Produced by Ron Swanson





THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


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

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


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




SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

Vol. I.]  RICHMOND, AUGUST 1835.  [No. 12.

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




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

No. VII.


Events of great importance had also occurred in Algiers, by which this
ancient stronghold of piracy was stripped of its terrors, and its
impotence fully demonstrated.

The resources of this state were even more severely affected by the
wars of Europe, than those of Tunis and Tripoli, as it depended less
than either of them upon native industry for support. A Pasha of
Algiers, who wished to retain his throne and consequently his life,
was forced to keep his troops engaged in wars from which they might
individually derive profit; to increase their pay at the expense of
the public treasury was ineffectual, and he who attempted thus to win
their favor was soon despised and overthrown. They required the
excitement of contests and plunder, and bread not won at the dagger's
point seems to have had no relish with them. In 1805, these
desperadoes murdered their Dey Mustapha, only because he was of too
peaceable a disposition. Under Achmet his successor, they had a war
with Tunis, but it was conducted in a very languid manner, for no
plunder could be expected.

The United States continued to pay the enormous annual tribute which
had been stipulated in the treaty of 1796, but not punctually. The
little respect which was paid to neutral rights at that period by
France and England, rendered the transmission of the naval stores
composing the tribute difficult and unsafe, and this was the reason
always alleged by the American Consul in accounting for the delay; but
it was also in a great measure intentional, from the idea on which the
other nations tributary to Algiers acted, that by thus remaining
always in arrears, the fear of losing the whole sum due, would render
the Dey less inclined to make any sudden depredations on their
commerce. A strict adherence to engagements voluntarily entered into,
would have been perhaps the better, and certainly much the more
dignified course, as the Dey would have found it to his interest to
conciliate those who paid so regularly.

Whilst the American squadron remained in the Mediterranean, these
excuses were listened to without many signs of impatience, but on its
departure Achmet raised his tone, and after threatening for some time,
he at length in the latter part of 1807 sent out his cruisers with
orders to seize American vessels, informing Mr. Lear at the same time,
that this was not to be considered as a hostile proceeding, and should
not disturb the peace between the two countries.

The Algerine cruisers took three American vessels, of which two were
brought into port and condemned; the crew of the third the schooner
Mary Anne, rose upon their captors, killed four of them, and having
set the remaining four adrift in a boat, carried the vessel safe into
Naples. As soon as the Dey received the news of this, he ordered the
American Consul instantly to pay sixteen thousand dollars as
satisfaction for the lives of his eight subjects. Mr. Lear endeavored
to obtain a delay until he could receive the orders of his government;
but he was threatened with imprisonment, and a number of ships of war
were ready to sail for the purpose of plundering American vessels; he
therefore, after a formal protest, paid the sixteen thousand dollars
for the Algerines killed, as well as the whole amount of the tribute
then due.

Shortly after this occurrence, on the 7th of November, 1808, the
Turkish soldiery revolted, and having killed Achmet, placed in his
stead Ali the keeper of a small mosque. What were their reasons for
such a choice cannot be stated, but the expectations of the Turks seem
not to have been fulfilled; for on the 4th of March, 1809, they
quietly took their sovereign to the common house of correction, and
there strangled him. They then raised to the throne a decrepid old man
named Hadji Ali, whose character was much more conformable with their
wishes, for he proved to be one of the most energetic, as well as most
ferocious tyrants ever known even in Algiers. He determined to revive
the old glory of his state, and again to offer to all Christian
nations the alternative of war or tribute.

Great Britain and France were at that time the only commercial nations
at peace with Algiers and paying no fixed tribute, yet they vied with
each other in the richness of their presents, which were made with
great regularity on all public occasions. Great Britain too, passively
encouraged the piratical propensity of the Algerines, by allowing them
to plunder and carry off the miserable inhabitants of the territories
which were occupied by her troops and at least nominally under her
protection, while France and the countries subject to or in alliance
with her, were secure from such depredations. The British did more;
for in 1810,--when neutral commerce had been extinguished, and the
resources of Algiers were in consequence almost cut off, as neither
could tribute be sent nor compensation be obtained for it by
piracy--at this conjuncture two large ships and a brig entered the
harbor, laden with warlike munitions, the whole sent as a present to
the Dey from the government of Great Britain. Seventy thousand dollars
were soon after received through the agency of the same government
from Spain, in satisfaction for a pretended injury committed by a
Spanish vessel.

By the aid of this timely supply, Hadji Ali was enabled to fit out a
respectable naval force, which under the command of the Rais Hamida a
daring and skilful corsair, sailed for the coast of Portugal, and for
some time continued to insult and plunder the vessels of that wretched
kingdom; this too, at a period when its fortresses were held by
British troops, and its harbors filled with British ships of war.

At the commencement of 1812, it was almost certain that war would soon
take place between the United States and Great Britain; in expectation
of this, it was important to the latter power to raise up as many
enemies as possible to the Americans, and to deprive them of places of
refuge for their vessels. It was principally with this object, that an
Envoy was sent to the Barbary States; and he was made the bearer of a
letter from the Prince Regent to the Dey, containing an offer of
alliance, with the obligation on the part of Great Britain to protect
Algiers against all its enemies, on condition of the observance of
existing treaties between the two nations. The Envoy, Mr. A'Court,[1]
was a man well calculated for carrying into effect the objects for
which he was chosen, and he here first gave proofs of those talents
which have since raised him to exalted stations in his country. He
soon acquired great influence over the savage Turk; he demonstrated to
him the designs and advances of Napoleon towards universal dominion,
and made him tremble for the safety of his own Regency. On the other
hand, he exhibited the mighty naval power of Great Britain, and
endeavored to convince the Dey, that he could only escape the fate of
the greater part of the European sovereigns, by seconding her efforts
in resisting the insatiable conqueror. The United States were
represented as the allies of France, possessing an extensive commerce,
but having no naval force to protect it.

[Footnote 1: Now Lord Haytesbury.]

These views were confirmed by the assurances of the Jewish merchants,
who conducted nearly all the outward trade of Algiers, and who were
generally consulted on points of foreign policy. A truce was in
consequence obtained for Sicily, the captives from that island being
however retained in slavery. A peace was also negotiated between
Algiers and Portugal, the latter agreeing to pay a large sum
immediately, and a heavy annual tribute in future. However, the Dey
could not be led to declare war against the dreaded Emperor of France,
although he had no objection to a quarrel with the United States,
conceiving that it might be made very profitable, either by
depredations on their commerce, or by obtaining an increase of their
tribute. He gave the first hint of his intentions to the American
Consul, by sending him the Prince Regent's letter, under pretence of
requesting a translation of it into Italian, but really for the
purpose of inducing him to bid higher for the friendship of Algiers.
No notice being taken of this, he became more insolent in his demands
and threats.

At length, on the 17th of July, 1812, the ship Alleghany arrived at
Algiers, laden with naval and military stores, which were sent to the
Dey and Regency by the United States, according to the terms of the
treaty of 1796. The Dey at first expressed his entire satisfaction
with what was sent, and a part of the cargo was landed; a few days
after, the Minister of Marine informed the American Consul, that his
master had been much astonished on examining the lists of the
articles, to find that several of them were not in such quantities as
he had required, and also that some cases containing arms had been
landed at Gibraltar, for the Emperor of Morocco; that he considered
the latter circumstance as an insult to himself, and he would not,
therefore, receive any part of the cargo of the ship. Mr. Lear
endeavored to show that the value of the articles sent, was more than
equal to the amount due by the United States, and that if this were
true, the Dey should not complain if a part of the cargo originally
shipped were destined for another purpose.

In reply to this a new demand was made. By the treaty of 1796 the
United States engaged to pay, "annually to the Dey the value of twelve
thousand Algerine sequins (21,000 dollars) in maritime stores," and
payment to this amount had been made for each year since 1796. The Dey
now contended that the time should have been counted by the Mahometan
calendar which gives only 354 days to the year, and that consequently
the United States owed him arrears of tribute for six months, to which
the differences between the Mahometan and Christian years since 1796,
when added together would amount. Against this novel demand, the
Consul remonstrated and protested in vain; he was ordered to pay the
whole sum due immediately in cash, the stores offered as tribute not
being receivable, otherwise he would be sent in chains to prison, the
Americans in Algiers be made slaves, the Alleghany with her cargo be
confiscated, and war be declared against the United States. With such
a prospect before him, the Consul could only pay the money, which was
effected through the agency of the Jewish mercantile house of Bacri.
As soon as this was done, the Consul and all the Americans were
commanded to quit Algiers immediately; they accordingly embarked in
the Alleghany for Gibraltar, where they arrived on the 4th of August.

Orders were then given by the Dey to his cruisers to take American
vessels; but the apprehension of war with Great Britain had caused
most of them to leave the Mediterranean, and the only prize made by
the Algerines, was a small brig the Edwin of Salem.

Information of these outrageous acts was officially communicated to
Congress by President Madison on the 17th of November, 1812; but war
had been declared by the United States against Great Britain, and the
American flag was not seen in the Mediterranean until 1815, in which
year ample satisfaction was obtained for the indignities which it had
suffered from Algiers.

In 1814 Hadji Ali was murdered, and his Prime Minister was invested
with the sovereign authority; within a fortnight afterwards, the
latter underwent the fate of his predecessor, and Omar the Aga or
commander of the forces was made Pasha. Napoleon had by this time been
overcome, and a congress of European potentates and ministers was
assembled at Vienna, engaged in regulating the affairs of that portion
of the world, which circumstances had placed under their control. To
this congress a memorial was presented by the celebrated Sir Sidney
Smith, the object of which was the formation of a naval and military
force, by means of contingents furnished and supported by the nations
most interested, for the purpose of protecting commerce and abolishing
piracy in the Mediterranean. It was declared that the Ottoman Porte
would willingly contribute to the attainment of this end, and that
Tunis was also disposed to relinquish its unlawful attacks upon the
commerce of Christian nations, provided it were sure of protection
against the other two states of Barbary.

This romantic proposition seems to have engaged but little the
attention of the congress, and a petition of the Knights of Malta for
a restoration of their island was equally disregarded. Sir Sidney's
plan was impracticable, and the Knights of St. John could never have
seriously imagined that Great Britain would give up such a possession
as Malta on considerations of doubtful philanthropy; they probably
only hoped for some individual indemnification. No question concerning
the Barbary States indeed seems to have been debated at the Congress
of Vienna; the execution of any plan respecting them, must have
depended on the approval of Great Britain, the commerce of which being
secure from interruption, she had no interest in the suppression of
these pirates.

Attempts had been made on the part of the United States, to obtain the
liberation of the crew of the Edwin and of some other Americans who
were held captive in Algiers; but Hadji Ali refused to part with them
for any sum that would probably be offered, his object being to
increase the number of his captives, in order to compel a renewal of
the treaty on terms still more favorable to himself than those of the
convention of 1796. Omar, who was a much more rational being than
Hadji Ali, would probably have acceded to these offers, but they were
not again proposed; no sooner were the difficulties between the United
States and Great Britain arranged by the Treaty of Ghent, than the
former power made preparations to rescue its citizens from slavery by
force, and to punish the Algerines for the outrages committed in 1812.

A squadron consisting of three frigates, a sloop, a brig and three
schooners, was fitted out and sent under Commodore Stephen Decatur to
the Mediterranean, which sea it entered on the 14th of June, 1815. The
Dey had already been notified of its approach by a British frigate,
which appears to have been despatched for this purpose to Algiers; but
the warning was disregarded, for his ships were all sent out, and no
measures were taken by him to put the city in a state of defence.

On arriving at Gibraltar, the American Commodore received information
that several Algerine ships were in the vicinity, and he immediately
sailed in pursuit of them. On the 17th, the frigate Guerriere
Decatur's flag ship overtook near Cape de Gatte the Algerine frigate
Mazouda, commanded by the famous Rais Hamida; after a short action the
Mazouda was taken, Hamida and thirty of his crew being killed. On the
19th an Algerine brig of twenty-two guns was also captured and sent
into the port of Carthagena, in Spain; on the 28th the American
squadron appeared before Algiers, and proposed to the astounded Dey
the terms on which he might obtain peace with the United States.

Confounded at the loss of his ships and the death of his daring
Admiral, and dreading that the rest of his cruisers which were out,
might fall into the hands of the Americans, Omar at once assented to
the terms proposed, and a treaty was signed on the 30th of June, 1815.
By its terms all the American prisoners were instantly to be
surrendered without ransom, indemnification being made for their
injuries and losses, and for all the seizures of American property in
1812; the Americans on their part, surrendering without ransom all
their prisoners. No demands for tribute, under any name or form, were
ever after to be made by Algiers on the United States; all American
citizens taken on board the vessels of any other country, were to be
set at liberty and their property to be restored as soon as their
citizenship should be proved; vessels of either party were to be
protected in the ports, or within cannon shot of the forts of the
other, and no enemy's vessel was to be allowed to leave a port of one
country in pursuit of a vessel of the other, until twenty-four hours
after the sailing of the latter; with many other provisions highly
favorable to the United States. The American commander promised to
restore to the Dey, the frigate and brig which he had taken, and the
frigate was in consequence immediately given up; the brig was for some
time detained by the authorities at Carthagena, on the pretence that
it had been captured within the jurisdiction of Spain.

The peace being thus made, and the stipulations of the treaty complied
with as far as possible, Mr. William Shaler was installed as Consul
General of the United States for the Barbary Regencies, and the
squadron sailed on the eighth of July for Tunis, where its presence
was required by circumstances which it will be necessary to detail.

During the great European war, the armed ships of France and England
were in the habit of conducting their prizes into the Barbary ports
and there selling them; a number of American vessels were indeed thus
disposed of by the French, under the infamous Decrees of Berlin and
Milan. The British Government, not content with this species of
neutrality, sent Admiral Freemantle with a squadron to Tunis and
Tripoli, and thus obtained from each of these powers, an engagement
not to suffer any of the belligerents on the other side, to bring
British vessels as prizes into its ports. After the declaration of war
by the United States against Great Britain, no American armed vessel
had ventured to pass the Streights of Gibraltar, until December 1814,
when the privateer brig Abællino, from Boston, commanded by W. F.
Wyer, entered the Mediterranean and took a number of prizes, some of
which were sent into Tunis and Tripoli.

On the arrival of the first of these prizes at Tunis, Mr. Noah, the
American Consul, at the request of the master, applied to the Bey for
permission to sell her and her cargo. Mahmoud in reply showed him the
engagement with Great Britain, which forbade his granting such a
license; and the British Consul threatened, in case it were allowed,
to send to Sicily for a squadron, in order to avenge this infraction
of the treaty with his country. License to sell the vessel was however
obtained by Mr. Noah, and she was accordingly disposed of with her
cargo, Prince Mustapha the Bey's youngest son, contriving by fraud and
by force, to become the purchaser of the greater part of the cargo, at
very reduced prices.

Information of this having been conveyed to Admiral Penrose, who
commanded the British naval forces on the Sicily Station, he sent a
ship of the line and two brigs of war to Tunis, with a letter to the
Bey, enjoining him to arrest the sale of the prize, and to forbid
admission to others in future. With the latter requisition Mahmoud
declared his readiness to comply; and two other prizes having soon
after been sent in by Captain Wyer, he permitted the British to take
possession of them, although they were at the time actually at anchor
under the guns of the Goletta fortress. The vessels were immediately
carried to Malta, where they were restored to their original owners,
the prize crews being retained as prisoners.[2]

[Footnote 2: It may be proper here to observe, that although the
treaty of peace between the United States and Great Britain, had been
signed at Ghent on the 24th December 1814, and ratified at Washington
on the 17th of February 1815, yet a space of forty days after the
ratification was allowed by the terms of that treaty, during which all
prizes taken by either party in the Mediterranean, were to be
retained; and hostilities were in fact continued in that sea until the
29th of March.]

Mr. Noah protested against these proceedings, as being contrary not
only to the general principles of national law, but also expressly to
the terms of the tenth article of the treaty between the United States
and Tunis, which stipulates that "the vessels of either party if
attacked by an enemy under the cannon of the forts of the other party,
shall be defended as much as possible;" he at the same time gave
notice to the Bey, that he would be required to make indemnification
for the prizes which he had thus suffered to be carried off. Mahmoud,
who had not had so much experience with regard to the customs and
institutions of the Franks as had been acquired by Hamouda, could not
comprehend this; he offered to intercede for the restoration of the
vessels, and plainly told the Consul that if the captain of the
Abællino chose to cut out two British merchant vessels which were then
lying in the harbor, no attempt would be made to obstruct him.

Things were in this state on the 20th of July, when the American
squadron arrived at Tunis from Algiers. The Bey was instantly required
to pay forty-six thousand dollars, at which the two prizes which had
been carried off were estimated; he of course refused, endeavored to
evade the demand, and finally threatened resistance. But he had by
this time been fully informed of what had taken place at Algiers, and
the martial appearance and determined bearing of Decatur, who treated
with him personally, not a little contributed to intimidate him; under
these circumstances he thought it expedient to yield, and paid the
money on the 31st, making some remarks on the occasion, which clearly
showed that he had been encouraged by the British Consul to persevere
in resisting the demand.

As soon as this business was concluded, Decatur sailed with his whole
force for Tripoli, where he arrived on the 10th of August. Into this
port the Abællino had carried two prizes; shortly after their
entrance, the British armed brig Paulina with another vessel of war
entered the harbor, and retook the prizes, the commander of the
Paulina at the same time declaring his intention to pursue the
Abællino if she should leave the place. This was done immediately
under the castle walls, without any attempt at interference on the
part of the Pasha. The American Consul, Mr. Jones, instantly requested
Yusuf to cause the vessels to be restored, intimating that in case
they were not, the Pasha would be compelled to pay for them himself;
the Consul also demanded, that measures should be taken, in compliance
with the tenth article of the treaty, to retain the British ships of
war in the harbor, twenty-four hours after the sailing of the
Abællino, which was about to put to sea. To both these demands Yusuf
refused to yield assent; the prizes were in consequence sent to Malta,
and the Abællino was detained in Tripoli. The American Consul then
pulled down his flag, and sent information of the circumstances to the
other Mediterranean Consulates, in order that it might be communicated
to the commander of the squadron immediately on its arrival.

As soon as Decatur entered the harbor, he required the Pasha to pay
twenty-five thousand dollars for the two prizes which he had suffered
the British to carry off; it was paid in two days. In recompense for
the assistance which had been rendered to the Americans by the king of
Naples and the Danish Consul, the commodore also demanded the delivery
without ransom, of eight Neapolitans and two Danes, who were held in
slavery in Tripoli; they were immediately surrendered and restored to
their homes.

Thus, in a great measure, in consequence of the promptitude and energy
of the gallant officer who commanded the American squadron, within
fifty-four days after its arrival in the Mediterranean, were these
three piratical powers completely humbled by a force apparently
inadequate to make any impression on the weakest of them. The treaty
with Algiers was doubtless extorted by fear, and the Dey had no
intention to keep his engagements longer than he was obliged, as facts
afterwards showed; but important benefits were obtained at once, in
the liberation of the captives and the restoration of the property
taken in 1812. The moral effects produced in favor of the United
States, not only in Barbary but in Europe, were incalculable; since
that period, no Americans have been enslaved in either of those
countries, and not a cent of tribute has been paid by the United
States to any foreign power.

Scarcely had the Americans quitted Algiers, when a Dutch squadron
consisting of four frigates, a sloop and a brig, under the command of
an admiral, made its appearance. The object of this display was merely
to propose a renewal of the treaty made before the subjugation of the
United Netherlands by France, on conditions of annual tribute. Omar
however refused to renew the treaty, unless all arrearages of tribute,
which were for more than twenty years, were paid; negotiations on
these terms was impossible, and the admiral sailed away.

The Barbary cruisers, then undisturbed, renewed their depredations on
Sardinia and Naples; the vessels of these defenceless countries were
taken, and the inhabitants of the coasts were dragged away in great
numbers to the slave markets of Africa. Great Britain alone could put
a stop to these outrages; the French navy was disorganized, those of
the other European powers were inadequate. But the British government
was unwilling to give up the old system with respect to the
Mediterranean pirates, and a relation of its proceedings will suffice
to show, that they were by no means to be ascribed to a more liberal
policy, and that their results were not proportioned to the means
employed.[3]

[Footnote 3: It may not be improper here to quote the observations
contained in the London Annual Register, [for 1816, page 97] a work
generally remarkable for its temperance and impartiality. "It has long
been a topic of reproach which foreigners have brought against the
boasted maritime supremacy of England, that the piratical states of
Barbary have been suffered to exercise their ferocious ravages upon
all the inferior powers navigating the Mediterranean sea, without any
attempt on the part of the mistress of the ocean to control them, and
reduce them within the limits prescribed by the laws of civilized
nations. The spirited exertions of the United States of America in the
last year, to enforce redress of the injuries they had sustained from
these pirates, were calculated to excite invidious comparisons with
respect to this country; and either a feeling of national glory, or
some other unexplained motives, at length inspired a resolution in the
British government, to engage in earnest in that task which the
general expectation seems to assign it."]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRAORDINARY INDIAN FEATS OF LEGERDEMAIN.

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


I have felt some reluctance in narrating the following singular feats,
(I had almost said miracles) which I saw performed among the Arickara
Indians, not because I considered them unworthy the attention of the
curious, but lest I should be accused of sporting with the reader's
credulity, or of availing myself too largely of what is supposed by
some to be the _traveller's privilege_. I acknowledge that the
performance was altogether above my comprehension, and greatly excited
my astonishment.

In civilized life, we know the many expedients to which men resort in
order to acquire a subsistence, and are not therefore surprised, that
by perseverance and long practice, stimulated by necessity, they
should attain great dexterity in the art of deception. To find it,
however, carried to such great perfection by wild and untutored
savages, who are neither urged by necessity, nor indeed receive the
slightest reward for their skill, is certainly very surprising.

In travelling up the Missouri during the summer of 1831, we lost our
horses near the Arickara village, which caused our detention for
several days. As this nation has committed more outrages upon the
whites than any other on the Missouri, and seem to possess all the
vices of the savage without a redeeming virtue, we found ourselves
very unpleasantly situated near the principal village, without
sufficient force to repel an attack if one should be made. After some
deliberation, we adopted the advice of an old Canadian hunter, and
determined to move our chattels directly into the village, and, whilst
we remained, to take up our lodgings with the tribe. We were
emboldened to this step, by the assurance of the hunter, that the
Arickarees had never been known to kill but one man who had taken
refuge within the limits of their town, and that their forbearance
originated in the superstitious belief that the ghost of the murdered
had haunted their encampment, and had frightened away the buffalo by
his nightly screams.

We were received in the village with much more politeness than we
expected; a lodge was appropriated to our use, and provisions were
brought to us in abundance. After we were completely refreshed, a
young man came to our lodge and informed us that a band of bears, (as
he expressed it) or medicine men, were making preparations to exhibit
their skill, and that if we felt disposed we could witness the
ceremony. We were much gratified at the invitation, as we had all
heard marvellous stories of the wonderful feats performed by the
Indian medicine men or jugglers. We accordingly followed our guide to
the medicine lodge, where we found six men dressed in bear skins, and
seated in a circle in the middle of the apartment. The spectators were
standing around, and so arranged as to give each individual a view of
the performers. They civilly made way for our party, and placed us so
near the circle that we had ample opportunity of detecting the
imposture, if any imposition should be practised. The actors (if I may
so call them) were painted in the most grotesque manner imaginable,
blending so completely the ludicrous and frightful in their
appearance, that the spectator might be said to be somewhat undecided
whether to laugh or to shudder. After sitting for some time in a kind
of mournful silence, one of the jugglers desired a youth who was near
him, to bring some stiff clay from a certain place which he named on
the river bank. This we understood, through an old Canadian named
_Garrow_, (well known on the Missouri,) who was present and acted as
our interpreter. The young man soon returned with the clay, and each
of these human bears immediately commenced the process of moulding a
number of little images exactly resembling buffaloes, men and horses,
bows, arrows, &c. When they had completed nine of each variety, the
miniature buffaloes were all placed together in a line, and the little
clay hunters mounted on their horses, and holding their bows and
arrows in their hands, were stationed about three feet from them in a
parallel line. I must confess that at this part of the ceremony I felt
very much inclined to be merry, especially when I observed what
appeared to me the ludicrous solemnity with which it was performed.
But my ridicule was changed into astonishment, and even into _awe_, by
what speedily followed.

