one containing the
following lines, and which purports to be "copyed from a young ladies
Album"--

  Miss E---- we have oftimes met before
  And--we may--meet no more
    What shall I say at parting
  Many years have run their race
  Since first I saw your face
  Around this gay and giddy place
    Sweet smiles and blushes darting.