When the buffaloes and horsemen were properly arranged, one of the
jugglers thus addressed the little clay men or hunters:

"My children, I know you are hungry; it has been a long time since you
have been out hunting. Exert yourselves to-day. Try and kill as many
as you can. Here are white people present who will laugh at you if you
don't kill. Go! don't you see that the buffalo have already got the
scent of you and have started?"

Conceive, if possible, our amazement, when the speaker's last words
escaped his lips, at seeing the little images start off at full speed,
followed by the Lilliputian horsemen, who with their bows of clay and
arrows of straw, actually pierced the sides of the flying buffaloes at
the distance of three feet. Several of the little animals soon fell,
apparently dead--but two of them ran round the circumference of the
circle, (a distance of fifteen or twenty feet,) and before they
finally fell, one had three and the other five arrows transfixed in
his side. When the buffaloes were all dead, the man who first
addressed the hunters spoke to them again, and ordered them to ride
into the fire, (a small one having been previously kindled in the
centre of the apartment,) and on receiving this cruel order, the
gallant horsemen, without exhibiting the least symptoms of fear or
reluctance, rode forward at a brisk trot until they had reached the
fire. The horses here stopped and drew back, when the Indian cried in
an angry tone, "why don't you ride in?" The riders now commenced
beating their horses with their bows, and soon succeeded in urging
them into the flames, where horses and riders both tumbled down, and
for some time lay baking on the coals. The medicine men gathered up
the dead buffaloes and laid them also on the fire, and when all were
completely dried they were taken out and pounded into dust. After a
long speech from one of the party, (of which our interpreter could
make nothing,) the dust was carried to the top of the lodge and
scattered to the winds.

I paid the strictest attention during the whole ceremony, in order to
discover, if possible, the mode by which this extraordinary deception
was practised; but all my vigilance was of no avail. The jugglers
themselves sat motionless during the performance, and the nearest was
not within six feet of the moving figures. I failed altogether to
detect the mysterious agency by which inanimate images of clay were to
all appearance suddenly endowed with the action, energy and feeling of
living beings.

       *       *       *       *       *

[From the same.]

Remarkable Dream and Prediction, with their fulfilment.


Many whose opinions are entitled to profound respect, have believed
that man in his primitive or savage state, without the means of
cultivating or exercising his reasoning powers, has been occasionally
favored by divine or supernatural illumination. Whatever difference of
opinion may exist however, in reference to this subject, there can be
none as to the _facts_ about to be recorded. In the fall of 1827, an
old Mandan chief proclaimed early in the morning, through the village
or town of his tribe, the following dream, which he alleged to have
had the over night. "The Great Spirit," said he, "appeared to me last
night and told me that my feast had given him much satisfaction--that
he had concluded to take pity on me, and afford me an opportunity to
avenge the death of my son. He told me when the sun had performed
about half his journey, that I must start and go down to the little
lake, (about ten miles distant)--that there I should find four of my
enemies lying asleep, and that amongst them was the one who had slain
my son--that I should attack and kill all four, and return safe to the
village with their scalps." This dream the old Mandan repeated to
William P. Pilton and James Kipp, traders, who were then present, and
who are now living and can vouch for the fact. About noon he departed
for the lake, and would suffer none to accompany him. In the evening,
to the astonishment of every one who had heard the dream, he returned
with four scalps and the arms and clothing of four Arickara warriors.
This chief was afterwards called "Four Men," in commemoration of this
exploit.

But the following extraordinary prophecy, and its subsequent exact
fulfilment, came within my personal knowledge. If it does not prove
direct supernatural interference, it at least shows that events
previously foretold, have come to pass in a manner which no human
sagacity can well understand.

In the spring of 1829, about the 14th of March, I was preparing to
leave my wintering ground, which was just below the fork of the _River
Des Moins_. A camp, consisting of about fourteen lodges of Menomonies,
or Wild Rice Indians, situated a few hundred yards below my house, was
also prepared to move down the river immediately on the breaking up of
the ice, which was then daily expected. The wife of one of the
principal men was very sick, and inasmuch as her illness would delay
their departure, they felt much solicitude for her recovery, and
requested an old man among them called "_The Bears Oil_," to call down
the Spirit who presides over human life and question him respecting
her recovery. The venerable doctor or seer at first seemed reluctant
to comply, but on receiving several presents he commenced
preparations. The first thing to be done was the erection of a house
or lodge for the reception of the Spirit. Four poles of about ten feet
in length were planted in the ground, forming a square of about four
feet. The whole camp brought out their blankets, which were wrapped
around the poles from the bottom to the height of about eight feet. On
the ends of the poles was suspended all the finery which the camp
could afford, as a greater inducement, I suppose, for the Spirit to
descend. When these preparations were completed, the old man raised up
the lower edge of the blankets and crawled into the lodge, where he
remained entirely concealed from the spectators--not forgetting
however to take with him his drum and medicine bag. From the time he
entered, he was silent for nearly an hour, when at last he commenced
singing in a low voice, accompanying himself on the drum. The words of
the song, as well as the conversations which he afterwards carried on
with the Great Spirit, were in a language entirely unknown to any
except the initiated; and I have observed in all ceremonies of a
similar kind, and among all tribes of Indians, the same unintelligible
jargon is used. The Great Spirit delayed making his appearance so
long, that I began to think the inducements were not sufficient; and
being anxious to witness the conclusion of the ceremony, I sent to my
house for some tobacco and ammunition as an additional offering. This
gave much satisfaction to the Indians, and appeared also to be highly
acceptable to the Spirit,--for a violent shaking of the lodge, and the
jingling of the hawk bills which were fastened to the end of the pole,
announced his arrival.

The old man proceeded immediately to business. In a short time he
announced to the wondering crowd which surrounded the lodge, that the
woman would die about sunrise on the following morning. He also stated
that the cause which would produce her death was a fever in the heart,
and this was occasioned by her always being in a bad, angry humor. The
object of invoking the Spirit was accomplished in what had been
announced; but the priest of the oracles further observed, that the
Great Spirit had signified his willingness to answer any one question
which might be asked. As the Menomonies were apprehensive of an attack
from the Sioux, their fears naturally induced them to ask if any other
person belonging to their camp should die or be killed previously to
their reaching the Mississippi. The old man soon returned the answer
of the Great Spirit, which was, that three of those who were then
present would never see the Mississippi again. I was astonished at the
old fellow's boldness in thus hazarding his reputation on a prophecy,
the fulfilment of which seemed so very improbable. Some of the young
men ventured a second question, and inquired the names of the persons
who were sentenced to die--but immediately the shaking of the lodge
and the jingling of the hawk bills, as before, announced the sudden
departure of the Spirit. The old man made his appearance, but was
evidently much displeased that the last inquiry was made. His look was
sullen and angry, and he maintained a stubborn silence. Finding that
nothing more was to be learned, I returned home, and amused myself
with what I then supposed a ridiculous superstition.

Early next morning I walked to the Indian camp, in order to ascertain
if the sick woman was still living; and before I proceeded far, I met
several of her own sex, provided with hoes and axes, going to prepare
her grave. They told me that she died precisely at the time that
_Bears Oil_ had predicted; and they further informed me that the
Indians were preparing to move down the river as soon as the ice had
started, not doubting that the other three condemned to death by the
prophet were doomed to be killed by the Sioux.

Two days after the woman's death, an Indian ran into my house and told
me, that a tree which they had commenced cutting down the evening
before, and which had been imprudently left standing cut half way
through, had just blown down, and had fallen across one of the lodges,
by which a woman and child had been instantly killed. He congratulated
himself that, according to the prophecy, only one more person was to
die, and earnestly hoped that it might not be himself.

On the 20th of the month the ice broke up, and on the 22d the Indians
and traders started in company to descend the _Des Moins_ in boats.
For several days we journeyed on without accident or annoyance--and
when we at length arrived within ten miles of the Mississippi, several
of the men began to teaze and joke the old prophet, asking if he meant
to throw himself overboard in order to verify his own prediction. The
old man paid no attention to their jests, but sat silently smoking his
pipe, and apparently absorbed in deep thought. He was an object of
general attention, nor shall I ever forget his appearance. His tall
and emaciated form lay stretched at some length on the deck; his
hollow sunken eyes were turned upward, and appeared straining in
search of some invisible object; and ever and anon long streams of
tobacco smoke were blown through his nose, ascending in curling vapors
above his head. His imagination appeared to be busied in forming
figures out of the smoke, and when a breeze scattered it away, he
immediately sent forth another whiff, again to resume his ideal
occupation. As we approached the Mississippi, the laugh and jests of
the boatmen became more loud and frequent--but he appeared to be
entirely insensible to surrounding objects, and I had almost come to
the conclusion that the venerable seer was about to fulfil his own
prophecy. Just at that moment the man who was steering my boat
complained of a violent headach, and begged me to place some other
person at the helm, which was accordingly done. He seated himself on
deck, but I remarked that his countenance underwent various changes in
quick succession. He paused for a moment, and then exclaimed,
apparently in great agony, "I am the third person destined never to
see the Mississippi, for I am now dying. Oh, my friends, raise me up
and let me but behold the river, for it may possibly change my
destiny!" I exhorted him to keep up his spirits, and to dismiss such
apprehensions from his mind, assuring him that it was impossible for
him to die before we reached the Mississippi, for that as soon as we
turned the point below we should be in sight of the river. Thinking
that some slight indisposition had concurred with the words of the
prophet to excite his imagination highly, I stepped to the bow of the
boat, and ordered the men to row round the point as quick as possible.
I stood on the bow until the point was turned, and the majestic
Mississippi lay stretched before us in full view. I immediately called
to _Baptiste_, (the sick man's name,) and told him he might now see
the river; but the only answer I received was from one of the
men--"_He is dead!_" "Impossible!" I thought, and ran to the body--but
it was too true; the man was a corpse, and his eye now glazed in death
_had not perceived the perturbed waters of the Father of Floods!_ I
turned to the old sorcerer, whom I now considered as such, and was
struck with the calm indifference with which he received the
intelligence. "Villain!" I exclaimed, seizing him at the same time,
with strong indignation, by the arm, "it was you who killed this man!
You have poisoned him, and I will have you drowned for it." The old
man replied with great composure, and without the least symptom of
fear--"if you believe it was I who raised the wind which blew the tree
across the lodge and killed the woman and child, then you may believe
that I poisoned this man." I was struck with the justness of the
defence, and said nothing more to the prophet.

       *       *       *       *       *




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ON THE DEATH OF JAMES GIBBON CARTER.


    O'er the fam'd seat of science and of arms,
  What dire disaster spreads such wild alarms?
  What requiem sad is chanted o'er that bier?
  Why streams the silent, sympathetic tear?
  Why droop the ensigns of our sister state,
  As though they mourn'd a fallen nation's fate?
  In long procession through the crowded hall,
  With measur'd footsteps and uncover'd pall,
  Columbia's youthful chivalry appears
  With crape-clad banners, and with trailing spears;
  Whilst o'er each head funereal cypress bends,
  And the sad streamer from each arm descends;
  They weep the young--the noble--and the brave,
  Consign'd by "doom" to an untimely grave;
  Ere manhood stamp'd its image on his brow,
  Or gave his lips the soldier's gen'rous vow,
  Snapt was this scion in an evil hour.
  Nor ling'ring  death, nor sickness claim'd their pow'r;
  But full of life--joy sparkling in his eye--
  The fell destroyer came, commission'd from on high,
  And Carter perish'd! Casuists, be still!
  Was it without his mighty Maker's will?
  Has not Omnipotence itself the pow'r
  To bring repentance in the final hour?
  Oh sad vicissitudes of earthly trust--
  Hopes--bright as seraph's smile, consign'd to dust!
  Here would we drop the veil o'er mortal woe,
  Or give the dark'ning picture brighter glow,
  But Truth forbids. At duty's call we come
  To paint the horrors at his distant home.
    Lo! by the patriot's couch a group appears,
  Repressing anguish, and restraining tears;
  Though at the effort nature's self recoils,
  (For nature claims her tributes and her spoils,)
  Brief are the hours which now the sick man claims,
  Nor asks he more, since Zionward he aims:
  The feeble sands of life are almost spent--
  Dim is his eye--his locks with silver blent;
  He, with the Patriarch of eld, may say,
  "Short, but replete with woe, has been my day."
  Then spare the agony his heart must know,
  Ere waning life should sink beneath this blow.
  But, oh! the Mother's desolated heart!
  What charm can sooth--or what a balm impart?
  Her hope--her stay--snatch'd to an early tomb,
  Involving life itself in tenfold gloom!

MARCELLA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.


  When in my life's propitious morn
    The sun of joy and hope once smiled,
  Fair Poesy, of Pleasure born,
    Each fancied sorrow oft beguiled.

  But when the blast of real woe
    Withered the brightness of my soul--
  Bade me to dream of bliss no more,
    And yet denied the Lethean bowl,

  Did Poesy, like that bright star
    That burns upon the brow of night,
  Scatter misfortune's clouds afar,
    And with her beauty glad my sight?

  Ah, no! She flies the wretched breast,
    To seek the gay and happy throng;
  In mirth's soft bowers she loves to rest,
    And speed the flying hours along.

  Where fountains play, and flowrets bloom,
    And where no thoughts of care intrude,
  To beauty's halls the Muse has flown,
    And left me to my solitude.

  But lo! a fairer form appears,
    On heavenly pinions hovering nigh;
  She bids me dry repining tears,
    And points me to her native sky.

  She tells me of repose and peace
    Which to the pure in heart are given,
  And bids my sorrowing bosom cease
    To mourn for those who're blest in heaven.

  Religion! on thy brow doth glow
    The rainbow hues of hope and joy;
  That perfect peace thou canst bestow,
    Which nothing earthly can destroy.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

STANZAS.


  The moon as brightly shines to-night,
    The scene as lovely ought to be,
  As when I gazed upon its light
    And thought sweet Hope was born for me;
  'Tis _I_ am changed, and not the hour--
    Alas! the darkness centres _here_;
  No clouds about yon planet lower,
    I only view it through a tear.

  Soft, lovely orb! some smiling eye
    Ev'n now reposes on thy beams,
  Some maid that never breathed a sigh,
    Forsakes for thee her tranquil dreams;
  Methinks I view her buoyant breast,
    And mark the hopes that tremble there;
  I also dreamed that I was blest,
    'Till waked from slumber by a tear.

F. L. B.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. V.

  The voice of youth! the air is rife
    With a dream of glorious things,
  And our harp is thrilling with the life
    Of all its shining strings.--_Newspaper_.


The famed drinking song of Rabelais "_Remplio tous verre vuide_," the
offspring of that wonderful man whose humor electrified an age, and
whose sarcasm did as much for religious reformation as the logic of
Luther, greeted my ears when I descended at the Raleigh in
Williamsburg. Before me was a huge and curiously misshapen edifice,
surmounted by a box, which looked more like a coffin than a porch.
Over it the frowning head of the immortal patron of tobacco and
potatoes ghastly smiled through its gamboge and vermilion, looking
like one of those rough portraits, which in the earlier maps of
Virginia, are placed amid the _terra incognito_, where "divers
salvages inhabit." The porch was filled with young men, sitting in
that peculiar posture, which resembled them to the mortars which
grimly flank some armed fort, moving themselves and their legs from
the banisters, only to examine a case of pistols, on which an
atrabilarious youth was lecturing with great spirit. A few seemed to
be absorbed in a newspaper, while more than one was employed in
catching the echo of the bacchanial song, and murmuring it back to the
festive board. The arrival of Arthur Ludwell and myself, produced a
momentary sensation of curiosity and attention, and we had scarcely
dismounted from our horses, ere we were frankly invited to join in the
festivities of the club. With his accustomed prudence, Arthur declined
the dangerous honor, while I, through an utter recklessness of heart,
and a burning thirst for excitement, quickly accepted the offer, and
was immediately ushered into the "_Apollo_," a long and dimly lighted
room, in which, around a table, were gathered the bloom of boyhood and
the bud of adolescence. Wine, adulterated into poison by its union
with brandy, and that original sin of southern intemperance mint
julap, stood forth the bold heralds of an incipient debauch. A young
man of dark complexion and melancholy countenance, acted as the
president of the board, occasionally struggling with himself for a bad
pun, or joining in the chorus of each mirthful song.

"How has the affair between Leger and Allan terminated?" inquired a
faint voice near me.

"Diffugere _vives_," responded the president, "for they fought this
morning at the hay-yard with my pistols. Leger had the advantage of
the ground, '_mutat terra vices_,' and hit Allan at the third fire.
However, his wound is not dangerous; they are now friends. Here's to
their health, and to the ball, which in purifying honor, exalts
friendship."

I did not comprehend either the logic or morality of this toast--yet I
drank it through common civility; and from my desire to be considered
as a youth of spirit, I soon reeled in the full grossness of
intoxication. The lights were now extinguished, and we sallied forth,
fired with the ambition of "putting the town to rights." At the door I
met Scipio, who gazing on me for a moment, averted his face and burst
into tears. I passed rapidly by him, and with difficulty smothered a
curse which my pride aimed at his weakness. Unnoticed by my companions
he silently followed me; and it was his hand which raised me from the
earth where I had fallen, and his arm which bore me to my room.

I arose the next morning with a shattered frame and an aching heart,
nor could my crazed philosophy destroy the blush with which memory
every moment bitterly suffused my cheek. But was not drunkenness the
attribute of genius! the unerring characteristic of intellect!--for
while tradition sighed over the memory of the victims of intemperance,
the lustre of genius awoke the pity of sympathy, the pardon of virtue,
and the emulation of folly. All the promising young men who have sunk
into a drunkard's grave, were full of high and lofty intelligence, and
would have realized the proudest hope of fame but for this fatal
excess of genius. Strange fatuity! and stranger that its rottenness
should excite either our pity or forgiveness!

College life is a little dream of human passion and human infirmity.
It is the same eternal track of disappointment, over which folly
vaults and ambition staggers--a record of youthful happiness written
on a summer's leaf, it glitters for the moment, and fades away beneath
the spirit which freshens it into beauty. 'Tis the miniature arena in
which human life first disports its vices, its hopes, and its
imaginings--and if no other knowledge be acquired, the collegian can
look with pride on his acquaintance with the world, its follies and
its pleasures, and hug to his bosom that kernel of truth which has
been wrested from the hard husk of disappointment. We had numerous
debating societies, where the elements of government, the subtleties
of law, and the vagaries of taste were nightly discussed. We were
either orators or philosophers--the former declaiming in all the pomp
of verbosity, the latter deciding in all the solemnity of silence.
Newspapers were eagerly read, and many a maiden pen first fleshed
itself in these shambles of faction. All write in Virginia for these
greedy receptacles of morbid ire and political venom--and he who can
sketch the hundredth-told tale, in improved bombast, or provincial
dialect, becomes the little great man of the cross-roads, or struts
the swelling Junius of the courtyard. Write in jagged orthography--the
dictionary is at hand; scuffle through the rules of grammar--the
printer has a happy talent of correcting by his own grammar; violate
the sense of language and the chastity of style, for this is a trait
of towering genius; but write, and write again, until you can gaze
with triumph on the tenth number of some masterly Cato--some learned
Sidney--or some eloquent Curtius. These compliments are the certain
rewards of your labors--for the printer's praise is measured by your
fustian, and that of his readers is gained by the length of your
numbers.

I found Pilton, a student of reputation and character, which added
bitterness to the malignity of my hate. Our meeting was cold, formal
and ceremonious; and on my part, I was repulsive almost to direct
insult. My hate was fierce, violent and untamed--but still it was open
and undisguised, apparently losing its malice in good breeding, and
its assassin-like propensity in honor. As usual, his habits of intense
application had given him a high rank both in his class and in the
esteem of the professors, while his ill-breeding was forgotten in the
light which learning threw around him. To all my open attacks, secret
insinuations, and malevolent hints, he exposed that affected candor
and subtle magnanimity, which neutralized the poison and blunted the
edge of my weapons.

There was a ball at the Old Raleigh during the Christmas holydays, to
which the city as well as its vicinity sent a numerous representation
of those soft, fragile and dove-like females, who, springing like so
many Venus' from the bosom of the sea, claim their home only in the
tranquil and affectionate hearths of tide-water Virginia. Like the
mocking bird, their dwelling place is amid the ripple of the murmuring
tide, while their song is the melody which thrills into life the
fearful and eternal solitude of the pine forests. When I entered the
room, the dance was exultingly triumphant, and each mazy figure was
softened into intense interest by that joyousness of mirth which takes
its pride of place only from early hearts and youthful hopes. One girl
instantly arrested my attention; and the long, deep and ardent gaze
which I directed towards her, mantled her cheek with a deep and
struggling blush, giving that delicate tint which, like the fabled
rose, twines itself around, only to bloom over the pallid countenance
of disease. She was pale, attenuated and fragile, with that dewy-like
softness which is stolen from the couch of sickness, and that tranquil
firmness which shows both a capability of happiness, and a peaceful
resignation at the want of it. Her form was full of grace and
symmetrical beauty, and her eye, like a glow-worm, lit up the saddened
paleness of her face. How wonderful is the contagion of friendship!
How curious are the hallowed sympathies of love! Unseen though
felt--unknown though experienced, they breathe that pathos of
congeniality, which in exciting attachment, confirms constancy, and
which ever leaves us to wonder not so much at their commencement as at
their continuance. I do not know that my appearance was calculated to
impress the heart of the fair girl who trembled under my searching
gaze; but her blush truly responded to the passion, poetry and
sympathy which my eyes discoursed, and I soon found that the shadowy
gloom of my countenance had arrested her kindness and excited her
curiosity. I was soon formally introduced, though in the confusion of
the moment I did not hear her name; and on her complaint of fatigue, I
led her to a retired seat, and in a short time we were fairly launched
into that great sea of conversation, the mental difference of the
sexes--a subject on which man ever shows his ill-nature, and woman her
superiority. I found her mind opening like the flowers of the
wilderness in richness, variety and freshness, and her wit leaping and
gambolling like an uncaged bird. I poured out all the long-hived
treasures of my erudition, disclosed the whole extent of my learning,
and disported all the little elegancies and graces of my nature. I
could tell her no secret of taste, or display no gem of literature,
with which she was not familiar; and looking up in her tranquil and
placid face, I took no note of time, or of the whispers of the crowd,
which had declared me "a case."

Towards the conclusion of the ball, a gentleman taking advantage of a
pause in our conversation, addressed her by the name of Miss Pilton.
Good God! how that word rang and tingled through the deepest recesses
of my heart, and how quickly did my hate leap up to it as a fortuitous
gift for its demoniac revenge.

"Are you the sister," I inquired, "of Mr. Henry Pilton, now at William
and Mary?"

"I am his only sister," was her reply. "You certainly know him, and if
you do not, you must seek his acquaintance. I will tell him that I am
about to make you my friend, and he will love you for my sake."

"I do know him," I answered; "he is studious and intelligent, and
possesses the esteem and confidence of all the professors."

She rewarded this constrained, though frank avowal, with a smile--and
in the rapture of her joy, she betrayed all that confidence which her
brother's pride had deposited in her bosom, and told with enthusiasm
the little history of his ambition, his fears, and his hopes. He
boldly anticipated every honor within the compass of society; and that
proud determination to be great, which invigorated his youthful
ambition, added a deeper hue of malignity to the venom of my hate.

"He hardly gives me time," she said, "to love him; for gazing like the
eagle on the sun, he never looks down on the insipid dulness of earth.
I do not admire students, Mr. Granby; they are cold and selfish, and
though they gain our flattery, they rarely win our hearts."

I construed this remark, though made at the expense of her brother, as
a compliment to myself, and soon gained her smiles, by many sarcasms
which I levelled at pedants, scholars and students. Without professing
flattery, I pleased her by a ready acquiescence of sentiment and
opinion; and anticipating her pride of sex and her tenderness of
heart, I lauded in the richest language of quotation, woman's love,
and woman's constancy. The artlessness of her character, and the
simplicity of her nature, could not hide from my vanity the favorable
impression I had made on her heart. I looked on my victim with some
emotions of pity, and paused for a moment under the goading sting of
conscience; yet the fiend-like passion which rioted on my life, told
me that the ruin of her peace, and the destruction of her happiness,
would be the proudest victory which my hate could achieve.

Leaving her for a few moments, I looked around at the mirthful throng
which filled the room, and sauntered to the _bar_, which was a point
where conversation converged its focus. About a table prodigally
ornamented with decanters and glasses, were collected numerous groups
of young men, who were all talking at the same time on beauty,
horseracing, politics and duelling. Here and there a solitary tobacco
chewer might be seen, stealing to some fire place or window, and
enjoying in mute rapture, the filth, excitement and grossness of his
depraved appetite. Two or three youthful legislators from the
adjoining counties, were flaunting their maiden honors in the broad
light of political vanity--while four elderly gentlemen, in
embroidered waistcoats and fair-top boots, were eloquently deprecating
the onward march of democracy, which made the legislature a mob of
demagogues, and the ball room a collection of fine clothes and
vulgarity. This was my uncle's favorite theme, and from the folly of
such croaking aristocracy, common sense and not education had
delivered me. An aged negro, the "harmonious Phillips" of the country,
dressed in the ample costume of the old school, with a powdered head,
a large knob of watch seals, and a silver ship in his bosom,
controlled with fierce tyranny his partners of the bow, fife and
triangle. Bowing almost to the floor, he would ever and anon cry out
in a magisterial tone, _cross over_--_forward_--_turn your
partners_--_done_, and catching the inspiration of catgut and rosin,
his ivory teeth were displayed like the keys of a piano-forte, while
his broad face fairly laughed itself into ecstasy.

At the conclusion of the ball, I became the solitary escort of Miss
Pilton. The moon was shining coldly and brightly over the world; and
when I was about to leave my fair charge, looking up she exclaimed,
"How beautiful!--how melancholy!--it makes me almost a poetess. What a
contrast to the busy crowd we have just left; oh! that human life was
as cloudless, and human love as pure!"

There was no affectation in this rhapsody--no girlish sentiment in the
display; for nature called forth the gushing softness of her heart,
and I quickly took advantage of this moment of philosophic
romance.--Where is the lover who has not found the moon his silent yet
most impassioned advocate, and who, when gazing on its mellow light,
has not caught that saddened sympathy which brightens every dark spot
in the horizon of the heart.

"Yes," I replied, "it is the same cloud-wrapt sphere which has always
looked down on the little drama of human folly, unmoved amid the
desolations of death and the fall of empires, forever whispering love,
and exalting the best affections of our nature. Marriages must be made
in _heaven_--and this pale messenger, in expanding the heart, almost
persuades me that it is commissioned to teach love and awaken
affection."

Ere she could reply, I placed a leaf of evergreen in her hand, and
uttered enough of love to call a burning blush to her cheek. I
lingered for a few moments at the door, and on leaving the scene, I
turned around to gaze on the being who was thus insensibly falling
into the toils of my duplicity. I saw her place in her bosom the
treacherous emblem which I had given her; and as the silvery light of
the moon trembled over her marbled brow and placid countenance, I
almost believed that its rays had claimed that spot, as the only
tranquil home in the wide world on which they might kiss themselves
into slumber.

THETA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER SEVENTEENTH.

The Garden of Plants--The Camel Leopard--The Library, Museum, and
Cabinet of Anatomy--Manufactory of Gobelin Tapestry.


PARIS, ----.

_My dear Sister:_--

I do not wonder that you are surprised at my not having yet described
to you the "Royal Garden of Plants." The fact is, we have been thrice
disappointed in our arrangements to go there, but at last have
accomplished our project, and devoted both Tuesday and Wednesday to
the investigation of this famed spot, and we have seen nothing in
Paris that has interested us more. It is of great extent, and affords
the visiter as much information as amusement. It was founded by Jean
de Brosses, the physician of Louis XIII, and much improved by the
exertions of Buffon the naturalist. It contains various enclosures,
some of which are appropriated to botany, and display every plant,
flower and shrub, native and foreign, that can be made to grow there.
Each is labelled, and bears its botanical name; and there are spacious
hot-houses for such as require shelter and extreme care. We remarked
here some fine specimens of the bread tree and sugar cane. Other
enclosures are filled with all sorts of culinary vegetables. There are
besides, nurseries of fruit trees and samples of different kinds of
fences, hedges and ditches, and of various soils and manures. The
enclosures are separated by wide gravel walks,

  "Bounded by trees, with seats beneath the shade,
   For talking age and whispering lovers made."

In the centre of the garden is an artificial hill, crowned with a
temple, from which you enjoy a view of the city, and may aid your
sight with a spy glass, by paying a trifle to a man who owns it and
generally sits there, for the purpose of hiring it, and indicating to
strangers the names of the public edifices visible in the perspective.
On the way to the temple, you pass under a huge and towering cedar of
Lebanon, which De Jussieu the botanist planted more than eighty years
ago. This superb tree was considerably injured during the revolution;
and had it not been for the remonstrances and influence of Humboldt
the traveller, the whole garden would probably be now in a ruinous
condition--for when the allies were in Paris, it was owing to his
exertions that the Prussians were prevented encamping there.

The menagerie exhibits the greatest variety of animals. The ferocious
are kept in iron cages; those that are gentle, in enclosures and
habitations suitable to their propensities and natures, and
embellished with such trees and shrubs as are found in their native
climes. Goats for instance, are furnished with artificial acclivities
for climbing, and bears with dens and rugged posts. The populace often
throw biscuits and fruit to the bears, in order to witness their
endeavors to catch them; but this is dangerous diversion, for in doing
this, a boy was not sufficiently alert in his movements, and ere he
withdrew his arm, had it severely lacerated by the eager animal. On
another occasion, a careless nurse, while amusing herself in a similar
manner, let a child fall in, which was instantly devoured! Among the
gentlest and most curious of the quadrupeds, is the giraff, or camel
leopard, which was brought from Africa about two years ago, and threw
all Paris into commotion. Thousands visited him daily, and belts,
reticules, gloves, kerchiefs, and even cakes and blanc mangés were
decorated with his image. It is said that he possesses both sagacity
and sensibility, to prove which the following anecdote is related of
him. As his keepers were bringing him to Paris, they were joined by a
man on horseback, who continued to bear them company for several
miles, until he came to another road. The giraff, which had manifested
great delight when the traveller first appeared, then evinced deep
distress, and even shed tears! Upon inquiry, it was found that the
traveller's horse and the giraff were from the same part of Africa,
and probably old acquaintances. This is a marvellous story, I must
confess; nevertheless, many persons believe it. I will now tell you
another less incredible, and which shews to what perfection the flower
makers here carry their art. The giraff is very fond of rose leaves;
and not long since, seeing a bunch of artificial roses in a lady's
bonnet, and thinking them natural, he seized hold of them, and pulled
with such force, that he soon had possession of hat and all. It must
have been a ludicrous scene. He is so delicate, that strict attention
is obliged to be paid to his food and lodging. The first consists of
_delicate_ vegetables, and the heat of the last is regulated by a
thermometer; and his African attendant sleeps near to guard him and
supply his wants. Leaving the quadrupeds, we proceeded to look at the
birds, which are also admirably arranged. The water fowls have their
pools and lakes--the ostrich its sands, and so on.

I have now detailed what we saw on Tuesday. On Wednesday we returned
to the garden, and examined the Library, the Museum of Natural
History, and the Cabinet of Comparative Anatomy, where, for the first
time in my life, I beheld the human form, divested of its skin and
flesh, and changed to a machine of dried bones and sinews, and
bloodless veins! The sight made me shudder, and I felt relieved when
we came away.

Not far from the Garden of Plants, at the corner of the Rue
Mouffetarde, is the celebrated manufactory of Gobelin Tapestry, which
derives its name from a dyer who first owned the establishment, and
employed himself in coloring worsteds. Colbert, the patriotic champion
of the arts and sciences, during his ministry, occasioned the rise and
perfection of it in the following manner. He engaged workmen to weave
tapestry in imitation of that of Flanders. The attempt succeeded, and
such has been the proficiency of those who have since carried on the
work, that their productions are now equal to any others of the kind.
You may imagine what care and expense is required in the business,
when I inform you that a single piece of tapestry frequently demands
two years labor to finish it, and has cost almost three hundred pounds
sterling!

The clock is striking two, and I must prepare for a ride in the Bois
de Boulogne. It being a delightful afternoon, we shall no doubt find
it alive with carriages, pedestrians and equestrians. Those who repair
there in coaches, usually drive to a pleasant spot, and then descend
to walk to and fro in the shade, for air and exercise, until the
approach of the dinner hour, or some other engagement calls them
elsewhere. Farewell.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER EIGHTEENTH.

Ceremony of taking the Veil--Palace of the Warm Baths, a Roman Ruin.


PARIS, ----.

Oh! Jane, how we wished for you yesterday! Early in the morning we
received a note from Madame F---- saying, that if the ladies of our
party would like to witness the ceremony of "taking the veil," and
would repair to her house by nine o'clock, she would accompany them to
a neighboring convent where it was to be performed about the hour of
ten. The Abbess being her friend and cousin, she had obtained her
consent to our attending on the occasion in case we wished it. We
_wished_ it, you may be sure, and her kindness was eagerly and
thankfully accepted. On reaching the convent its portal was opened by
two of the sisterhood, who greeted Madame F---- very cordially, made
their curtsies to us, and then conducted us to the gallery of a small
chapel, the main body of which was filled with nuns clad in black, and
seated on rows of benches each side of the aisle. In the centre of it,
upon a damask chair, sat a young lady richly dressed. She wore a
yellow silk frock trimmed with lace, white satin shoes, long white kid
gloves, and ornaments of pearl. A wreath of orange blossoms mingled
and contrasted with her dark hair, and were partly concealed by a
flowing veil. Madame F---- related her history, and to our surprise we
learned she was an English girl who had been placed in the convent at
an early age to be educated. As might have been expected, associating
so constantly and closely with Catholics from childhood, she became
one herself; and when her parents came over to France for the purpose
of carrying her home, they found her resolved on becoming a nun.
Having tried in vain to dissuade her from it, they at length yielded
to her entreaties, and were even present when she took the vows; and
as they did not appear distressed on the occasion, I suppose they had
finally become reconciled to their bereavement. I wonder they did not
_compel_ her to relinquish her determination. But to proceed to the
ceremony. Long prayers were said, incense scattered, and a fine hymn
chanted--the novice kneeling down before a table covered with a
crimson cloth, and reclining her head upon it, in humble submission to
that Divine Power to whom she was dedicating her heart and days! When
the music ceased the Abbess advanced, and taking her hand, led her out
through a side door; and while they were absent, a nun distributed
among the sisterhood a number of large wax candles, which she
afterwards illumined. The Abbess now re-entered with her charge, and
prayers and incense were again offered, a second hymn sung, and the
novice had her hair, or a portion of it, cut off; she then prostrated
herself before the altar, and a black pall was cast over her, to
signify she was dead to the world. On rising, she retired a second
time with the Superior, and in a few minutes re-appeared, clad in the
habiliments of the cloister, and went round the chapel to receive the
kiss of congratulation and welcome from each of the community; after
which the lights were extinguished, and every one departed, leaving
her to solitude, meditation and prayer, until the vesper bell should
tell the hour for rejoining her. How awful I felt while a spectator of
the solemn scene; and how strange, is it not? that reflecting beings
who know the fickleness of human nature--that "nature's mighty law is
change," can venture thus to bind themselves for life to stay in one
limited space, and pursue one unvaried mode of existence! I hope and
think I love religion truly; but I am sure if I were a _saint_ upon
earth, I should never hide my light in a monastery. I ought to
mention, that except the father and brothers of the new nun, no
gentlemen were admitted to the ceremony; and I ought also to state
that she was very pretty. Leonora says that notwithstanding the scene
and place, she was constantly imagining the interference of some brave
youth, to save the fair creature from her fate, by rushing in and
bearing her off by force; but alas! the age of chivalry is long past,
and now-a-days a _hero_ in _love_ would be thought a prodigy and hard
to find, unless perhaps, he was sought for is a certain old fashioned
fabric in the vicinity of Morven Lodge. _There_, peradventure, such an
_odd personage might be discovered_.

From the convent we drove to what is called the "Palace of the Warm
Baths." This is a relic of Roman antiquity. In it, the Roman emperors,
and after their dominion ceased in France, the French monarchs, used
to reside. Its foundation is attributed to Julian the Apostate. The
sole remaining apartments consist of an extensive and lofty hall, and
some cells beneath it. The hall is lighted by an immense arched
window, and its vaulted roof for several ages supported a garden. By
this we may judge how firmly and strongly the Romans used to build. I
cannot, for lack of space, express to you the kind messages with which
I am charged. Suffice it to know, we all love you dearly.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER NINETEENTH.

Visit to Versailles--The Little Trianon--The Grand Trianon--Church of
St. Louis, and Monument of the Duke de Berri--Mendon--Chalk
Quarries--Tortoni's--Wandering Musicians--An Evening at Count
Ségur's--Children's Fancy Ball.


PARIS, ----.

_My dear Sister:_--

I have really a great mind to give you a _scolding_, instead of a
_description_, for your perusal. What are you all about at the Lodge,
that you have not written to us for this fortnight. Papa and Mamma are
quite out of patience with you, and desire me to request you will
answer this the moment it reaches you. Indeed I hope you _will_, for
they are evidently uneasy in consequence of your long silence.

Now let me tell you of our visit to Versailles. We spent Friday there,
and carrying with us a cold dinner, partook of it under the trees near
the Petit Trianon, having gained a keen appetite by first walking over
the immense palace and its garden; of the splendors of both you are
well aware. We were not much pleased with our rustic mode of eating on
the grass, the premises of the table cloth being frequently invaded by
insects. Like dancing on the turf, such arrangements are pleasanter in
description than in reality. The Petit Trianon was the favorite
residence of Marie Antoinette, and there she passed a great deal of
her time, free from the bustle and formality of the court, and devoted
to rural occupations. The place still exhibits evidences of her taste
and innocent amusements. The grounds are diversified with grottos,
cottages, temples, mimic rivers and cascades. Then there is a
beautiful little music room, a labyrinth, a dairy, and a lake. The
palace is a tasteful edifice, and a part of the furniture is the same
that was used by the decapitated queen.

The Grand Trianon, another palace situated in the park of Versailles,
is superior to this in elegance and embellishments, but not half so
interesting. The parterre behind the mansion, teems with Flora's
choicest gifts, and reminded me of the saying, that "Versailles was
the garden of waters; Marly the garden of trees; but Trianon that of
flowers." In the orangery at Versailles we were shown an orange tree
which is computed to be three hundred years old! It is denominated
"The Old Bourbon," and has been the property of several kings of that
race. Its trunk and foliage are remarkably thick. The garden and park
are five miles in circumference; and only think of these and the
magnificent structure overlooking them, being completed in seven
years! But perhaps did we know the number of workmen employed upon
them during that period, the fact would not seem so amazing.

We rode through the wide streets of the town, visited the Church of
St. Louis, where a simple monument is erected in honor of the Duke de
Berri, and then turned our course homewards, stopping for an hour at
Mendon, a royal chateau that Napoleon fitted up elegantly for his son;
it is now unoccupied, though I believe the Duke de C---- sometimes
spends a few weeks there. A noble avenue leads to the house, and from
the terrace in front of it the prospect is very fine. As we traversed
the grounds, guided by an old soldier, we were quite diverted at the
astonishment he expressed, on discovering from an observation of
Leonora's that she and her family were Americans. "Mais comme vous
êtes blondes!" cried he, "et j'ai toujours en tendu dire que les
habitans d'Amerique étaient rouges ou noirs!"[1]

[Footnote 1: But how fair you are! and I have always heard that the
inhabitants of America are _red_ or _black_.]

At the foot of the hill of Mendon, near the banks of the Seine, are
large quarries of chalk, that we were told merited our attention; but
it was too late to profit by the information, and we hastened on to
Paris.

After resting ourselves and drinking tea, we sallied forth again, and
strolled on the Boulevard as far as Tortoni's, to eat ices. He is
master of a grand caffé, and famous for his ices and déjeunés à la
fourchette. His establishment is splendidly illuminated every night,
and so thronged with customers, that it is often difficult to procure
a seat. Some prefer regaling themselves before the door in their
carriages; and there is generally a range of stylish equipages in
front of the house, filled with lords and ladies, and beaux and
belles, partaking of the cooling luxuries of iced lemonade and creams,
and listening to the bands of ambulatory musicians, that here are
always to be found and heard, wherever there is a crowd. They select
the popular airs of the theatres and those of the first composers of
the day, which are as familiar to the common people as they are to
amateurs.

We recently spent another delightful evening at Count Ségur's. We
found him, as usual, surrounded by the learned and refined; and he met
us with his accustomed smile of benevolence and bonhomie. There was a
lively young relative of his present, and when most of his visiters
had departed, she insisted on his joining her and myself in playing
"l'Empereur est Mort," &c., and with the utmost amiability he complied
with her wishes. The play of l'Empereur is similar to that termed the
"Princess Huncamunca."

While we were at the Count's, Mr. and Mrs. Danville attended a levee
at the Hotel Marine, and the girls accompanied a young friend of
Marcella's, (a Miss Y---- from Soissons) to a fancy ball given by the
children of Madame Clément's seminary. Miss Y---- being a pupil, had
the privilege of inviting two acquaintances, and chose Marcella and
Leonora as her guests. They were highly entertained. All the scholars
wore costumes, and several supported the characters they assumed with
proper spirit. There was a little round, rosy faced girl, of five
years old, decked as a Cupid. She was entwined with a silken drapery,
thickly studded with golden stars; sandals laced on her feet, and a
quiver slung over her plump and naked little shoulders! In her right
hand she held a gilt bow, and her curls were confined by a glittering
bandeau. They danced until ten o'clock, and as none of the masculine
gender were admitted, the elder Misses played the part of beaux. I
should have liked to join in the frolic, I confess, though not upon
condition of foregoing the pleasure we had at No. 13, Rue Duphot,
Count Ségur's residence.

Papa has presented me a beautiful watch, and intends purchasing
another for you. With tender regards to aunt M---- and Albert, I
remain your attached sister

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER TWENTIETH.

Mechanical Theatre--The Boulevards--the derivation of the term.


PARIS, ----.

"Joy! joy!" cried I, on looking out of the window yesterday, and
spying Arnaud returning from the post office with a letter, which,
according to our wishes, proved to be from our naughty Jane. Arrant
scribbler that I am, I hasten to answer it, though you must feel you
do not deserve to be replied to so speedily. However, as this is the
first time you have been negligent, we ought not to be relentless--so
here is my _hand_ in token of forgiveness and good will; but beware of
repeating the offence.

Having finished my lecture, and knowing you are fond of listening to
adventures, I will now recount a droll one that happened to us last
evening. At sunset we were walking on the Boulevard du Temple, which
abounds in every variety of the lower order of amusements, when
suddenly a violent shower began to fall, and of course every body to
scamper to some shelter. _We_ took refuge in the portico of an
illuminated building, entitled in large transparent letters over the
door, "Theàtre Mecanique," and finally determined to enter and witness
the acting within. We accordingly purchased tickets of the woman
employed to sell them, and following her up a narrow flight of stairs,
were ushered into a confined gallery, overlooking a dirty pit, the
highest grade of whose occupants seemed to be that of a cobbler. Four
tallow candles lighted the orchestra, where _two hard_ plying fiddlers
performed their tasks. We began to think we might be in "Alsatia!" and
then the actors and actresses! what were they? Why, a set of clumsy
wooden figures that tottered in and out, and were suspended by cords
so coarse, as to be visible even amidst the gloom that surrounded
them. A ventriloquist made these puppets appear very loquacious; and
whenever they stopped to make a speech it was quite ludicrous, for
they vacillated to and fro like the pendulum of a clock, for more than
a minute. We would have rejoiced to get out, but the rain still
poured, and we were compelled to remain. After the piece was
concluded, and the fiddlers had put up their instruments, and were
puffing out and pocketing the bits of candles, and we were reluctantly
preparing to issue forth into the storm, up came the above mentioned
vender of billets, (who it seems was manager likewise,) and calling to
the musicians to resume their operations, begged us to be re-seated,
in order to see the first act repeated, which we had lost by arriving
too late. We availed ourselves of her politeness and _honesty_, but
could scarcely refrain from laughing as we did so--and fortunately,
during the half hour that succeeded, the weather cleared, and we were
thus enabled to get home without the dreaded wetting; but the
Boulevards not being paved, the walking was exceedingly muddy, and it
was so long ere we reached a stand of carriages, that when we did, we
thought it more prudent to continue our route on foot, than to risk
sitting in our wet shoes.

As you may not know what is meant by the "_Boulevards_," I will tell
you. They are wide roads, or streets, edged with spreading umbrageous
elms, and formerly _bounded_ the city, but now, from its increase in
size, they are _within_ it. Their appellation of "Boulevards" is
derived from "bouler sur le vert," to "bowl upon the green"--being
once covered with turf, and the frequent scene of playing at bowls.
Here, nightly, the citizens forget the cares and labors of the day,
and resign themselves to pleasure and mirth. Rows of chairs, owned and
placed there by poor persons, may be hired for two sous a piece.
Adieu.

LEONTINE.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BURNING OF THE RICHMOND THEATRE.

The following lines are from the pen of a venerable lady of Virginia,
widow of one of the patriots of the revolution. They were written in
1812, shortly after the conflagration, and are now for the first time
published.

  What is this world? thy school, oh misery!
  Our only lesson is to learn to suffer,
  And they who know not _that_ were born for nothing.
                                  [_Young's Night Thoughts_.


    Whence the wild wail of agonizing woe
  That heaves each breast, and bids each eye o'erflow?
  Ah, me! amid the all involving gloom
  That wrapt the victims of terrific doom,
  While _palsied fancy_ casts an anguish'd glance,
  What _phrenzied_ spectres to my view advance!
  Appalled nature shrinks--my harrowed soul
  Dares not the direful scene of death unrol;
  Yet o'er the friends she loved the muse would mourn,
  And weep for others' sorrows and her own;
  To their sad obsequies would _grateful_ pay
  The heartfelt tribute of a mourning lay.
  And lo! through the dark horrors of the night,
  What form revered now rushes on my sight!
  Ye blasting flames, oh spare the cheek of age!
  Ah, heaven! they with redoubled fury rage!
  Yet undismay'd she view'd the fiery flood,
  Resign'd amid the desolation stood--
  To God alone address'd her feeble cry,
  Oh! save my child, and willingly I die!
  Approving heaven propitious heard her prayer,
  To bliss receiv'd her, and preserv'd her care.
  Oh, long lov'd friend! oh, much lamented Page!
  How did thy goodness every heart engage--
  How oft for _me_ thy generous tears have flow'd,
  What kind attention still thy love bestow'd;
  When sickness mourn'd or sorrow heav'd a sigh,
  Thy useful aid benignant still was nigh;
  The best of neighbors, and the truest friend,
  O'er thy sad urn disconsolate we bend.
  Heardst thou that shriek? the accent of despair!
  The mother's deep felt agony was there:
  My only hope, Louisa, art thou gone?
  Is thy pure spirit to thy Maker flown?
  Oh! take me too! the mourner frantic cries,
  When such friends part _'tis the survivor_ dies!
  She was my all--so gentle, good, and kind;
  Then she is blest, and be thy heart resign'd!
  And see, of sympathy, alas! the theme,
  In woes experience'd, and in griefs supreme!
  Yon aged matron now to view appears,
  One thought alone her anguish'd bosom cheers;
  For while on vacancy she bends her eye,
  She sees her children angels in the sky!
  Juliana! Edwin! beauteous Mary too!
  To yon bright realm from earthly suffering flew;
  Well tried in fortune's ever changing scene,
  A mourner now with calm resigned mien,
  Who bears a name to every patriot dear,
  Nelson! who long Virginia shall revere,
  Ah, see! submissive to the direful stroke,
  No murmurs from her pallid lips have broke;
  Though lov'd Maria, long her age's stay,
  Whose duteous care watch'd o'er her setting day,
  The awful mandate bade, alas, depart!
  "Lean not on earth--'twill pierce thee to the heart;"
  Yet must our sorrows stain the mournful bier,
  When virtue lost demand the flowing tear!
  And youthful Mary shares Maria's fate,
  Her gentle cousin and endearing mate;
  For hand in hand they mount the ethereal way,
  To brighter regions and unclouded day.
    Great God! whose fiat gives the general doom,
  Speaks into life, or lays within the tomb,
  Oh! teach our hearts submissive to resign;
  Thy will be done--be much obedience mine.
  And lo! advancing from the deepest shade,
  A generous youth sustains a sainted maid;
  Down his pale cheeks the gushing tears o'erflow,
  And fancy's ear attends the plaint of woe.
  Oh, much lov'd Conyers! lov'd so long in vain,
  Could but my death thy fleeting soul retain,
  Far happier I, than doom'd, alas! to prove
  The bitter pangs of unrequited love;
  My constant heart disdains on earth to stay,
  While thou art borne to native realms away--
  Nor at my hapless fate can I repine,
  Since bless'd in death to call thee ever mine!
  Oh, gallant youth! Oh, all accomplish'd maid!
  At your sad shrine shall votive rites be paid;
  There oft at eve shall pensive lovers stray,
  And future Petrarchs pour the plaintive lay;
  For, ah! behold a faithful wedded pair,
  Blest _too_ in death, an equal fate to share!
  In their sad breasts no _selfish_ fears arise,
  _Each_ for the other _feels_--_each_ in the _other dies!_
  Yon man of woes, oh! mark his furrowed cheek;
  What deep-drawn sighs his misery bespeak:
  'Tis Gallego! Each bosom comfort flown,
  In the dark vale of years he walks alone.
  And now amid the victim train appears
  A friend of worth, approv'd through twenty years;
  Just, wise, and good, true to his country's cause,
  He from opposing parties gain'd applause:
  From life and usefulness forever torn,
  Virginia long for Venable shall mourn;
  And for her chief, lamented Smith, shall share
  His orphan's grief, his wretched widow's care.
  Nutall--a man obscure, of humble name,
  Virtuous, industrious, tho' unknown to fame,
  Escap'd in safety--heard his wife's sad cries!
  "Safe tho' we are, alas! my daughter dies!"
  He heard, nor paus'd, but dar'd again the fire,
  Resolv'd to save or in the attempt expire;
  Oh! noble daring--worthy to succeed--
  But Heaven forbade, yet bless'd the generous deed:
  The daughter lives--the father's toils are o'er--
  Where sorrow, pain and want, can wound no more;
  In the bright glow of youthful beauties bloom,
  Ill-fated Anna sinks beneath the gloom:
  Her lovely orphan--yet too young to know
  Her cruel loss or the extent of woe--
  In deepest grief while all around her mourn,
  Still piteous cries, "When will Mamma return!"
  What tender cries, what anguish'd moans prevail,
  How many orphans join the plaintive wail!
  For Gibson, Heron, Greenhow, Gerardin,
  And Wilson, borne from the heart-rending scene!
  While frantic husbands, mothers, widows rave,
  O'er the _vast urn_ the _all-containing grave!_
  But ah! my muse the death-fraught theme forbear,
  Nor longer tread the abyss of wild despair;
  I sink with life's distracting cares oppress'd,
  And fain with those would share eternal rest;
  Yet impious, let me not presume to scan--
  Great God--thy ways mysterious all to man!
  But while for mercy humbly I implore,
  "Rejoice with trembling," and resign'd adore.

M. L. P.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.


  I'll neither call thee beautiful
    Nor say that thou art fair;
  I will not praise thy witching eye,
    Nor compliment thy hair;
  I'll speak not of the roses sweet,
    That blush upon thy cheek,
  Nor of the tresses richly hung
    About thy snowy neck.

  For thou wouldst deem it flattery,
    Altho' it would not be,
  And flattery would never do
    To win a smile from thee;
  And surely I would proudly win,
    Without the help of guile,
  A look that would be mellowed
    By the magic of thy smile.

JACK TELL.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

GIRL OF BEAUTY.


  Girl of Beauty! can you tell,
  Gazing in the crystal well,
  Who it is that madly dreams
  Of thine eye's bewildering beams?

  Girl of Beauty! is the bird,
  In the spring, with pleasure heard,
  When the melody of song
  Leaps the listening boughs among?
  If the birds delight the grove,
  Can I hear thee, and not love?

  Girl of Beauty! does the Bee
  Love the rose's purity?
  Does the Miser love his dross?
  Does the Christian love his cross?
  Then _I love thee_, gentle girl,
  Dearer than the crown of earl.

  Girl of Beauty! does the sky
  Seem all beauteous to thine eye,
  When the stars with silver rays
  Brightly beam before thy gaze?
  Thou art dearer far to me,
  Than the stars _can be_ to thee.

  Girl of Beauty! does the tar
  Love to dream of scenes afar,
  When the mildly sighing gale
  Fills the proudly swelling sail?
  Then I love to dream of thee,
  And thy sweet simplicity.

  Girl of Beauty! does the boy
  Kiss his sister's cheek with joy
  When they meet in after years,
  Having parted once in tears?
  May you kiss your brother soon--
  Ere the rounding of the moon.

JACK TELL.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE RECLAIMED.


It was a bright and beautiful summer evening. All nature seemed to
speak the language of peace and joy; the birds warbled in the groves,
the gentle breezes sported among the lofty trees, and all objects wore
the soothing aspect of that benevolent spirit who had spread them
before the eye of man. While indulging the pleasing sensations which
scenes like this never fail to inspire, my attention was directed to
an elegant mansion situated on the opposite hill, and my companion
asked whether I had ever heard the history of its present inmates. To
my reply in the negative, he remarked, that being personally
acquainted with the family, and knowing their history, he would relate
it, aware of the deep interest I felt in every thing which bore any
relation to the subject, to which the narrative will afford a
sufficient clue.

In the summer of 1824, Mrs. Loraine removed to this neighborhood with
two children, a son and a daughter; the former twelve, the latter ten
years of age. Her husband alike distinguished for talents and humanity
in his medical profession as well as social relations, had died during
the previous autumn in New Orleans, where he had removed shortly after
his marriage with Miss Allen, who was adorned with the virtues and
graces which are requisite to make the amiable wife, the prudent
mother, and valuable friend. Deeply affected at the loss of a husband
tenderly and deservedly beloved, and being herself a native of
Virginia, and having relations in this county she resolved to remove
to her native spot; preferring the retirement of the country to the
gaieties of a city, not only on her own account, but also on that of
her children. A young lady who had been for several years the
instructress of her two children, agreed to accompany her and continue
their education till such time as it might seem advisable to employ
more extended means of instruction for one or both. In Miss Medway
were happily blended a strong and energetic mind, a correct judgment
and taste, affectionate heart, polished manners, and an education
liberal and elegant. Born to high expectations, reared in the lap of
wealth and indulgence, _loving_ and _beloved_, a cruel tide of
misfortune deprived her of all, and threw her at the age of nineteen,
poor and dependant, on a cold and unfeeling world. But why descend to
particulars which intercept the thread of our narrative? Of her much
remains to be told, which you yet will hear, but for the present let
it suffice to say, that in this state of sorrow Dr. Loraine became her
friend and bountiful benefactor. At this retired and beautiful spot,
the minds of William and Lavinia were not only expanded by the
faithful care of their mother and tutoress in literature, but in the
richer and far more valuable lessons of virtue, which were daily
enforced by precept and example. Six years rolled round, and found
little change in the domestic circle. William was now eighteen, and
his mother determined to enter him the ensuing session at the college
of ----, in order to prepare him for the study of that profession in
which his father had excelled, and for which he seemed peculiarly
adapted by the tender benevolence of his heart, and the discriminating
powers of his mind. In William Loraine were strangely blended the
softness and gentleness of woman, with the noble firmness and
independence of man. Beloved by all who knew him, and reared up in the
precincts of his mother's influence, it was not unreasonable to
believe that he had grown sufficiently strong in the theory and
practice of virtue, to stand uncontaminated, among the vices and
follies of a collegiate life. But alas! how often is the morning which
dawned in cloudless beauty soon succeeded by storm and tempest; and
the bud which promised beauty and fragrance, withered ere it expands
to maturity: and how often, thus linger on the bright visions of fancy
and hope, while before us lie the sad realities of life.

With many tears, and tender caresses, and regrets, William left his
peaceful happy home, to mix with strangers in a distant state. Deeply
did he feel the trial, and while his mother's tender and ardent
benediction and admonitions sounded in his ear, the tear of love and
promised obedience trickled down his manly cheek. Soon after his
introduction to the beings with whom he was to associate, he resolved
to watch for awhile the conduct of all the students, and choose for
his friend that youth whose feelings and conduct most nearly accorded
with his own views and intentions. Nor did he wait long ere he found
an object to love and confide in. There is in the heart of all a
desire for friendship which nothing can satisfy but the belief that it
is possessed. Various are the properties which may lead to a selection
of the object in different minds, but congeniality in some respects is
almost indispensable to the formation of friendship. James Drayton, of
South Carolina, seemed to the confiding heart of William, the very
being he had sought. In James Drayton was presented a union of the
most opposite traits of character, yet so blended as to almost add
effect and interest to each other. Singularly handsome, of polished
and elegant manners--of a gay disposition, but a deeply reserved and
shrewd mind--generous to a fault, and possessing every facility for
the gratification of every wish--ardent but injudicious in
attachments, and above all of a memory which required no exertion to
make a conspicuous figure in his studies, he was at once beloved,
envied, flattered, and caressed. In such a being the innocent heart of
William confided, and to imitate him and gain his affection,
constituted his great delight. Nor were his affections unreturned.
Drayton loved him with a passion at once impetuous and sincere.
Pleasures were but half enjoyed when William Loraine was not a
participant, while his presence rendered pleasant scenes otherwise
unpleasing. Twelve months rolled round and found their hearts fondly
united, not only by scenes of profitable research and benevolent acts,
but also by the baneful yet fascinating pleasures of wildness and
dissipation. The regular examination which as usual concluded the
collegiate year, was to them a time of real and almost unalloyed
pleasure. Distinguished in their various studies, and improved by
their teachers for moral deportment and dutiful demeanor, generally
beloved by their companions, few youths seemed to enjoy a more
enviable lot. It was determined that James should accompany William to
Virginia, to spend the vacation at Roseville, with his friends and
relations. Accordingly the day after the close of their examination,
they took seats in the stage, and in about eight days arrived at the
lovely spot. In silence we pass the meeting scene, and all the usual
events which mark such periods, the welcome given the friend of their
William, and the joy felt by all who knew the amiable inmates, at
again seeing him among his friends. Time had dealt bountifully with
Lavinia, and to the eye of her brother, every day had added to her
charms, since they parted.

James saw her with admiration and delight. True she was young, being
little over sixteen, but to the playful innocence of the child, was
added the grace and dignity of manners, befitting the woman. She was
not strictly beautiful, yet a spell seemed thrown around her, that
insensibly drew the hearts of all who lingered in her presence. Tall
and elegantly formed, her dark brown hair hung in natural ringlets on
her white neck, the rose and lily mingled their choicest tints on her
cheek, while her full dark eye spoke the strong and polished mind, the
soft and innocent heart that illuminated it. Her features were not
what the connoisseur would term unexceptionable, while the less
critical observer would almost declare them perfect. Such was the
_person_ of Lavinia: but who can paint the endowments of her heart and
mind? the casket was indeed pleasingly garnished, but the jewel within
was of transcendent brightness. To the enthusiastic mind of Drayton,
she was a being of unearthly mould; and while he almost gave to her
his adoration, it was blended with a serious awe. In Lavinia Loraine
he beheld a christian, and while he loved the woman he feared to
approach what he deemed the saint. We have said Drayton was wild and
dissipated: but it was not that grosser kind of dissipation which is
visible and disliked by all. He loved the social card table and
glass--the night spent in folly and mirth--but morning found him in
the path of the gentleman, pure in honor, and unstained in truth.

William too loved the pleasures of his friend, and though he dipped
deep in the gilded pool that allured him to its banks, he found it
bitterness in the end. His mother's tender admonitions sounded in his
ears--his sister's kind counsels, and the earnest appeals of his
beloved friend Miss Medway, turned every cup to gall. Yet still he
went on, and vainly hoped to find a solace in the thought, that to
them he was a moral and religious youth. Two months flew on rapid
wing, and the two young men were again to return to the college.

With many swelling emotions William left the maternal roof, and with
many tender regrets bade adieu to the friends who had welcomed him to
their mansion. But James felt what his proud soul could not own even
to itself. He felt he left his heart with one who gave only friendship
in return; whom he must honor and adore, feeling he could never be
beloved, and for once the thought of his unworthiness of such a being
darted with painful sensations through his heart. He knew he was not
what the pure and pious mind of Lavinia would choose for a companion,
and feeling his inferiority he had not dared to breathe his flame.
Sadly he entered the halls he lately left, the gayest of the
gay--coldly he received the greetings of his collegiates, and with
loathing opened the learned volume it was his duty to explore. Even to
William he was altered. He avoided his presence as though it conjured
up some phantom to torment. Grieved at this change, William sought
some means to draw from him the cause of his altered appearance and
manner, but sought in vain. Six months at length passed by, and he
gradually began to assume his former self. Again William was his
favorite companion, and again they mingled in the same seductive joys.
Gradually intemperance was seizing upon them, and in like manner they
were becoming dead to the ennobling feelings of the heart.

The next vacation came. They still wore a mask that few could
penetrate: again honors were awarded them, and William was now to
accompany his friend to South Carolina. James welcomed him with feasts
and revelry: his parents poured out the richest allurements to joy and
indulgence. He seemed to be in Elysian fields, and almost forgot the
quiet and rational delights of his own home. Splendid profusion marked
the whole domain, while races, balls, and the like amusements filled
up every hour.

Yet even here could _James_ find room for ennui. He would sometimes
stroll away from all, and seem lost in a deep and painful reverie. He
appeared to enjoy few of the objects around them, and although he
loved his parents, he avoided their presence, as though he dreaded to
meet their scrutiny. With pleasure he welcomed the day that he was to
be again seated among his books and papers--not that he delighted in
their pages, but they drew his mind from other thoughts.

In six months the two young men were to complete their course, and
James resolved then to visit Roseville again, and see the object of
his ardent love. Their course is finished--they went together--and
once more the heart of Drayton felt a gleam of joy. He saw Lavinia
more beautiful than ever, and fondly fancied she was less indifferent;
but he was still unhappy--he felt that he had been unworthy of
her--that he had been seducing the heart of her brother from the path
of piety she trod--and that he was endeavoring, by deep dissimulation,
to win a being free from guile, and who knew vice but to detest it.
Lavinia saw her William changed. She heard the unguarded expressions
of profanity that sometimes escaped his lips; she saw him disposed to
leave the family hearth, and go she knew not whither--yet feared to
ask; she saw the smile of contempt that curled his lip when religion
was the theme of conversation; nor could she fail to see that the
society of his family was a painful restraint.

Young Drayton, deeply skilled in dissimulation, had as yet retained
the esteem of Mrs. Loraine and Miss Medway, while the heart of Lavinia
had owned his fascinating power. He saw he was not to her an object of
indifference. The glowing cheek and downcast eye, when _he_ approached
her, he could not fail to understand. Six weeks he remained at
Roseville, ere he dared to breath to Lavinia the love that glowed in
his bosom. One lovely evening, after a long conflict between
inclination, hope and fear, he determined to pour out his heart, and
hear from her own lips that doom which would either seal his weal or
woe. According to his determination, he proposed a walk on the banks
of the river, to which she reluctantly acceded. He then informed her
of the ardor of his affection, and urged his suit with such address,
that the heart of Lavinia almost resisted the voice of prudence and
duty. But the conflict was to be but short, as the impetuous youth
would hear of no postponement. Lavinia discarded him; but not without
candidly acknowledging, that his want of true morality, proper
sobriety and religion, (facts long suspected, but recently ascertained
beyond a doubt,) had induced her to relinquish the hand of the only
man she had ever loved. In vain he attempted to shake her resolution;
and the next morning's sun rose not, till he was far from the hitherto
happy Roseville.

When Lavinia arose, she was handed the following note:

"_Lavinia!_--A fond, a long, an eternal adieu. I leave you, and with
you, all I ever valued or loved. I go where none will know my sorrow
or my shame. Lost to all that made my life desirable, I go--where--it
matters not what I may become. May you be happy, if the thoughts of my
misery will allow it. _You_ deserve it--_you_ are virtuous; but as for
me, I am only left to drink _that cup_ of misery which a life of
dissipation never fails to prepare for its votaries. Your brother's
principles I have corrupted; and, wretch that I was, who have madly
sought to unite an angel to a demon. Oh! Lavinia, I deserved you not.
You are born to bless, and to be blessed--and I, alas! to curse, and
to be cursed. _Farewell_--again _farewell!_--but know, that while life
and memory last, you will be dear to the heart of the wretched

JAMES DRAYTON."

The heart of Lavinia bled over every line of that impassioned note.
She saw her brother changed from what he once had been--her mother's
cheek pallid--and the fond friend and instructress of her youth
sharing the sorrows of all.

Four years rolling round, brought to her many admirers--but to her
they talked of love in vain. William had married a lovely, wealthy
girl--but was bowing her happy spirit by his folly and extravagance.
Her mother was gradually sinking; and but for the stay of religion,
_she_ too would have sunk under the pressure of her sorrows--but he
whose promises she trusted, never forsook those who lean on his
almighty arm. Renowned for piety and benevolence, beloved, admired,
she moved around the circle of her acquaintance like a spirit of light
and peace. But her youthful attachment haunted her riper years--of
James no tidings had been heard--vain had proved her numerous
endeavors to learn his fate. She was one day alone, when a young man
of fine appearance knocked at the door. She arose and admitted him,
when he asked if she had ever known a Mr. Drayton. To her reply in the
affirmative, he arose and presented her the following letter, which
she no sooner took, than bowing, he wished her a happy evening, and
withdrew. Hastily she broke the seal, and read as follows:

"Will Lavinia now remember him whom once she knew, and who gave to her
the only sincere portion of his nature which he possessed? Does she
remember him whose follies and vices removed him from her and
happiness? Yes, she cannot have forgotten the once wretched, but now
comparatively happy Drayton. But you shall know what I owe you, and
though I may be disregarded, you will joy that you have saved a being
from misery and disgrace. But to my narrative.

"The day I left you, I resolved to join some lawless band, and strike
your heart with sorrow by your hearing of my crimes. But the thought
of your piety and virtue, were like a mountain between me and crime. I
went from place to place, but found no peace. Home I dreaded to
approach; but after three months of wandering, determined again to
behold my parents, and fix on some course of conduct. I went--my
father was on his death-bed. His illness was augmented by anxiety for
my return, as he had not heard from me since I left Roseville. I
received his dying blessing; and in less than two months my mother lay
beside him. Watching and grief had been too much, and perhaps the
folly of her son added another mortal wound. I was now left sole
master of about fifty thousand dollars, and with it a heart almost
lost to virtue. I sold out my lands, &c., vested nearly all the amount
in stock, and embarked for the Indies, determined to see my native
land no more. Tossed on the wide ocean, I was surrounded by ten
thousand dangers, more lawless in feeling than the billows around,
beneath, above me. I cared for nothing--regarded nothing--and often
hoped to find a watery grave. A storm arose--we were shipwrecked--and
the near approach of death brought with it the instinctive love of
life. A vessel bound to England spied out the wreck; a few only had
clung to its ruins. I was taken on board, and after a voyage of a few
days was landed at Liverpool. I was then an altered man; five days of
hunger, cold and suffering had brought me to reason. I had thought of
what had caused all the woes I then endured. I thought of Roseville,
and of you--of my native land, and all it once contained; _they_ were,
I felt, lost to me, and I sunk into despair. On board the English
vessel I had found a pious Quaker and his family. I now longed again
to behold them. Having sought them in vain in Liverpool, I advertised
for tidings of them; and hearing they were in London, I went thither
and found them. They received me like a child, and to them I related
my history and my misery. They pointed out to me the only means of
present and future happiness. I thought of you, Lavinia, and of your
frequent, modest and affectionate exhortations to your brother and
myself, to seek the pearl of matchless price. I resolved to strive to
win the smile of heaven, and to give up all on earth.

"America I never expected again to behold, but the joys of religion to
seek till life was o'er. Yes, often in the anguish of despair, I
recollected some passage you had marked in the Bible I took as I left
the house at Roseville for the last time. It lay on your work-table; I
knew you loved it--I took it to give you a pang. I read it to
cavil--to disbelieve. I was tempted to burn it; but it had been yours,
and I could not give it up. In the horrors of the storm, I kept it
near my heart. It raised my hopes--for I felt that though I had
despised its truths, _they_ were still immutable. Even now I have
it--dear, precious volume. But I have wandered from my narrative.

"After many months of struggling--sometimes for truth, then to forget
it--I at length gave up all as lost, and in anguish sought my friend.
He bade me look to him who alone could save. I looked with faith--I
seized the promises--I was blessed. Yes, Lavinia, I felt what was
worth a world. I immediately resolved to engage in business, and not
return to America, till I had tested the truth of my present feelings.
I entered into a life of activity. I read and grew in knowledge, and I
trust in grace. I thought of you, but feared to trust my heart. You
had been, and might be again its idol. I resolved to tear it from the
throne I had vowed to give to God. But I could not forget. Three years
had at length rolled round since we had parted. You were, I doubted
not, another's. But for me, I could not love again. I consulted my
friend, who had returned to America, as to what course I should take.
He advised me to return. Of my fortune I had not heard; but I was able
to defray the expenses of my voyage. I left London; four months ago I
landed in New York. From thence I went to Philadelphia--remained a
month with the Quakers--thence to South Carolina, and was joyfully
received by all except the 'nearest of kin.' Of you I could hear
nothing. William I heard was married, and wild enough. I sent my
friend Mr. Alston to Virginia. He heard you were single--saw you at
church--heard the whole history of your family. He wrote me; I came to
----. He is the bearer of this. I there await an answer, saying
whether or not you will again behold your ever faithful

J. DRAYTON."

Immediately after she concluded this interesting epistle, she poured
out her heart in praise to God for preserving and reclaiming him for
whom she had so often wept and prayed, and whom she had loved with
unaltered fervor. She then hastened to communicate the glad tidings to
her mother and Miss Medway, and to despatch a servant to the village
to bring to Roseville the still dear Drayton. He came. Again he beheld
the being he so long had loved. Again he saw William, and exercised
his former influence--but in a holier channel. You can imagine the
scene--the mutual relations--the ensuing courtship, and the result.
Yes, my friend, Lavinia is the wife of Drayton. His large fortune is
now useful in acts of pious benevolence and zeal. His fine talents are
employed in dispensing good; his fascinating manners in winning others
to admire that which made him what he is. William Loraine is snatched
from ruin. His amiable mother is again blessed with duteous and
devoted children. And whence the mighty change? In this simple
narrative stands forth in glowing colors the truth of that maxim, that
the influence of the female sex is great, when enlisted either on the
side of virtue or of vice. Had Lavinia been less prudent and pious,
how great would have been the contrast; and amidst all the blessings
that have attended her through life, none diffuse such thrills of
rapture through her grateful, peaceful heart, as when reflecting on
the history of him, to whom is not inaptly applied the title of "The
Reclaimed."

The evening was far spent. My friend and myself bade each other adieu,
to return to our respective homes--but not without his promising at
some future day to inform me of the history of that young lady, to
whose eventful life he had briefly hinted. Ruminating on the moral of
the narrative, I could but deplore that the fair sex of our state did
not more nearly resemble Lavinia--refuse to unite their destinies with
the slaves of dissipated pleasure, and thereby reclaim from vice
thousands of her victims.

PAULINA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THIS OCEAN.


  I've stood and watch'd the inconstant Ocean's wave,
    Till it within my mind has grown to life,
  And when the hoarse, loud storm did wildly rave,
    I've loved the dashing, boisterous, foaming strife;
  And when the angry tempest died away,
    I've gazed upon its bright unruffled breast,
  Till my responsive soul in quiet lay,
    Just like the scene it view'd--so calm--so blest.

  Wide Ocean! I have mark'd thy silvery sheen,
    And when the dark cloud frown'd upon thy face,
  I've felt my soul expanding with the scene,
    And glowing with thy bright enchanting grace;
  But when I think that thy proud billows heave
    Between ten thousand hearts that once have twined,
  And still to their lost friends would fondly cleave,
    A pensive sadness steals upon my mind.

  'Tis hard that in our pilgrimage below,
    In all the storms and trials of the heart,
  A friend, the only balm to sooth our woe,
    That from that friend we should be forced to part,
  Proud Ocean, thou hast borne a brother o'er
    Thy heaving bosom to another strand;
  Tho' not unfriended was the distant shore,
    Still, still, it was a strange and foreign land.

  My brother--if my heart could but disclose
    Its warmest wish, it is with thee to be.
  My brother--if the fondest feeling glows
    Within my bosom, it still points to thee.
  My brother--does thy heart in transport hear
    The name of friends, of country, and of home?
  My brother--does thy soul these things revere,
    As once in early days untaught to roam?

  My brother--does a hope thy breast inflame,
    To clasp those dear loved objects to thy heart?
  I fear the charm has faded from their name,
    The bliss forgot, that it could once impart:
  No, no--upon thy heart are deep portray'd
    The home, the friends that thou hast left behind;
  'Tis not in time's destructive power to fade
    Those generous feelings from a noble mind.

J. M. C. D.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DISSERTATION

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


No. III.

_Resignation--Fortitude_.

In my first number I described woman as modest and timid, and man as
bold and courageous, and endeavored to explain the causes of this
characteristic difference between them. In the same number, however, I
showed that so strong are the humane feelings of woman, so powerful
are her kindly sympathies, that under peculiar circumstances she will
sometimes conquer all the weaknesses of her nature, triumph over all
opposing obstacles, and finally carry consolation and relief to man,
when overwhelmed by misfortunes of so appalling a character as even to
intimidate the hardier sex, and keep them at a distance. In my last I
pointed out the religious differences between the sexes together with
their causes, and the subject naturally invites me to compare them
together in relation to their _fortitude and resignation_ under
calamities and misfortunes.

I think there can be no doubt that woman is generally more resigned
than man under any very severe infliction which cannot be avoided. Her
calm resignation under the severest strokes of fortune, has been the
theme of eulogy for the poet, and the puzzle for the philosopher, from
the earliest times to the present. She who in her "hours of ease" is
so timid, so shrinking, so fearful of even a shadow, has always been
found in the dark hour of adversity to bear up with more fortitude and
resignation against the tide of woe than man. This character belongs
to woman even in the most savage state. She supports, in that state,
misfortunes both physical and moral with more resignation than man.
Ask, says Gisborne in his "Duties of Woman," among barbarians in the
ancient and the modern world who is the best daughter and wife, and
the answer is "she who bears with superior perseverance the
vicissitudes of the seasons, the fervor of the sun, the dews of
night." In fine, she who is most resigned and meek under the heavy and
intolerable burthen which is ever placed upon her.

Physicians tell us that woman supports sickness, pain and suffering,
much better than man. We are told that in the great earthquake in
Calabria, in 1783, which destroyed 40,000 persons, there was a very
noted difference between the men and women in regard to their
resignation. The very bodies of the sexes dug from the ruins marked
the difference in this respect between them--those of the women
exhibited calmness and resignation in the hour of death--their arms
were generally found hanging by their sides, or calmly folded over
their breasts; all struggle seemed to have ceased before death, and
they quietly submitted to their fate. Not so with the men. Their
bodies when dug from the ruins exhibited a mortal struggle to the
last--a leg thrust out here, an arm protruded there, and the whole
body thrown into an agonizing contortion, but too clearly marked the
fearful conflict which endured till the moment of dissolution, and the
great reluctance with which they let go their hold on life.

Let us then inquire into the causes of this difference between the
sexes, and we shall find them to spring out of circumstances already
pointed out and explained. I shall therefore be very brief on this
point.

I have already said that woman is physically weaker and consequently
less capable of laborious and constant exertion than man. The latter,
therefore, occupies the front station, whilst the former takes
possession of the back ground in the picture of human society. The
former is more self reliant, more bold, more confident and active--the
latter more modest, more timid, more dependent and passive. Man
depends on his activity, his energy and his strength, for the mastery
of all around him. Woman depends on her modesty, grace, beauty, in
fine upon her fascinations to command those energies which she finds
not within herself. _Activity_ is eminently the character of the one,
_passivity_ of the other. Now I have already pointed out the effect of
this dependence of woman on her feelings of devotion and religion. A
similar effect is produced on her resignation when visited by some
remediless calamity. Her weakness and dependence, at an early period
of her life admonish her of the hopelessness of all conflicts with the
mightier powers around her. When visited by any great misfortune,
therefore, whether the work of nature or of man, she is more resigned
and patient under her suffering, whilst man in the vain confidence of
his powers is disposed to battle and struggle with fate even to the
last.

Her religion, her superior devotional feelings, have likewise a mighty
influence in the production of that calm resignation which woman so
often exhibits amid the storms and calamities of this world. She has a
more abiding and implicit faith in the protection of heaven--her
trust, her reliance is greater; and whether she be overtaken by
calamity upon the land, or on the sea, she at once throws herself into
the arms of the divinity and quietly awaits the result. Man is like
the mariner aboard the ship--he must be always on the alert--he must
trim the sails, watch the midnight blast, and steer the ship on her
way over the rolling billows. Woman is like the passenger in the
vessel. She is carried forward by powers that are not hers, by
energies that she is unable to control. When then the tempest comes,
and the sea is lashed into the mountain wave--while every sailor is on
the deck at his post, battling against the storm, she is calm and
quiet within--she knows full well that all her efforts will be in
vain--she therefore looks to heaven for aid and protection: she trusts
in God whose arm alone is mighty, and able to save, and in the full
devotion of a confiding and trusting heart, she can truly exclaim:

  "Secure I rest upon the wave
   For thou, my God, hast power to save,
   I know thou wilt not slight my call,
   For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall;
   And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
   Rock'd in the cradle of the deep."[1]

There is certainly nothing which contrasts so beautifully with the
restless activity and feverish impatience of man, as the calm and
subdued countenance of woman in the hour of resignation, amid the
stern powers that are at work around her. How beautiful, how
transcendently lovely does the Thekla of Schiller's Wallenstein appear
in the camp surrounded by soldiers encased in iron. I borrow from the
graphic pen of M. B. Constant. "Sa voix si douce au travers le bruit
des armes, sa form delicate au milieu des hommes tout couverts de fer,
la pureté de son âme opposée a leurs calculs avides, son calm celeste
qui contraste avec leurs agitations, remplissent le spectateur d'une
emotion constante et melancholique, telle que ne la fait ressentir
nulle tragedie ordinaire."

[Footnote 1: These beautiful lines are taken from the Ocean Hymn,
published in the 10th number of the Messenger, from the pen of Mrs.
Emma Willard.]

Again, I have already explained how it happens that woman is capable
of suffering more than man in silence, without wearing even such an
aspect of countenance as may betray the internal agony. For the same
reason, of course, she has more resignation and fortitude.

Lastly, her physical organization renders her much more liable than
man to constitutional derangements, to periodical sickness, and
physical infirmities of all descriptions. Disease gradually inures the
mind to resignation and patience, and at last teaches us to bear with
fortitude all the ills we have. "We seldom," says Bulwer, "find men of
great animal health and power, possessed of much delicacy of mind.
That impetuous and reckless buoyancy of spirit which mostly
accompanies a hardy and iron frame, is not made to enter into the
infirmities of others;" and he might well have added, is not made to
bear its own infirmities and calamities with resignation and
fortitude, when at last overtaken by them. It is well, perhaps, in the
order of nature, that we should be afflicted sometimes. It improves
all our sensibilities, and strengthens our patience and resignation,
to have our thoughts occasionally directed to

  "The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave,
   The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm."

"Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco," is the noble motto which
disease and infirmity have written on the heart of many a female.

Having thus cursorily pointed out the causes of the superiority of
woman in regard to the resignation and fortitude with which she bears
misfortune, I cannot refrain from indulgence in a few remarks on the
admirable adaptation of the sexes to each other in this particular.
There is nothing more grateful to the feeling of piety, than to be
able to trace out in the works of nature, such adaptations as not only
mark the intelligence and unity of divinity, but proclaim in language
as clear as revelation itself, his unbounded benevolence and goodness.
It is this superior resignation and fortitude of woman, which so well
befits her to be the comfort and support of man in the hour of
remediless misfortune. Man is necessarily an active, restless,
energetic, impatient being. This character is generated by the
functions which he has to discharge in this world. He must not too
soon retire from the conflict. He must not bear too calmly and
quietly, the misfortunes and ills of this life. He must arouse
himself, and be in action. He must oppose and conquer all the
obstacles around him. In the beautiful language of one of the
ancients, "he must remember that nature has not intended him for a
lowspirited or ignoble being, but brought him into life in the midst
of this vast universe, as before a multitude assembled at some heroic
solemnity, that he might be a spectator of all her magnificence, and a
candidate for the high prize of glory." Under these circumstances
resignation and patience could not, perhaps ought not to have been
prominent traits in his character. Woman, however, moves in a
different sphere, and acquires, of course, a different character. Her
resignation and fortitude not only supports herself but man likewise,
amid the calamities of the world. "As the vine," says Irving, "which
has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by
it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifled by the
thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up
its shattered boughs, so is it beautifully ordered by providence, that
woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier
hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden
calamity, winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature,
tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken
heart."

It is in the conjugal state where all the kind and humane attributes
of woman are augmented and softened by the mighty influence of human
love, that we most frequently behold her supporting and cheering her
partner, when visited by the rough blasts of adversity; and sometimes,
when all hope on this side the grave has fled, when his doom is fixed,
and disease or the execution of the law is quickly to hurry him into
another world, we find woman still his dearest solace, sometimes
encouraging him by examples which mark so much devotion, so much
self-sacrifice, as frequently to rise into the region of the moral
sublime. It is well known that the stoic religion of the ancients
justified suicide, when the individual, after a due consideration of
all the circumstances, came to the conclusion that he had fulfilled
all his more glorious destinies on earth. Hence it was frequently
considered a duty incumbent on man to put an end to his existence,
when calamity and misfortune seemed to mark him out as a nuisance on
earth. Hence, too, according to Dr. Smith, this religion may be
considered as "the noblest death-song ever sung by man." We must go
back then, to antiquity, when this religion was prevalent, and of
course when suicide was justified, to see what woman is capable of
doing to console or encourage her husband in the midst of his
calamities.

Pliny the younger, tells us of a neighbor, in the humbler walks of
life, who was visited by a loathsome, painful disease, of an incurable
character. Himself and wife came to the conclusion that it would be
better for him to end his existence; and in order that she might
encourage him to execute this resolve, she determined to die with him.
The death which she chose, was truly characteristic of that devoted
affection which she had so constantly felt for him whilst alive. She
was bound in his arms, and in this condition they precipitated
themselves from a window into the sea beneath. Montaigne seems to have
been particularly struck with this act of heroism on the part of a
female who was of an humble and obscure family, and remarks, that
"even amongst that condition of people, it is no very new thing to see
some examples of uncommon good nature."

          ----"Extrema per illos
  Justitia excedens terris vestigia facit."

Seneca, the philosopher and tutor of Nero, was condemned to death by
his pupil, in the decline of life, after having married Pompeia
Paulina, a young and noble Roman lady, who loved and was loved
devotedly by him. She too, in the plenitude of her grief and
affection, nobly determined to die with her husband, and thus to
encourage him by her example, quietly but firmly to bear the last
struggle of humanity. She, however, was saved, after having opened her
veins, by the emissaries of Nero, who feared the effect which this act
of self-immolation might produce on the excitable populace of Rome.

Plutarch, in one of his most interesting Dialogues, makes Daphneus
assert that there is something divine in the love of woman, and
compares it to the sun that animates all nature. He places the
greatest felicity in conjugal love, and gives us as an
exemplification, the very interesting tale of the adventures of
Eppopina, which passed before the eyes of Plutarch, as he was at that
time living in the house of Vespasian. Sabinus, the husband of
Eppopina, being vanquished by the troops of the Emperor Vespasian,
concealed himself in a deep cavern between Franche Compté and
Champagne. The unbounded affection of Eppopina and her untiring
researches, soon enabled her to find the hiding place of him who
commanded all the affections of her heart. She determined to be the
consoler and the comforter of her husband, who was buried from the
world. She accordingly shut herself up with him, attended on him in
that dark cavern for many years, and bore children whilst there; and
all this she encountered for his sake. When brought before Vespasian,
who was astonished at her heroism and fortitude, she said to him, "I
have lived more happily under ground, than thou in the light of the
sun, and in the enjoyment of power."

But one of the most celebrated examples on record, of the ardent
desire of woman to console and encourage her husband in the dismal
hour of despair, is furnished by Arria, the wife of Cecina Pætus. This
Pætus, after the defeat by the troops of the Emperor Claudius of the
army of Scribonianus, whose party he had espoused, was condemned to
death by the same emperor. It was the custom under the emperors, to
leave condemned individuals to terminate their existence themselves,
provided they could have the resolution to do it. Pætus wavered and
hesitated. The dreadful struggle which it cost him, made a deeper
impression upon the devoted and tender heart of Arria than even the
sentence of death had inflicted. After caressing and encouraging him
by the most tender offices to nerve himself to the act, she took the
poniard which he wore by his side, and exclaiming, "Pætus, do thus!"
she plunged it into her own bosom; then drawing it from the reeking
wound, she presented the dagger to her husband "with this noble,
generous, and immortal saying:" _Pæte non dolet!_ "Pætus, it is not
painful!"[2]

[Footnote 2: This death has afforded Martial the subject of one of his
most elegant epigrams, which has been thus rendered:

  "When to her husband Arria gave the sword,
   Which from her chaste, her bleeding breast she drew,
   She said, 'My Pætus, this I do not feel;
   But, oh! the wound that must be made by you!'
   She could no more--but on her Pætus still,
   She fix'd her feeble, her expiring eyes;
   And when she saw him raise the pointed steel,
   She sunk--and seem'd to say, 'Now Arria dies!'"]

Such instances as these we do not find in modern times, because the
introduction of a more humane and rational religion, together with
juster and more philosophical notions upon the subject of morality,
have taught us that under no circumstances short of _absolute
necessity_, can suicide be justified. But we are not to infer that
woman is not as kind, as tender now as in the days of antiquity, when
her religious creed did not forbid suicide. What, for example, can
show more kind solicitude, more tender anxiety about the last moments
of a condemned husband, than the letter written by Lady Jane Grey to
her husband Lord Guilford Dudley, a short time previous to his
execution, when she herself at the same time was lying under a
sentence of condemnation. "Do not let us meet, Guilford," she says,
"we must see each other no more, until we are united in a better
world. We must forget our joys so sweet, our loves so tender and so
happy. You must now devote yourself to none but serious thoughts. No
more love, no more happiness here upon earth! We must now think of
nothing but death! Remember, my Guilford, that the people are waiting
for you, to see how a man can die. Show no weakness as you approach
the scaffold; your fortitude would be overcome perhaps, were you to
see me. You could not quit your poor Jane without tears; and tears and
weakness must be left to us women. Adieu, my Guilford adieu! be a
man--be firm at the last hour--let me be proud of you." Well then
might Guilford die like a hero, when he had such a wife to encourage
and be proud of him. And who was this tender, kind, consoling wife, in
the hour of death? Her political history is known to all. Almost
forced for a moment to wear the crown of England, she incurred the
guilt of treason, was condemned to death at the very time when she
forgets herself in trying to impart resignation and fortitude to her
husband, and was executed a few days afterwards. She is described as
having been lovely beyond measure. Her features were beautifully
regular, and her large and mild eyes were the reflection of a pure and
virtuous soul, peaceful and unambitious. Yet even she could forget
blood and royalty, and all the weakness of her own nature, and the
terrors of her own execution, to impart moral courage and resignation
to a husband about to die.

Many most affecting instances of the same kind might be cited from the
French revolution; but my limits will permit me to adduce no more. I
hope then, all my readers are ready to acknowledge the justice of the
celebrated eulogy which the Duke de Lioncourt passed upon the merits
of woman in this particular--a eulogy whose justice and truth his
condition and career in life, seem to have well befitted his head to
comprehend and his heart to feel. "Their friendship," says he, "is
inviolable, their fidelity unshaken, their courage invincible. They
are intimidated by no difficulty, and bid defiance to dangers. Amiable
woman! while man desponds, she animates him with new hopes. When he is
sick, she ministers unto him; when in distress, she comforts him, bids
him live, and makes him in love with himself. And well can she sooth
and comfort him: she is all patience, she is all fortitude. The
endearments of her smiles, the melting accents of her voice, and her
bewitching softness, beguile him of his sorrows, and make his prison a
palace." Enough has been said to prove the admirable adaptation of the
sexes to each other in the particular under discussion, and to show
what a kind ministering angel woman can become in the dark hour of
adversity.

It has been truly remarked, that when a married man falls into
adversity, he is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than
a single one, "because his spirits are soothed and relieved by
domestic endearments, and his self-respect is kept alive by finding
that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still
a little world of love at home of which he is the monarch." He can
truly say, "if I am unacceptable to all the world beside, there is one
whom I entirely love, that will receive me with joy and transport, and
think herself obliged to double her kindness and caresses of me, from
the gloom with which she sees me overcast. I need not dissemble the
sorrow of my heart to be agreeable there; that very sorrow quickens
her affection." Let every husband then remember this, and never keep
from his wife his misfortunes, no matter how heartrending they may be.
Woman is always full of resources on these occasions, and will ever
submit with cheerfulness to every privation, which her altered
circumstances may demand. There is many a husband who has never known
the true character and value of his wife, until he has seen her
resignation, fortitude, and almost angelic cheerfulness under the dark
clouds of misfortune. It is then "she openeth her mouth in wisdom; and
in her tongue is the law of kindness." Then may the husband well
acknowledge that he has found a truly virtuous woman, and her price to
him at least, is far above all rubies. One of the most beautiful tales
of Washington Irving, is that which is entitled "The Wife," and owes
its great merit to the singular beauty with which he describes the
fortitude and encouraging cheerfulness of a young wife whose husband
is ruined. Women even who have been reckless and dissipated, and have
ruined their husbands by their extravagance, have frequently reformed
in adversity, and become the stay and solace of their husbands when
stript of all their possessions. It is then we may truly say of the
reformed woman in the language of holy writ, "she looketh well to the
ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness." Even
Bulwer, in his England and the English, makes his fictitious Mrs.
Thurston, after ruining her husband by her extravagance, occasioned by
vanity and ambition, consent with cheerfulness to assume the coarser
and more homely garments of penury, and forget her own proud self in
the desire to console and comfort her ruined husband. And Miss
Edgeworth too, in that beautiful romance, "The Absentee," after
misfortune had visited the Clonbronny family, makes the vain and
haughty Lady Clonbronny, who was so desirous to reside in London, and
whose very heart and soul yearned after the society of the fashionable
circles of that great metropolis, consent to return to her deserted
castle in Ireland, on the _reasonable condition_ that she might never
be mortified with the sight of the old _yellow damask curtains_ which
hung in the windows of the hall. Well then may we truly say of woman
what Cicero so beautifully asserted of the genuine friend. She doubles
our enjoyments by the pleasures which they afford her, and she halves
our sorrows by the comforts, and consolations, and sympathies which
_she_ affords us.

  "'Tis woman's smiles that lull our cares to rest;
   Dear woman's charms that give to life its zest:
   'Tis woman's hand that smooths affliction's bed,
   Wipes the cold sweat, and stays the sinking head."


_Intellectual Differences between the Sexes_.

I shall now proceed to the consideration of the differences between
the sexes in regard to their intellectual powers; and here we shall
find differences of the most marked and important character, which
perhaps have more puzzled the philosophers, and given rise to more
speculation, sophism and false reasoning, than any others observable
between the sexes. At one time a spirit of gallantry and blind
devotion, at another time of revenge and jealousy, has mixed itself
more or less with the spirit of speculation upon this subject, and of
course warped and biassed the conclusions of authors. Hobbes, in his
writings, has asserted that if the interests or passions of men, could
ever be steadily opposed to the mathematical axiom that the whole is
equal to all the parts, its truth would quickly be denied and boldly
reasoned against. It stands because neither interest nor feeling is
opposed to it. Out feelings are more or less to be guarded against in
all our moral speculations, but particularly in discussions relative
to the comparative merits of the sexes.

Shortly after the revival of letters, when the institution of chivalry
was still in successful operation, there seemed to be a combination
among the literati in Europe, to place woman in every respect above
man. The celebrated Boccaccio, the most beautiful writer, one of the
most devoted lovers, and perhaps the greatest favorite of his time
with women, led on the van of this band of gallant authors. In his
work "On Illustrious Women," he runs through the whole circle of
history and fable. He ransacks the Grecian, Roman and sacred
histories, and brings together Cleopatra and Lucretia, Flora and
Portia, Semiramis and Sappho, Athalia and Dido, &c.--and lavishes out
his sweetest praises on charming woman. We are not to wonder then at
his popularity and authority among the women of his age, when we
remember his devotion and his eulogy. His harangue against the
marriage of christian widows, did not however share the same
popularity with those to whom it was addressed, although backed by
quotations and ingenious explanations thereof, from the apostle Paul.

Boccaccio was followed by a host of imitators, singing the praises of
the sex. Throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the tide of
discussion, if I may be allowed the expression, ran almost wholly on
the side of the females. Love, polytheism, christianity, and the
worship of the saints, were strongly blended by the over-zealous
gallantry of the times, into one incongruous heterogeneous compound,
calculated to excite the smile of the philosopher, and the frown of
the theologian. Ruscelli, for example, one of the most celebrated
writers of his day, maintains the decided superiority of woman over
man. "But the effect of his reasoning," says a modern writer, "is
destroyed by the confused impression which is made on the mind of the
reader by the mixture of divinity and platonism; by blending through
the whole the name of God and woman; by placing Moses by the side of
Petrarch and of Dante; and by giving in the same page, and even in the
same period, quotations from Boccaccio and St. Augustine, from Homer
and from St. John." "This however," says the same writer, "must
necessarily be found in a country where we often meet with the ruins
of a temple of Jupiter in the neighborhood of a church, a statue of
St. Peter upon a column of Trajan, and a Madonna beside an Apollo."

Throughout the whole of this period it seems to have been ungallant in
the highest degree in an author not to place woman decidedly above man
in every particular. Even in intellectual power she was considered as
superior; and in perusing the voluminous proofs which were so
industriously, and sometimes so ingeniously brought forward to prove
it, we find ourselves as bewildered as the _femme de chambre_ of
Molière, under the learned remarks of the doctor upon the death of the
coachman. The poor woman at last exclaims, "Le Medecin peut dire ce
qu'il veut, mais le cocher est mort." Whatever may have been written
or said in praise of the intellectual powers of woman during the very
gallant period of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, it is now a
conceded point, that under the actual constitution of society, and
with the superior education of our sex, the intellectual endowments
and developments of man are generally found superior to those of woman
at the age of maturity. In fact, the remark is susceptible of the
greatest possible extension. Among all the barbarous nations--among
the half civilized, as well as among the refined and polished, we find
the intellectual powers of man every where and in every age superior
to those of woman.[3]

[Footnote 3: I do not mean to assert here that woman has been found
inferior to man in _every_ department or modification of the
intellect; for in some kinds of intelligence she always has been, as
we shall soon see, man's superior;--but my meaning is, that in the
higher department of the intellectual powers, and in the general range
of the mind, man is superior to woman.]

It is fable alone which tells us of whole nations of Amazons. There is
no well authenticated history of any people where the women have taken
the lead, and governed the men by their superior intellectual
endowments. Of course, as already remarked, individual exceptions
prove nothing. We are here concerned with masses of individuals; and
from the foundation of the world to the present time, we find that man
has been uniformly the commander in the field; he has formed the
material of the armies; he has led them to battle, won the victories
and achieved the conquest. He has directed at the council board; his
eloquence has been most powerfully felt in the senate and the popular
assembly; he has established and pulled down dynasties--built up and
overthrown empires, and achieved the mighty and convulsive revolutions
of the nations of the earth. All the great, and learned, and lucrative
occupations of life are filled by him. 'Tis he who studies the
wondrous mechanism of our frame, the nature and character of our
diseases and physical infirmities, and applies the healing balm to the
suffering individual stretched on the couch of pain and sickness. 'Tis
he who made the law--who studies its complicate details, its massive
literature and profound reasoning, and traces out the chain of system
and order, which like the delicate thread of the labyrinth, runs
through the whole range of its subtleties and sinuosities. 'Tis he who
has studied most profoundly and elaborately the record of man's fall
and redemption. 'Twas he who conducted the children of Israel, under
the guidance of heaven, out of Egypt, through the wilderness, into the
promised land of Canaan. 'Twas a man who first preached the new gospel
of Christ at Jerusalem, before the assembled nation, on the great day
of Pentecost. It is man upon whom devolves the sacred functions of
preaching and spreading the gospel through the world. It is

  "He that negotiates between God and man,
   As God's ambassador, the grand concerns
   Of judgment and of mercy."

It is he whose sublime and warning eloquence is heard from the pulpit,
arousing and awakening the apathy of the listless, and stimulating the
ardor of the pious. 'Tis man who carries forward, by his restless
energies, all the complicate business of that great commerce, which
binds together by the indissoluble ties of interest, all the nations
of the earth. 'Tis he who creates the stocks, charters companies of
enterprise, and works by his skill the mighty machinery of capital and
trade. And if we look to the rich and varied fields of literature and
science, we shall find his footstep every where, and see that his
labors have reared the choicest fruit, and produced the most stately
and enduring trees. We cannot then for a moment question his past and
present intellectual superiority in society.

But whence arises this actual superiority? Is it the result of nature?
or is it the result of education in that enlarged sense which I have
already explained in my first number? Is the capacity of man naturally
greater than that of woman? or are they born with equal natural
endowments in this respect? and are the great differences which we
observe in the full maturity of age, generated by the different
circumstances under which they act, and the different positions which
they occupy in society? I have already said that we have no data by
which this question can be positively and satisfactorily settled; that
long before the child arrives at that age at which we are able to
detect the development of the intellectual powers, his education both
physical and moral, has already advanced to such an extent as to
render all our deductions from mere experiment and observation
entirely fallacious. I am inclined however to the belief, that there
is _no natural_ difference between the intellectual powers of man and
woman, and that the differences observable between them in this
respect at mature age, are wholly the result of education, physical
and moral. At all events, I think I shall be able to show that the
difference in education is fully sufficient to explain these
differences, without looking to any other causes.

First then, we find that the education which boys receive from
teachers, is much more scientific and complete than that of the girls.
The latter are sent to school but a few years, and those during the
earlier period of their lives, before the development of the reasoning
powers. What they learn at school, therefore, must be acquired by the
exercise of memory alone, and not by the employment of the far higher
powers of judgment, reason and reflection. These latter powers are not
generally developed before the age of seventeen or eighteen, and in
some cases still later. It is for this reason we so often find the
mature man failing to fulfil the promise of his youth. In the early
part of our lives we learn principally by memory, and the boy with the
most ready memory therefore, is he who treasures up the knowledge
generally acquired in youth with most facility. He, therefore, is apt
to pass for the brightest genius. But it may happen that this bright
youth may never develope to any extent the reasoning powers; and if
so, he will rarely go much beyond the mere smartness and quickness of
youth. Memory will ever be his principal and greatest faculty, and
with it alone he can never travel out of the common routine of
knowledge, or disenthral himself from the dominion of mere precedent
and example. On the other hand, we frequently see the dull boy
developing at the age of maturity a large share of the reasoning
power, and infinitely surpassing, in stretch of mind and depth of
research, the individual who far outstripped him in his boyhood. Every
man can readily call to mind illustrations of the remarks here made.
Newton never exhibited any very great range of faculty till he
commenced the study of the mathematics; and Dean Swift, the great wit
and philosopher, is said to have been rather a dull boy.

Now then, just at the period when the reasoning faculties are about
developing themselves--when a new intellectual apparatus is just
coming into play, by which we are capable of achieving at school, in
one or two years, more than we have done by all our past labors--the
girl is taken from her studies, enters into society, plunges into all
the scenes of gaiety and fashion, and is frequently married before
that age at which the boy is sent to college. It is impossible then,
under the prevalence of such a system as this, to give an education at
all scientific to the female. Her mind at school is not sufficiently
developed to receive such an education. You frequently find our female
teachers professing to teach the higher branches of science, such as
chemistry, natural philosophy, moral and mental philosophy, and
political economy. I do not pretend to call in question the capacity
of such teachers, or their ability to teach what they profess to do;
but I do assert that most of our young ladies are not competent at the
time they are sent to school to acquire such knowledge. They skip, at
so early a period of life, as lightly and fantastically over the
buried treasures of science, as they would over the floor of the ball
room. I have never known an individual, no matter how apparently
bright his intellect--no matter how much Latin and Greek, and Grammar
and English he had studied, who was capable, at the age of sixteen, of
mastering the abstruse principles of the philosophy of the human mind.
Such a science as this absolutely requires a development of the higher
powers of the mind, before it can be studied with any degree of
success; and that development very rarely takes place before the age
of seventeen, no matter how stimulating may have been the previous
education of the youth.

But again: not only is the female stopped in her studies at a time of
life when she is becoming most capable of acquiring knowledge, but,
even whilst at school, her studies are of a lighter character,
contributing more to _accomplishment and grace_, but far less to
intellectual vigor than those of the boy. Much of her time is consumed
in music, painting, needle work, &c. while the boy is laboring over
his Greek and Latin. I do not pretend to condemn this difference in
education. It arises principally from the opposite position of the two
sexes in society, as we shall soon see. But I would like to see a
classical education become more fashionable among the ladies than it
has heretofore been. I would not insist upon such studies at a later
period of life, when the mind might be capable of mastering those of a
higher and more useful order; but between the ages of ten and fifteen,
there is nothing with which I am acquainted that can be so
advantageously studied as the Latin and Greek. "The grammatical
education," it has been justly observed by D. Stewart, "which boys
receive while learning Latin, by teaching them experimentally the aid
which the memory derives from general rules, prepares them for
acquiring habits of generalization when they afterwards enter on their
philosophical studies." I am happy to find the great authority of Mr.
Stewart to be decidedly in favor of giving to females a classical
education. In a foot note of Vol. III of Philosophy of the Human Mind,
he says: "Latin, I observe with pleasure, is now beginning to enter
more into the system of female education, and nothing could have so
long delayed so obvious an improvement, but those exceptionable
passages with which the Latin classics abound, and from which it is
devoutly to be wished that the common school books were carefully
purged, in editions fitted for the perusal of youth of both sexes."

Not only, however, are boys confined to studies which invigorate and
discipline the mind more thoroughly than those of the girls, but they
are much more stimulated and encouraged by parents, guardians, and
friends, to persevere in the arduous, and at first excessively
disagreeable career of study and literary labor. Whilst the father is
perfectly contented with the most superficial knowledge--with the
little music, and the few graces and accomplishments which his
daughter acquires at a boarding school--he watches narrowly the
progress of his son. He stimulates him by every means to assiduity and
exertion. He impresses upon his mind the important truth, that his
standing, his career in after life, his ultimate success, all may
depend upon these his preparatory exertions. It is to be expected,
under this unequal system of stimulation, that the efforts of the boys
will generally be greater than those of the girls.

Those who have not reflected much upon this subject, can form no
adequate conception of the vast influence exerted over the minds of
students by that discipline which depends upon a well directed system
of opinion and encouragement, entirely extraneous to the school or the
academy. Those who have attempted to teach the children of savages in
New Zealand and New Holland, in the isles of the Pacific, or on our
own continent, have all borne witness to the truth of this remark. For
example, a teacher in New Zealand tells us that the first day his
scholars met they were exceedingly anxious to learn; it was a new
thing: they, and their parents too, expected some sudden, mysterious
kind of benefit which was to result from this system, requiring no
great lapse of time, or exertion on the part of the children. In a day
or two the confinement and tedium of school hours became intolerable;
the children became lazy in spite of all the efforts of the teacher.
Parents knew not the advantages of an education, and consequently did
not enforce the regular attendance of the pupils, nor stimulate them
to exertion; and for this reason the school soon became a total
failure.

From all these causes combined, we are not to wonder that the
education of a boy up to the age of seventeen or eighteen, is of a
more invigorating character than that of the girl. At this age the
girl is taken home to be _turned out_, as it is termed, and the boy is
sent, when the parent's circumstances will admit it, to college. The
college education, therefore, of the young men, may be considered as a
clear superaddition to that which young ladies receive. It is the
college education which is decidedly the most efficacious, when
properly conducted, in nurturing and developing the higher powers of
the mind. The lecturers in well endowed institutions, are generally
men of superior attainments and intellectual powers. The division of
mental labor, in consequence of the number of professors, renders each
one more perfect in his department. The library and apparatus are
great advantages not possessed at common schools. Well delivered
lectures too, upon the text of some good author, though they may not
impart a greater fund of positive information than might be acquired
by reading, yet they deeply interest the attention, and stimulate the
exertions of the student; they awaken a spirit of inquiry and
research; they teach him to examine and sift all he peruses with a
skeptical mind. They break the charm which is created by mere
precedent and written authority, and furnish, if I may so express
myself, the leading strings by which we are gently led forth to more
hardy and manly explorations in the field of science and literature.
All these are advantages _exclusively_ enjoyed by our young men, and
hence, so far as the school education of the sexes is concerned, there
is no question that men have decidedly the advantage over women.

This then must certainly be looked upon as one of the most powerfully
operating causes of the intellectual differences between the sexes.
But it is only a proximate cause, and the question immediately
presents itself, how has it happened that the young men have been so
much more universally and deeply educated in all ages and countries?

And here we are led to a consideration of the effects of that more
enlarged and general education which arises from physical and moral
causes, independently of mere teachers. I have already explained the
causes which assign to woman the domestic sphere, and all the
occupations pertaining to it, and to man the out of door world with
all the business, occupations, and cares pertaining to its management.
These separate, distinct, and widely different spheres in which the
two sexes move, as we have already observed, generate characters
distinctly marked and widely different. And it is not to be wondered
at that these characters, so totally different, belonging to persons
moving in different spheres, should require different kinds and
degrees of intellectual powers. Woman is domestic in her habits, she
requires therefore a knowledge of all those minutiæ--all those details
which can best befit her for her domestic occupations. She is more
concerned with the individual than with the multitude. She feels more
deeply interested in a mere family, than in a whole nation. Hence she
studies individual character, individual disposition, and the motives
by which individuals are governed, more than she does the general
traits of the multitude, the distinctive character of nations, or the
great and general principles by which they are governed. Woman is the
delight and ornament of the social circle. She therefore aims to
acquire that knowledge, and become possessed of those graces and
accomplishments which may cause her to be admired by all while she is
walking the golden round of her pleasures and duties; her object is
rather to please and fascinate the imagination than to instruct the
understanding. She is more humane, more tender, sympathetic, and moral
than man, and, consequently, she is more interested in the study of
the feelings and the passions than in that of the understanding and
the intellectual powers. In general she is more eager for the perusal
of all that addresses itself to the fancy and the feelings, such as
novels, romances, and poems, than for the study of philosophy and
science. In fine she is much more literary than scientific.


_Abstraction and Generalization_.

We can now easily account for that great difference which we observe
in the intellectual powers of the sexes, dependent on habits of
abstraction and generalization. Undoubtedly one of the greatest and
most useful powers of the human mind, is that by which we are enabled
to classify and generalize our ideas--that power which enables us,
from the observance of multitudes of facts and details, to seize on
those which possess a resemblance, to arrange them together under
genera and species, and thus to arrive at general principles or facts
applicable to thousands of cases which may occur in our passage
through life. It is this power of abstraction and generalization which
may be truly said to give to our reasoning faculties the wings of the
eagle. We are enabled thereby to soar to a height, and command an
extension of prospect which cannot be reached by those who do not
cultivate this power. It is the great labor saving machinery in the
economy of the human mind, and belongs in all its perfection only to a
few gifted and educated minds, capable of rising to an altitude far,
very far beyond the common intellectual level. According to the degree
in which this noble faculty is possessed, the metaphysicians have made
a division of the human race, very unequal as to numbers, into _men of
general principles_ or _philosophers_, and _men of detail_. The former
possessing minds inured to habits of abstraction and generalization,
the latter more conversant with mere individuals and individual
character, with the details and minutiæ of common life, and therefore
better suited to the ordinary routine of every day duties in the
common transactions of the world. But if I may borrow the sentiment of
Mr. Burke, when the path is broken up, the high waters out, and the
file affords no precedent, then men who possess minds of comprehension
and generalization, are required to lead the way through the chaos of
difficulties and dangers which surround them.

When we compare the sexes together in this particular, we see that man
has generally, and _necessarily_ must have, from the very nature and
requisitions of that extended sphere in which he moves, a greater
share of this power of abstraction and generalization than is commonly
found developed in the female mind. The confined sphere in which woman
moves, requires, as I have already observed, close attention to all
the details and minutiæ of the little events daily and hourly
transpiring around her. Instead of studying the general traits of
character which belong alike to the whole human family, she studies
most deeply the individual characters of those who compose her
household, and her circle of friends and relatives. Her mind becomes
one of detail and minute observation, rather than of abstraction and
generalization. The intellectual eye of woman is like the pleasing
microscope; it detects little objects, and movements, and motives,
upon the theatre of life, which wholly escape the duller but more
comprehensive vision of our sex. Man, in the wider sphere in which he
moves, deals not so much with the individual as with masses of
individuals. Take for example the statesman. Is he a legislator? Then
he must make laws not only for the few individuals with whom he has
been raised, but for the whole nation. In doing this he is obliged to
discard the mere individual from his mind, and look to the population
in the aggregate. He must abstract himself from the consideration of
the minutiæ, the little details and peculiar circumstances which
operate _exclusively_ on his own little narrow neighborhood, and
attend to those general circumstances which affect alike the condition
of the whole body politic. His intellectual vision should not be too
microscopic. He must look to generals rather than particulars. The
minute vision of the fly would perhaps best survey the little specks
and blemishes that may exist on the vast and mighty fabric of St.
Peter's church, but it requires the more comprehensive vision of a man
to survey the whole building at a glance. In like manner the honest,
high minded, intellectual statesman looks to the good of the
whole--discards the more petty consideration of self and friends. In
contemplating the compound fabric of mind, law, and human rights, if
he survey mere individual peculiarities with too intense a vision he
will never be able to form in the mind one comprehensive, connected
whole with the position and relation of all the prominent and distinct
parts fully exhibited and well defined. Now there are few women who
can wholly abstract themselves from the influence of those peculiar
circumstances which operate exclusively on the circle in which they
move. The circle they live in, conceals from them the rest of the
world. The general remark made on this subject by Madame de Stael in
her _Corinne_, is particularly applicable to woman. "The smallest
body," says she, "placed near your eye, hides from it the body of the
sun; and it is the same with the little _coterie_ in which you live.
Neither the voice of Europe nor of posterity can make you insensible
to the noise of your neighbor's family; and therefore whoever would
live happily, and give scope to his genius, must first of all choose
carefully the atmosphere by which he is to be surrounded."


_Politics and Patriotism_.

We can now easily explain why woman has, in general, less patriotism,
and is more unfitted for the field of politics than man. The very
intensity of her domestic and social virtues makes her less patriotic
than man. The ardor with which she loves her husband, her children,
her intimate friends and associates, concentrates the mind within the
little circle by which she is surrounded, and clips the wings of that
more expanded but less ardent love which embraces whole states and
nations. Her _individuality_ is much too strong for the feeling of
patriotism. She is, in this respect, like the knight of the twelfth
and thirteenth centuries, who coveted individual honor and glory
alone. He lived only for his mistress, his God, and himself, and did
not like to share his glories and his honors with an army, a nation,
or mankind. Hallam, in his "Middle Ages," has pronounced the Achilles
of Homer to be the most beautiful picture that ever was portrayed of
this character (of chivalry). And strange as it may appear, the
political character of woman in general, bears a very close and
striking analogy to that of Achilles; who has been pronounced by
competent judges, to be the most terrific human personage ever
portrayed in prose or poetry. In search of individual glory and renown
Achilles consents to join the allied army of Greece, with his
myrmidons, in the siege of Troy. He receives an insult from Agamemnon,
the chief of the Grecian forces, who determines to take from him a
captive female slave. Instantly he resolves on revenge; his patriotism
yields to his intense feeling of individuality, and he sullenly
withdraws his troops from the field of battle, remains unmoved while
the Trojans are gaining victory after victory, until they begin to
burn the ships; then the security of himself and his particular
friends required that he should drive back the Trojan army.
Reluctantly he consents that Patroclus might lead forth the myrmidons
to battle, but with strict injunction to retire from the field the
moment the Trojans were beaten from the ships. Patroclus goes forth
and is slain by Hector, the great rival of Achilles in war. Then is
the wrath and jealousy of Achilles raised against the Trojan hero who
has slain Patroclus, for whom his bosom throbbed with the intensest
friendship. He now arms himself for the fight, and consents to go
forth to battle; not for any love he has for Greece, not for any
hatred which he bears to the Trojan state, but because he loved
Patroclus and his own glory, and hated Hector, who had wreathed his
brow with the laurel won by the death of his dearest friend.

Such is the patriotism of woman. Her husband and children are more to
her than her country. You never hear of woman consenting to sacrifice
her son for the country's welfare; the reverse is much apter to be the
result. She would sooner sacrifice the welfare of the nation, for the
promotion and happiness of her family. In the various political
contests of our country, it has sometimes been my lot to be present
when ladies have received intelligence of the defeat of brothers,
husbands, &c. in their political aspirations. Such defeats I have
generally found to disgust them at once with the whole subject of
politics, and almost instantly to extinguish the little patriotism
which their political hopes had kindled. It is well known that
misfortune of all kinds has a most wonderful influence in darkening
the picture which the imagination sketches of the future. Pope has
admirably hit off this feature of the mind in his allusion to the
pensioner who suddenly has his pension stopped.

  "Ask men's opinions, Scoto now can tell
   How trade increases, and the world goes well;
   Strike off his pension, by the setting sun,
   And Britain, if not Europe, is undone."

So have I known ladies, from the defeat of their husbands at a county
election, to predict more disaster and calamity to the nation, than if
an army were on the frontier or a revolution threatened from within. I
have known brother arrayed against brother, and father against son in
politics, so decisively as to attempt to defeat each other's election;
but I do not know that I have ever yet seen a mother, sister, or wife,
whose politics were of that stern, unbending character which would
lead her to vote, if allowed, against a son, brother, or husband
opposed to her in political sentiments. Their affections and
sympathies for those connected with them, are sure to triumph over the
general feelings of patriotism and justice.

Woman therefore cannot make a good politician, because she has too
much feeling, too much sympathy and kindness for her friends; her very
virtues lead to injustice. Let us take, on this subject, the testimony
of a lady who is well acquainted with the whole moral and mental
constitution of her sex. "I never heard," says Mrs. Jameson, "a woman
_talk_ politics, as it is termed, that I could not discern at once the
motive, the affection, the secret bias which swayed her opinions and
inspired her arguments. If it appeared to the Grecian sage so
'difficult for a man not to love himself, nor the things that belong
to him, but justice only,' how much more for a woman." Bulwer, too,
tells us that women always make prejudiced politicians in England. "No
one will assert," says he, "that these soft aspirants have any ardor
for the public--any sympathy with measures that are pure and
unselfish. No one will deny that they are first to laugh at principles
which, it is but just to say, the education we have given precludes
them from comprehending--and to excite the parental emotions of the
husband, by reminding him that the advancement of his sons requires
interest with the minister." Again, he says, "how often has the
worldly tenderness of the mother been the secret cause of the
tarnished character and venal vote of the husband; or to come to a
pettier source of emotion, how often has a wound or an artful
pampering to some feminine vanity, led to the renunciation of one
party, advocating honest measures, or the adherence to another
subsisting upon courtly intrigues." Doctor Johnson is reported by
Boswell to have said, that in these matters no woman stops short of
integrity.

Women, therefore, whose husbands are engaged in political life, ought
ever to recollect their foibles in this respect, and beware of
yielding too much to their sympathies and partialities, lest they ruin
the political reputation of their husbands, or alienate their
affections by too much tampering in matters which do not belong to
them. Madame Junot thinks that the constant interference of Josephine
in politics, her constant, ardent desire to serve her friends,
weakened very much the attachment of Napoleon for her. Nothing so much
tormented Charles II, as the constant intermeddling of his mistresses
in politics; and one reason of his very sincere attachment to Nell
Gwyn was, that she rarely gave herself any concern about the political
squabbles of the day. She never interfered, except on behalf of her
own children and one or two friends.

But although woman is much apter to err in politics than man, we must
ever bear in mind, as some mitigation and justification of her errors,
that they arise in a great measure from those kindly feelings, those
strong sympathies, those family endearments and social ties which,
whilst they mark her unfitness for the ruder arena of political life,
demonstrate unequivocally the goodness of her heart.

Even women of corrupt hearts do sometimes manifest strongly the most
amiable feelings and tender sympathies in their political intrigues;
take, for example, the Duchess de Longueville, that bold, arbitrary,
intriguing, profligate, vain, facetious heroine of the _Fronde_, who
is described as making rebels by her smiles--or if that were not
enough, she was not scrupulous; without principle and without shame,
nothing was too much! Now "think of this same woman," says a modern
writer, "protecting the virtuous philosopher Arnauld, when he was
denounced and condemned; and from motives which her worst enemies
could not malign, secreting him in her house, unknown even to her own
servants; preparing his food herself, watching for his safety, and at
length saving him. Her tenderness, her patience, her discretion, her
disinterested benevolence, not only defied danger, (that were little
to a woman of her temper) but endured a lengthened trial, all the
ennui caused by the necessity of keeping her house, continual
self-control, and the thousand small daily sacrifices which to a vain,
dissipated, proud, impatient woman, must have been hard to bear."

Again, let us look to the celebrated Duchess de Pompadour--the
corrupt, profligate, and intriguing mistress of that weak, effeminate,
heartless monarch, King Lewis XV, whose abandoned, lewd court, is so
well described as plunged in the sink of corruption and debauchery,
and dead to all shame of decency and morality. Even she is represented
by some of the wisest men of the day, as being exceedingly kind and
beneficent to her friends, or tender and sympathetic in the highest
degree towards misfortune of all kinds, when the parties concerned had
not in any manner wounded her feminine vanity or prejudices. How
interesting even does this woman become in that scene in which
Marmontel, pleading the claims of Boissy to a pension, so works on her
feelings by the recital of the galling poverty of Boissy, as to make
her exclaim, "Good God! you make me shudder. I'll go and recommend him
to the king." Marmontel was so much influenced by her kind attentions
to her personal friends, of whom he was one, that he every where
speaks of her in the most grateful terms as one not only willing to do
a kindness, but to do it in the most flattering, affectionate and
pleasing manner, frequently adding little injunctions or
recommendations, which communicated the highest pleasure whilst they
imposed no heavy obligation. For example, when he applied to the king,
through Mad. de P. for a favor relative to a work of his entitled the
"_Poetique_," he says, "I owe this testimony to the memory of this
beneficent woman, that at this simple and easy method of publicly
deciding the king in my favor, her beautiful countenance beamed with
joy. 'Most willingly,' said she, 'will I ask for you this favor of the
king, and it will be granted.' She obtained it without difficulty, and
in announcing it to me, 'You must give,' said she, 'all possible
solemnity to this presentation; and on the same day all the royal
family and all the ministers, must receive your work from your own
hand.'"

When, however, any prejudice exists in the mind of woman, from pique
at the conduct of a particular individual, or from any cause which
wounds her feminine vanity, you may in vain expect such kindness and
sympathy. All a woman's benevolence is dried up the moment the object
of it becomes _disagreeable_ to her. Madame de Pompadour disliked the
king of Prussia, and she could never be prevailed on to do anything
for d'Alembert, because he was a great admirer eulogist of that
celebrated monarch. Racine basked in the royal sunshine of courtly
favor, while Madame de Maintenon was the ascendant at court. He
happened one day, in presence of the king and Madame de M. in one of
those fits of absence for which he was remarkable, to observe that the
theatre had fallen into disrepute, because the managers selected plays
of too inferior a character, such as those of Scarron, &c. Now Scarron
had been the husband of Maintenon, and from that day poor Racine, the
immortal tragedian of France, was never more invited into the royal
presence, or loaded with the royal favors.

Not only, however, does woman's feelings, sympathies, prejudices, &c.
make her an unsafe and most partial, and sometimes very unjust
politician, but her mind is rarely of that order, from reasons already
pointed out, which will enable her to take large, and comprehensive,
and unbiassed views of political subjects. Woman's individuality is
too strong for general principles and abstract considerations. She has
too much pleasure in the particulars and details around her, to
develope much of the higher and more comprehensive powers of
generalization. She judges of the great characters who are moving
forward the mighty drama of politics as she would judge of beaux in a
ball room, or friends and relatives in a parlor. Henrietta, queen of
Charles I, is an admirable specimen of female politicians. She viewed
the characters of great men with all the sensations of a woman.
"Describing the Earl of Strafford," says D'Israeli, in his Curiosities
of Literature, "to a confidential friend, and having observed that he
was a great man, she dwelt with far more interest on his _person_.
'Though not _handsome_,' said she, 'he was _agreeable_ enough, and he
had the finest _hands_ of any man in the world.'" The same author
tells us, that when "landing at Burlington Bay in Yorkshire, she
lodged on the quay; the parliament's admiral barbarously pointed his
cannon at the house; and several shot reaching it, her favorite Jermyn
requested her to fly; she safely reached a cavern in the fields, but,
recollecting that she had left a _lapdog asleep_ in its bed, she flew
back, and, amidst the cannon-shot returned with this other
_favorite_." Well might this have been termed a complete _woman's_
victory. With such feelings, and sympathies, and judgments as these,
however amiable and pure they may be, you can never expect to meet
with the comprehensive views and well arranged plans of the great
statesman: a Jermyn or a lapdog may disarrange or defeat them.

The peculiarities and minuteness of woman's speculations may be
observed on all subjects, even on the graver and more impressive topic
of religion. Although the celebrated Eloisa was deeply learned in all
the cumbrous learning of the schools and the fathers, yet when
speaking of the apostles, she seems to forget their religious
character in order that she might express her astonishment that "even
in the company of their master, they were so _rustic_ and _ill-bred_,
that regardless of _common decorum_, as they passed through cornfields
they plucked the ears and ate them like children. Nor did they _wash
their hands_ before they sat down to table." Pope, who in his Abelard
and Eloisa, has followed with wonderful exactness, the real history of
these two lovers, makes Eloisa, when speculating on the use of
letters, think of no advantage but those furnished to lovers.

  "Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
   Some banished lover, or some captive maid."

This is truly characteristic of the woman, and it manifests an order
of mind admirably adapted to the circumscribed sphere in which nature
seems to have destined her to move. But it does not suit the wide
arena of the statesman. Go, for example, into the great deliberative
body of this country, and listen to the polemical combats of the minds
that are there brought together, and mark particularly the powerful
effusions of that individual with the master mind of this country--I
had like to have said of the age in which he lives--and you will be
amazed at the vast power of generalization and consequent condensation
which his capacious mind displays. Is it the complicate and difficult
subject of the banking system which has fallen under his review, then
observe how he passes by unheeded, the petty details and minute
histories of the little institutions around him which engage the
little minds of the body, and fixes his eagle gaze on the great and
prominent points of the subject; shows you that the _general_ nature
of man, and the _general_ nature of this institution, is the same at
Amsterdam, at Venice, at London, as at Philadelphia, Washington, or
Baltimore. He points out the great and general circumstances which
lead on to the corruption and final destruction of the system, and
shows you that the straining and breaking of our banks in by-gone
times, was not the result of chance and accident, but of causes as
fixed and unerring in their operation as the law of gravity or the
force of elasticity. Or is he on the great subject of the dangers to
be apprehended from irresponsible power in the hands of a dominant
majority, then observe how his mind ranges over the history of the
past, and culls from the page of Greece and Rome, and even from that
more sacred one of Israel's people, the great lessons which they
inculcate upon this point. He shows you that the contests of
patricians and plebeians, the forcible establishment of the power of
the tribunes in ancient Rome, and the division of a modern parliament
into the lords and commons, or the fearful disputes between the _tiers
état_ and the nobles and clergy in France, all prove the same great
truth and teach the same great lesson, _that every great interest to
be safe, must have the means of defending itself_. Such a mind as this
when it fails, fails (if I may use the language of the logician) from
not attending to specific and individual differences in the
application of general principles: it fails because while leaping from
the Appenines to the Alps, and from the Alps to the Pyrennees, it does
not perceive the rivulets, the flowers, the little hills and dales
which lie beneath. Such a mind is the very opposite of that of woman.

But it may be said there are women who have reigned with glory and
lustre, and merited well of their country and mankind. Christina, for
example, in Sweden, Isabella in Castile, and Elizabeth in England,
have merited the esteem of their age and posterity. The two Catharines
in Russia, and Maria Theresa, during the long wars about the pragmatic
sanction, have each manifested the abilities of statesmen. To this
however, I would remark in the first place, that we are concerned here
with general rules and not with particular exceptions. Now the general
rule is what I have stated; women make bad politicians, unsafe
depositaries of power, and most partial and unequal administrators of
justice. In the second place, you will find that the weakness and
errors of the good female sovereigns have almost always arisen from
their feminine foibles or womanly judgments. Take, for example, Queen
Elizabeth, whom Mr. Hume has pronounced to have been perhaps the
greatest female sovereign who ever sat upon a throne. It was said of
her that her inclinations and the coquetries of her sex, stole beneath
the cares of her throne and the grandeur of her character. And it has
been said, with perhaps too much truth, that if Mary Queen of Scotland
had been less beautiful, Elizabeth had been less cruel; she always
believed too readily, that the mere power of pleasing implied genius.
The exaggerated but well-timed gallantries of Raleigh,[4] and the
personal beauty and accomplishments of the earl of Leicester, made the
fortunes of those individuals.

[Footnote 4: Raleigh threw a new plush cloak into the mud over which
the queen was passing; she stepped cautiously on it, and shot forth a
smile upon the young captain. This cunning gallantry introduced him to
the queen for the first time; his advancement was rapid, and the title
of captain was soon changed for that of Sir Walter.]

This celebrated queen has been described as passionately admiring
handsome persons, and he was already far advanced in her favor who
approached her with beauty and grace. It is said she had so
unconquerable an aversion to ugly and ill-made men, that she could not
endure their presence. Her aversion to boots was very marked, and
highly characteristic of the woman. I think it is Sir Walter Scott
who, in one of his romances, represents her as having had so much
aversion to the boots of the Duke of Suffolk, who was brought forward
by his party for the honor of knighthood, as to fly into a passion
about it, and for some time to refuse to knight him in such a
dress.[5] She is well known to have been a great coquette, giving all
her suitors some hopes of finally obtaining her hand. She had likewise
a most ardent desire to be thought beautiful. Raleigh was well aware
of this excessive vanity, and made it a means of securing her favor
and continuing in her good graces. Mr. Hume tells us that Sir Walter,
in a love-letter written to the queen when she was sixty years old,
after exhausting his poetic talent in exalting her charms and his
devotion, concludes by _comparing_ her to _Venus and Diana_. D'Israeli
says that Du Maurier, in his Memoirs, writes: "I heard from my father,
that having been sent to her, at every audience he had with her
Majesty, she pulled off her gloves more than a hundred times, to
_display her hands_, which were indeed beautiful and very white." And
he says, "She never forgave Buzenval for ridiculing her bad
pronunciation of the French language; and when Henry IV sent him over
on an embassy, she would not receive him. So nice was the irritable
vanity of this great queen, that she made her private injuries matters
of state." Well then has it been said, that "the toilet of Elizabeth
was indeed an altar of devotion, of which she was the idol, and all
her ministers were her votaries: it was the reign of coquetry, and the
golden age of millinery."

[Footnote 5: In the Memoirs of the Duchess d'Abrantes, it is stated
that Madame Permon, mother of the Duchess, had a very great aversion
to the boots of the Republican generals, particularly when wet and
passing through the process of drying.]

It is true, in spite of all these foibles and defects of character,
she made a great sovereign; but it is easy to mark throughout the
whole course of her administration, even in the graver matters of
legislation, the constantly modifying influence of feminine weakness.
It was Elizabeth who granted, more extensively than any other
sovereign, privileges and monopolies to her favorites, which is one of
the worst forms which the restrictive system can assume. In doing
this, she seems to have been anxious to solve the problem of doing
every thing for her friends and pretended admirers, without disturbing
her conscience by the infliction of too much injury on the body
politic. But experience has shown that she most wofully failed by her
plan in the solution of the problem, and took by these monopolies and
privileges even a great deal more out of the pockets of the people,
than could ever come into those of her favorites and flatterers. Even
the celebrated laws of this reign in regard to the paupers of England,
in my opinion, mark the overweening humanity of the woman, combined
with a deficiency of that power of generalization, which can alone
enable us to arrive at just conclusions on so delicate and complicated
a subject. When she ordered the overseers of the poor to see that
every individual in the kingdom should be well fed, clothed and
employed, the order, although a humane one, was certainly
impracticable. Mr. Malthus asserts, that when king Canute seated
himself on the sea shore, and ordered the rising tide not to approach
his royal feet, he was not guilty of more vanity than this celebrated
order of Elizabeth displayed; but there was certainly humanity in the
intention.

In addition to the preceding remarks upon the incapacity of woman in
general for the able discharge of political duties, we may observe
that she is more disposed to despotism while in power than man. This
may be ascribed to greater physical weakness, and consequent
dependence in general. When, therefore, she wields the sceptre, she is
constantly disposed to manifest her power--to let the world see she is
really a ruler. She makes a show of her authority, precisely for the
same reason that a newly created nobleman is more tenacious of his
title than an old one, or a legitimate monarch less suspicious on the
throne than a usurper. Thomas says that great men are more carried to
that species of despotism which arises from lofty ideas; and women
above the ordinary class, to the despotism which proceeds from
passion. The last is rather a sally of the heart than the effect of
system. The despotism of woman however, very rarely, except when
stimulated by violent love and jealousy, leads on to cruelty; they
have too much feeling, sympathy and kindness to be cruel. Their
despotism arises rather from caprice, and a desire to promote the
interest of friends and flatterers, than from any regular system of
ambition and vice. Give them unlimited sway, and you rarely find them
exercising that merciless tyranny which delights in blood. Their
sensibility rarely forsakes them, even on the throne. Deny them power,
and they make monarchs as jealous and suspicious as rival beauties in
a ball room. There never was on the throne of England a more
determined stickler for prerogative than Queen Elizabeth. She was
exceedingly jealous of the powers of her parliament; and up to the
very last hour of her long life, a shuddering came over her whenever
she thought of a successor to the throne. Yet Elizabeth was far from
beings as cruel as many of the male sovereigns who have sat on the
English throne.

The passion of love, however, is the most dangerous one in the breast
of the female sovereign. As I have already observed, it is the
strongest of our nature whilst it lasts, even in the breast of man;
but with woman, it is not only the strongest, but like Aaron's rod, it
swallows up all the rest. Elizabeth's lovers were her dependents, and
she was withal a woman of strong masculine mind, cultivated by an
education of the most classical and severe character, yet we have seen
the mighty influence which even her lovers exerted over her, in spite
of all her caution.

Mary, the sister of Elizabeth, the bigoted Catholic, is a melancholy
instance of the influence of even unrequited love, upon the politics
of a female sovereign. While married to Philip of Spain, England was
very little more than a Spanish province. Perhaps it was the example
of Mary which in a great measure deterred Elizabeth from ever
marrying, although repeatedly pressed to it by the Parliament. The
caricature gotten up during the reign of Queen Mary is an admirable
burlesque of the errors and weaknesses of female rule. It represented
her Majesty "naked, meager, withered and wrinkled, with every
aggravated circumstance of deformity which could disgrace a female
figure, seated in a regal chair; a crown on her head, surrounded with
the letters M. R. A. accompanied with Maria Regina Angliæ in smaller
letters! A number of Spaniards were sucking her to the skin and bone,
and a specification was added of the money, rings, jewels, and other
presents with which she had secretly gratified her husband Philip."

To see what woman may be capable of doing under the influence of the
passion of love accompanied by jealousy, let us at once recur to a
state of semi-barbarism, where but little restraint is imposed on the
feelings and passions, and where nature consequently manifests itself
in all its most horrid deformities without wearing the mask which
civilized manners and an enlightened and moral public opinion, aided
by the printing press have imposed even upon the most hardy and most
wicked in the polished countries of Europe. Among the Memoirs of
Celebrated Women by Madame Junot, we find that of Zingha, a great
African princess who ruled in her dominions with absolute sway. In the
contemplation of her character we are fully disposed to acquiesce in
the truth of Shakspeare's assertion, that "proper deformity shows not
in the fiend so horrid as in woman." This princess was a perfect
tigress when for a moment her argus-eyed jealousy conceived the least
interruption to her amours, from the beauty, or the affections, or the
accomplishments of another. We are told that "a young girl who waited
on her had the misfortune to be attached to a man upon whom the queen
had herself cast an eye of affection. Having discovered that the
feeling was mutual between the youthful lovers, Zingha had them
brought before her; and giving her poniard to the young man, ordered
him to plunge it into the bosom of his mistress, to open her bosom and
eat her heart! The moment he had obeyed this cruel order she turned to
the wretched man, who perhaps expected his pardon, and looked at him
as if to confirm this expectation. But she ordered his head to be
severed from his body, and it fell upon the mutilated corpse of his
mistress." On another occasion she had spared a particular female from
among those doomed to destruction, when perceiving a paramour looking
with tenderness upon her, she immediately recalled her executioner,
and coldly said, "take this woman also and throw her into the grave
with her companion." Such is the influence of the passion of love and
jealousy upon the female mind even in _Negro land_, and well may we
join Madame Junot in the remark, that "this memoir (of Zingha) which
is strictly true may lead to much reflection in those who so bitterly
attack the whites for their treatment of negro slaves. The latter in
our colonies have _never yet undergone such degradation_."[6]

[Footnote 6: "Add to this the horrible superstitions of the Giagas,"
says the same writer, "and our colonial slaves must have little to
regret in their native country."]

A woman in love, whilst she is willing to sacrifice all for the object
beloved, may occasionally demand all. She is very apt to be too
capricious for wise and prosperous government. A little experiment in
love matters might occasionally be of more moment to her, than the
regulation of trade, the modification of the corn laws, or the raising
or lowering of the taxes. We all know that woman is sometimes
extremely capricious and even despotic in the wars of Cupid. She does
sometimes make most fearful exactions merely to manifest her power, or
to confirm her faith in the fidelity and devotedness of her lover. Now
all this will do well enough in private life, because it chequers the
path of love with the powerfully exciting alternations of hope and
disappointment, and throws around the object of our affections all
those attractions, and all that more ethereal and imaginative
loveliness, which the extreme difficulty of attainment ever generates
in the mind. Although the lover may sometimes groan under such a
despotism, and even attempt to renounce it,[7] yet the public sustains
no injury. But when this capricious lover is a queen upon the throne,
or an ambitious aspirant for political power, then the consequences
may be truly disastrous. Rousseau tells us upon the authority of
Brantome, that during the reign of Francis I, a young girl had a lover
who was a great _babbler_. So capricious was she, and so fond of the
exercise of power, that she ordered him to keep an absolute and
profound silence, as the condition of her love, until she might
release his tongue. He actually remained silent two years, when every
body believed him dumb. Then one day in the presence of a large
assembly, she boasted that by _one word_ she could restore speech to
the _dumb_. She looked him in the face and said, "_parlez!_"
"_speak!_" when the man began to speak again! Now in this case no one
suffered but the poor man, and he had no doubt hours of ecstatic
felicity in her occasional kindness, and sympathy, and love, for so
much devotion. He gloried in the chains which he wore: he might be a
little restive at times, under the caprice and whim of his mistress,
but was no doubt in all his difficulties ever ready to apply to her
the language of one of Martial's Epigrams on the whimsical waywardness
of a friend,

  "Difficilis, facilis, jucundus, acerbus es idem
   Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te."

but when such love or caprice as this reaches the throne, the people
pay for the folly. _Delirant reges plectuntur Achivi._

[Footnote 7: We are informed that during the age of chivalry, a lady
and her lover knight, at the Court of Vienna, were looking over a
palisade at a very ferocious lion, when the lady designedly let fall
her glove within the enclosure, and asked the knight to pick it up for
her. Without hesitation he leaped the enclosure, threw a cloak at the
lion, which diverted his attention for a moment, and escaped unhurt
with the glove, and then in presence of the whole court renounced the
lady and her love forever, because she had imposed so cruel and
dangerous a test of his affections.]

The poor Dutch saw but little sport or justice in those harassing
campaigns of Lewis XIV in Holland, undertaken principally to please
and amuse his mistresses, and exalt himself in their estimation as a
military chieftain. The English too saw nothing but degradation and
misfortune while Mademoiselle Queraille, the celebrated Duchess of
Portsmouth, was the favorite mistress of Charles, and by her
predilections for France, and influence on Charles, made him the
subservient tool of Lewis XIV, and England but a province to France.
And the ill-fated Protestants of the same country had before but too
mournfully lamented at the stake that England's Queen was the wife of
the most sullen, dark, and ferocious bigot of his age.

But I have said enough, I hope, to show that the field of politics
does not furnish the proper theatre for woman's glory and fame. It is
strewed with too many brambles and thorns for her delicate and timid
nature. It presents too many temptations to wander from the path of
justice and equity, to be resisted by the modest gentleness and the
unresisting pliancy of her sympathetic and humane temperament. Let her
not then be over-ambitious in politics, lest she be brought to realize
at last the maxim which is but too true--"Corruptio optimi pessima
est." Let her ever remember that she who has the ornament of a meek
and quiet spirit, as Gisborne has well observed, enjoys a decoration
superior to all the glories of the peerage. Not only, however, has the
custom of the world generally excluded woman from political stations,
but she has been excluded likewise from the right of suffrage or of
voting. Her condition in society, her physical organization, the
bearing and nursing of children, her delicacy, modesty, weakness and
dependency on man, all concur to make such exclusion proper.[8] The
_utilitarians_ say, that no evil can result to the fair sex from this
exclusion, because their interests are involved in the interests of
the males, and consequently the former cannot be oppressed by the
latter. Thus they say almost every woman has a husband, a brother, or
a father, all of whom are interested in her welfare. She need not
consequently fear an invasion of her rights, for those in power are
interested in defending them. To a certain extent this assertion is
true. But the condition of woman in past ages, and in the eastern
nations, shows most conclusively that she may be oppressed by the
stronger sex, and that her interests therefore have not been so
completely involved in those of man as to make oppression
impracticable. Well then, under these circumstances, does it behoove
man, in the possession of _all_ the political power, to guard against
its abuse--to remember that the frailer and weaker member of our race
is placed necessarily under his protection, and lies at his
mercy--that humanity, magnanimity, and even self-interest, alike
require that her rights should be guarded, and her condition
ameliorated--that she who is the delight and ornament of society, the
Corinthian capital of our race, should not be permitted to pine under
neglect and oppression, but should be conducted tenderly to that
exalted eminence whence she may diffuse her benign influence over all
the ramifications of social intercourse. And the more I have been
enabled to read the page of history have I become convinced, that the
continued amelioration of woman's condition is one of the most
unerring symptoms of the continuing prosperity and civilization of the
world.

[Footnote 8: I do not then agree entirely with Talleyrand in the
assertion that, "to see one half of the human race excluded by the
other from all participation of government, is a political phenomenon
that, according to abstract principles, it is impossible to explain."]

But although I would say that woman is not fitted to take the lead in
politics, or to vote at elections, yet would I recommend to all men in
political life, or in any other situation, generally to consult female
friends before they act in any very important matters. Their opinions
and counsels are rarely to be despised, even in politics. The
politician ought always to be possessed of their views, though he
should not be implicitly governed by them. There is a chain of
connection running through and binding together all the events of this
world, moral, social, religious, and political. The mind of man, to
act with perfect wisdom in any department, must survey all the causes
and events, both great and small, which may have a bearing either
direct or remote on the issue at which he aims. Now, although man may
be able to generalize more extensively, and take a wider and more
comprehensive view of the events which are passing around him, yet
that very generalization and comprehension of mind, do often make him
overlook those little causes, those secret motives, those nice and
evanescent springs of action, which are frequently the real causes of
the greatest events transpiring in the political drama. "It was not
from a massive bar of iron, but from a small and tiny needle," as my
lord Bacon observes, "that we discovered the great mysteries of
nature." And thus it frequently happens, that by looking attentively
at apparently unimportant passions or small events, we are enabled to
arrive at the true causes of individual and even national
distinctions. It is in this latter department of knowledge that the
sagacity of woman is infinitely beyond that of man. She divines more
certainly than he all those secret motives of the heart, and detects
more readily those delicate, invisible springs of action which so
frequently control the course of events. She is more thoroughly
acquainted with the nature and character of that mighty influence
which woman exerts over man in every condition of life in which he may
be placed, and therefore her advice is never to be neglected. In
reading the history of any epoch, I always consider my reading as
incomplete until I can peruse the histories and the memoirs written by
females. They are almost sure to fill the chasms left by the writers
of our sex. They frequently enter some of the _penetralia_ of the mind
and heart which are inaccessible to man; they perceive the vibration
of certain chords invisible to our duller optics. Their views may
often be partial, prejudiced, and incomplete, yet when taken in
connexion with the more enlarged and philosophical accounts of other
writers, they enable the future historian to form a more perfect, more
consistent, and more philosophical picture of the whole.

Historians have sometimes puzzled their brains to assign a
philosophical cause for this or that course of conduct of a great
statesman, when a woman would have told you at once that it originated
from some little family feud, or perhaps from an ardent attachment to
some sweet, coy, unobtrusive, timid creature, the bare mention of
whose name on the page of history would crimson her cheeks with the
deep blush of modesty. The historian may be puzzled to account for the
sudden and injudicious march of Mareschal Villars, at the head of the
grand army of France, towards Brussels. Reader, the true cause was
that he was anxious to see his wife, who was staying in a small town
on the road to Brussels.[9] It has been said that the course which
Cicero pursued towards the conspirators in Rome, resulted principally
from the instigation of Terentia, who had her private reasons for
hating them. And the hatred of the great orator for Clodius the
Demagogue was likewise inspired principally by his wife Terentia, on
account of her jealousy of Clodia, the sister of Clodius, who had been
anxious to marry Cicero. Now in regard to all those more impalpable
and delicate causes which take their origin in the heart, the
affections, the social relations, woman is much more sagacious than
man; she sees them when they escape his vision; and consequently her
penetration may enable her to make discoveries or applications which
man would never have thought of. Hence, I repeat again, the counsel of
woman ought ever to be taken before we enter upon important events.
Dufresnay has shown that many conspiracies even have failed because
not confided to woman. And many a man who has kept his transactions
secret from his wife, has rued the consequences. Rousseau tells us
that while travelling through Switzerland he frequently found the
views and advice of _Therese_ of the utmost importance; sometimes
rescuing him from the great difficulties that surrounded him, and
which could not have been so well overcome without her. And yet he
tells us that she was not a well educated woman. The fact is, woman
excels man, as has been well observed, in attaining her _present_
purposes; her invention is prompt, her boldness happy, and her
execution facile.

[Footnote 9: This celebrated general of Louis XIV, according to St.
Simon, often turned his army aside from the great object which he had
in view, from some such causes as these.]

Even the warnings and cautions of women, for which no good reason can
be assigned, ought not always to be disregarded. They are frequently
inferences drawn from that nice discernment and tact so characteristic
of the sex amid the little incidents of life, or from their capability
of reading the varying features of the human countenance, or marking
more distinctly the altered shades of manner, even when individuals
are attempting to wear the mask of deception and hypocrisy. Cæsar's
wife, we are told, implored him not to go to the Senate Chamber of
Rome on the fatal day of the Ides of March; and although she could
give no better reasons for her solicitude than dreams, visions, and
strange feelings, yet it is more than probable that these were
produced by the acute, the penetrating, microscopic observation of a
woman's mind upon the events and characters which surrounded her in
Rome. Brutus, Cassius, Dolabella, &c. might conceal their purposes
during their daily intercourse, from him who had led the armies of
Rome to victory in Gaul, and Britain, and Illirium, and had, by the
majesty and force of his own mind, overturned the liberties of his
country, and grasped in his single hand the sceptre of the world, but,
in all probability, they were unable to wear that countenance and
assume those manners which would impose upon the more minute
discernment of Cæsar's wife, amid the troubles, solicitudes, and
suspicions, incident to a season of revolution. Pontius Pilate would
have released the Saviour of the world, and quieted a troubled
conscience, if he had given heed to the solemn warning of his wife, to
have nothing to do with that just man, (Jesus.) Yet she could give no
better reason for her warning, than that she had suffered many things
that day in a dream, because of him.


_Conversation--Epistolary Writing._

I come now to the consideration of the relative merits of the sexes,
in that most pleasing attitude in which we generally find them
indulging familiar converse in the social circle. And here, I think,
we shall be forced to assign the palm to the fair sex. The social
talents of woman all over the world, where her education is not too
much neglected, are superior to those of man. Her conversation we
generally find more varied, more natural, more allied with the
interesting incidents and events of life than that of man. She is a
nicer, and more acute observer of what is passing around her. She
treasures up more interesting details and occurrences; she is much
better acquainted with that most interesting of all subjects, the play
of the social and amorous affections; and she studies the most
pleasing and fascinating manner of communicating her thoughts to
others; hence she becomes the ornament and the boast of the social
circle.

Some persons may imagine the conversational power to bear some
proportion to the general strength of the intellect, and that, as man
cultivates the higher powers of the mind more thoroughly than woman,
he must therefore excel her in the social circle. This, however, is
very far from being true. The beauty of conversation depends on two
things: 1st. On the character of the facts, anecdotes, knowledge, &c.
which form the staple of what is said. 2d. On the manner and style of
communicating them. Now I conceive that the subjects most generally
pleasing in promiscuous society, are not those of a deeply
philosophical or abstract character, not those which require the
greatest stretch of intellect to comprehend, but those subjects
generally which have reference to the ordinary occurrences and
transactions of life; those in which all are interested, and which all
can comprehend: those, in fine, which concern ourselves _immediately_
and particularly. Grave disquisitions and lectures on abstract
subjects, are out of place in the drawing room; those who indulge much
in them may be called learned, but they are generally considered
intolerable _prosers_. The divine who is always talking to us about
_grace_ and its operation on the heart, the lawyer who is lavish of
his profound learning on contingent remainders and executory devises,
or the physician who tries to instruct us in the mysteries of animal
life, by recounting theory after theory upon the subject, are ever
looked upon as great bores in the social circle. Not only, however, is
the character of the subject of importance in conversation, but there
must be variety. No matter how important and interesting the topic,
the patience of a company will soon be worn out by even an intelligent
and fluent man who will discourse of nothing else. The most
insufferable of all bores, says the author of Vivian Grey, is the man
whose mind is engrossed with one single subject, who thinks of no
other, and of course talks of no other.

So far as the subject matter, or _materiel_ of conversation is
concerned, let us enter a little into the _metaphysics_ of the
subject, and see, upon philosophical principles, how woman becomes
superior to man in this respect.

The principle of association, or of suggestion as it is termed by the
more recent writers on the philosophy of the human mind, is the great
and controlling law of the mental frame; it is that principle which
enables us to supply all our wants, to adapt means to ends, to call up
the knowledge of the past, to look into the undeveloped events of the
future. It is this associating faculty which may be looked upon as
truly the master workman of the mind. Its agency is requisite in the
action of all our mental powers, and consequently in pointing out the
intellectual differences between the sexes, it is proper never to lose
sight of so important a modifier of mental character. Metaphysicians
tell us that there are three principles or laws, according to which
the association of ideas operates. 1st. Resemblance. 2d. Contiguity in
time or place. And 3d. Contrast. Now if we examine into these three
divisions, we shall find each one susceptible of a subdivision into
two classes, marked and distinct. Thus 1st. There may be resemblance
in the objects themselves. Or 2d. In the effects or emotions which
they excite. For example, I see a man--he is like, in face and
feature, to one I knew well in France--I think immediately of the
Frenchman: here is resemblance in objects themselves. I see a violent
hurricane--it reminds me of the desolating ravages of a Zenghis Khan,
or Tamerlane: here is resemblance in the effects, and not in the
objects themselves. I hear the cooing of the dove, and I think of the
gentleness and innocence of the child. I hear a man reviling and
blaspheming his God, and I think of midnight darkness: here is
similarity in the emotions excited by the objects. A corresponding
division may be made of contrast. Thus I see a dwarf, and he calls
instantly to my mind the largest man I ever saw: this is contrast in
the objects. I see a raging, destructive lion, and think immediately
of the meek and humble Saviour of the world: here is contrast in the
effects. I see the white and tender lily on the drooping stalk, and I
think of the fiendish passions of a Macbeth or a Richard: here is
contrast in the emotions excited by the objects. Lastly, contiguity in
time and place may be divided into casual and fixed; thus I see a man
today whom I saw yesterday in company with another: I instantly think
of that other. I hear the last _eclipse_ mentioned, I think of the
place I was in at that time, the company I was with, the anecdotes
told, &c. In the first instance we have casual contiguity in place,
and in the second in place and time both. I see the moon on the
meridian, and think of the tides in our rivers. I see a magnet, and I
think of its attraction for iron; here is necessary contiguity in
time, and in the last instance in place too. Upon this last species of
contiguity is dependent that most important of all relations, the
relation of cause and effect, and of premises and conclusions.

In unison with the division here made of the associating principles,
it is easy to explain the character of three distinct orders of mind,
which will of course appear widely different in the conversational
displays of the social circle. There is, first, the _common mind_,
associating its ideas together by palpable resemblance or contrast
among them, and by the mere casual and loose contiguity in time and
place. Secondly, _the poetical or sentimental mind_, associating
principally by resemblance or contrast in the effects produced by
objects or the emotions which they excite. And thirdly, the
_philosophical mind_, associating principally by necessary contiguity
in time and place, by cause and effect, premises and conclusions.

Such a mind as the first, is most impressed with the details and
occurrences around. It never ascends to the original contemplation of
ideas and thoughts which belong to the region of philosophy and
poetry. It may, it is true, recollect sometimes, distant and beautiful
analogies, or even philosophical associations, but it is purely
because it has heard these things spoken of by others, and not from
original conception. Such a mind has no creative power of its own; as
it receives so does it pour forth, without alteration. It has been
well compared to the cistern into which water is poured; you have
nothing to do but turn the cock and out it comes (as one of our
newspaper editors recently observed, in relation to a different
subject,) "water, dirt, sticks, bugs, pine tags and all!" Such a mind
has no _productive power_ whatever. In this flood of details, you see
no connecting principle like cause and effect, premises and
conclusions, &c.--but this thing is remembered because it is like
that. This fact is now related because it was spoken at the same time
with that, or in the same place. Such an individual as this has, as
Diderot expresses it, "une tête meublée d'un grand nombre de choses
disparates," which he says resembles a library with mismatched books,
or a German compilation garnished, without reason and without taste,
with Hebrew, Arabic, Greek, and Latin.

Such individuals as these are more pleasing and amusing to us in
conversation, when the mind is not otherwise engaged, than most of us
are willing to allow. They spread before us a promiscuous feast of
neighborhood news, and like Mathews the comedian, although there be
but one speaker, they give you the _sayings_, the _conjectures_, the
_shrugs_, and the _winks_ of all the parties concerned, and thus give
to their communications quite a dramatic effect. Barbers, midwives,
seamstresses, hostesses, &c. cultivate this kind of association to the
greatest pitch of perfection. Their professions may be said to demand
it.

Such individuals, when called into court to give testimony, are
sometimes exceedingly amusing, from the pertinacity with which they
detail all, even the most minute circumstances, and when interrupted
because of the irrelevancy or illegality of their testimony, they are
very apt to begin again at the very beginning of their narrative. In
the minuteness of their remembrances they are like Mrs. Quickly in the
play, when she wishes to make Falstaff remember the time when he
promised to marry her.[10] The _Cicerone_ of Italy have generally
memories of the same description.

[Footnote 10: This has generally been adduced by the metaphysicians
since the time of Lord Kames, as an exemplification of this minute
memory, and it illustrates so well the remarks which I have been
making above, that I cannot forbear to add it in a foot note.

_Falstaff_. What is the gross sum that I owe thee?

_Hostess_. Marry, if thou wast an honest man, thyself and thy money
too. Thou didst swear to me on a parcel gilt goblet, sitting in my
Dolphin Chamber, at the round table, by a sea coal fire, on Wednesday
in Whitsun week, when the prince broke thy head for likening him to a
singing man of Windsor, thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing
thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny
it? Did not good wife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then, and
call me gossip Quickly? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar; telling
us she had a good dish of prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat
some; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green wound. And didst
not thou when she was gone down stairs desire me to be no more
familiarity with such poor people, saying that ere long they should
call me Madame! and didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee
thirty shillings? I put thee now to thy book oath, deny it if thou
canst.--_Sec. Part, Hen. 4, Act 2d. Scene 2_.]

Individuals of this character are the little chroniclers of the day.
They are the little historians of the little events transpiring around
them. They form a sort of cement for society--they furnish a species
of connecting link between the past and the present. They embalm for a
few years the memory of those who would otherwise have passed away and
been forgotten. The smallest and greatest of the human race love fame.
The temple at Ephesus was burnt down for fame, and it is the character
which I have just been describing that gives a little fame to classes
that would never have been heard of, and in old age such a being can
tell the young around him of the deeds and achievements of their sires
and grandsires and great grandsires. Such individuals as these are
remarkable for very exact memories, and as they are never persons of
much comprehension of mind, it has been generally imagined that good
memories are rarely accompanied with good understandings. Hence the
couplet of Pope,

  "When in the mind the Memory prevails,
   The more solid power of the understanding fails."

This however is but one form which the memory assumes, and
consequently we must draw no enlarged inferences from it. Women have
generally much more of this memory than men. The sphere in which they
move, the occupations in which they are engaged, the lesser necessity
on their part for original thought and action of mind, all tend to
produce this character.

The second class of mind, according to the division made above, is the
poetic or sentimental--that species of mind which associates by the
more distant analogies and resemblances, or contrast in objects, in
their effects, or in the emotions which they excite. Imagination is
the essence of such a mind as this. It enables us to see resemblances
and contrasts where others see none. "How many are there," says Doct.
Brown, "who have seen an old oak, half leafless amid the younger trees
of the forest, and who are capable of remembering it when they think
of the forest itself, or of events that happened there! But it is to
the mind of Lucan that it rises _by analogy_, to the conception of a
veteran chief:

                  'Stat magni nominis umbra
  Qualis frugifero quercus sublimis in agro.'"

What a scene for the enjoyment of love and friendship--what a group of
delightful and beautiful images has Virgil brought together in two
lines of his Eclogues!

  "Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata Lycori,
   Hic nemus: hic ipso tecum consumerer oevo."

Many have seen a starling in a cage, but it is a Sterne who in
imagination sees a captive in his dungeon, half wasted away with long
expectation and confinement. Pale and feverish, the western breeze for
thirty years had not fanned his blood. He sees him sitting upon the
ground in the farthest corner, on a little straw, alternately his
chair and bed, with a little calendar of small sticks, and etching
with a rusty nail another day of misery to add to the heap.

When this species of association is dwelt on too much the individual
is characterized by a sort of sickly, morbid sentimentality, which is
both highly unnatural, and very disagreeable. He is ever trying to
display the effects of what Mary Woolstonecraft calls a "pumped up
passion." Those writers whom Dr. Smith in his Theory of Moral
Sentiments calls whining philosophers, possess minds of this order.
They can never see happiness in one part of the world but to reflect
on the misery which is experienced in another. Is our country at
peace, happy and prosperous, than rejoice not at it, for there are
millions of human beings suffering in China, Japan, Hindostan, and
Bengal. Thompson's writings are deeply imbued with this whining
philosophy, and so perhaps are Cowper's, as was to be expected from
the state of his mind.

It is, however, the association by distant resemblances in objects, by
analogies in effects and in emotions which furnishes the mind with
perhaps the most interesting materials for social converse. Such a
mind is what the world calls _brilliant_. We soon tire of it, however,
if it does not occasionally relax, and give us a few of those details
and minutiæ, which belong to the mind of the first order in our
division. As was said of the poetry of Thomas Moore, we do not like
always to feed upon the _whip syllabubs_ we soon become hungry for
_bread and meat_.

Such a mind as the one I have just been describing, has rarely a very
accurate or exact memory. The imagination is too active for the
fidelity of the memory. Pope has well asserted, that

  "Where beams of warm imagination play,
   The memory's soft figures melt away."

Men possessing such minds as these rarely make good historians or
profound philosophers. They neither narrate with fidelity, nor can
they philosophize with ability. Their imagination gilds and varnishes
the knowledge they have accumulated. Events, as Boswell expresses it,
_grow mellow_ in their memories.[11] But for this very reason do they
become exceedingly brilliant in conversation, when they have the power
of communicating their ideas well. Mr. Stewart tells as that Boswell
himself was a striking exemplification of his own remark, "for his
stories," says Mr. S. "which I have often listened to with delight,
seldom failed to _improve_ wonderfully in such a keeping as _his_
memory afforded. They were much more amusing than even his printed
anecdotes; the latter were deprived of every chance of this sort of
_improvement_, by the scrupulous fidelity with which (probably from a
secret distrust of the accuracy of his recollection) he was accustomed
to record every conversation which he thought interesting, a few hours
after it took place."

[Footnote 11: "I have often experienced," says Boswell in his tour
through the Hebrides with Dr. Johnson, "that scenes through which a
man has past _improves by lying in the memory: they grow mellow_."]

With regard to the order of mind which we have just been considering,
it may be said that although a few men may cultivate it to a much
higher pitch of perfection than it is generally found to exist among
women, yet taking the sexes together, it is rather a characteristic of
the weaker sex, at least in as much as the associations are dependent
on similarity or contrast in emotions. Women, taking the whole sex
together, have undoubtedly more imagination than men, especially
inrelation to what I would term the sentimental and romantic portions
of our nature. They have nicer discernment and tact, more feeling,
sympathy, emotion and curiosity of all descriptions, and so far as
these furnish materials for association, they are superior to our sex.
Now these are precisely the materials which are most interesting when
properly clothed in the fascinating unaffected phraseology of a well
educated lady. Moreover, although men may perhaps display more
originality generally in the species of association falling under our
second division, yet I apprehend for that very reason they have less
variety, and, as we shall soon see, less quickness and ease in calling
up their associations.

The third class of minds, according to our arrangements is the
_philosophical_ mind--that which associates principally by the
relation of _necessary_ contiguity in time and place, by cause and
effect, premises and conclusions. This is undoubtedly the mind of the
first quality, and much the rarest in the human family. Knowledge,
however, which is acquired by associations of this character, is too
abstruse and unintelligible to the great mass of mankind to be
interesting in the social circle, and persons who have this order of
mind rarely have the other two in any perfection, and consequently
their conversation is not of that attractive character which pleases
by its ease, grace, and variety. Individuals of this character very
rarely display a good memory for mere words and details. Their
knowledge is arranged under certain general principles, and when they
wish to arrive at the detail, they are obliged to reason down from the
principle to the fact which is arranged under it. Such a mind has
rather a knowledge of general principles, than of particular facts and
incidents. General abstract subjects rarely produce much impression on
the mind of the mass. This is one reason why divines, who have the
most grand and sublime theme to descant on, nevertheless often fail to
produce much effect on their audiences. Their subject, although grand,
is yet a general one. The vices against which they preach are the
vices of the human race. The awful judgment of which they speak, is a
judgment to come at some indefinite time hereafter. Mankind to be
moved and interested must be addressed specially and personally. You
must not come before them clothed in abstractions and generalizations.
Look to that celebrated sermon of Massillon, pronounced by Voltaire in
his article on Eloquence, in the _Encydopedie Francaise_, to be one of
the most eloquent effusions of modern times, and examine particularly
that portion which had so startling an effect on the audience as to
make them spring simultaneously from their seats, and you will see
that it was just at that moment that the eloquent divine dropped all
his abstractions and generalities and applied his subject to those
very persons who were listening to him. "Je m'arrête _à vous_, mes
freres, qui êtes _ici_ assemblées. Je ne parle plus du reste des
hommes," &c. And again, "Je suppose que c'est _ici_ votre derniere
heure, et la fin de l'univers; que les cieux vont s'ouvrir sur vos
têtes--Jesus Christe paraitre dans sa gloire au milieu de _ce
temple_," &c.

It is useless to say that men much oftener have minds of the third
class in our arrangement than women; not because there is any natural
difference between the sexes in this particular, but because ours is
placed in a situation requiring the cultivation of this species of
mind more than the other. Our professions and occupations exert, if I
may say so, a more effectual demand for the development of this order
of intellect, than those of woman. Men in their passage through life,
are obliged to examine into the _necessary_ connection between events;
they must adapt means to ends; they must attain their purposes by well
arranged plans, according to the relation of cause and effect. Woman,
on the contrary, from the nature of the sphere in which she moves, and
the character of the occupations in which she is engaged, is more
conversant with objects than with their _necessary_ connections and
relations. She is not obliged to arrange so many concatenated plans;
her mind is more alive to the perception of the objects around her,
and less to the _causæ rerum_. Her feelings and sympathies are most
exquisite, but she attends less to their relations and dependences.
She is in fine a creature of emotion rather than of philosophy.

It is for this reason that women rarely make good metaphysicians,
although their feelings and sympathies are of the most exquisite
character. Yet they are not in the habit of reflecting upon
them--arranging them into classes, according to their necessary
connections, and thence deducing the general principles and laws of
the mind. Mr. Stewart says that the taste for the philosophy of the
human mind is rarer among the sex, than even for pure mathematics. He
seems to think that there are but two names in the whole catalogue of
female authors, at all celebrated for deep metaphysical research--Miss
Edgeworth and Madame de Stael; and he deems it not unfortunate for the
world that the former was early diverted from such unattractive
speculations, to that more brilliant career of literature which she
has pursued with so unrivalled a reputation.[12]

[Footnote 12: In regard to Madame de Stael, it is proper to remark,
that although certainly an able metaphysician--perhaps the very ablest
that has ever appeared of her sex--yet you see throughout her writings
the character of the woman. Her isolated aphorisms and maxims are most
splendid; but when you come to examine any one of her productions as a
whole, you see the want of system and complete connection between the
parts. Her descriptions of our emotions and feelings are almost
unrivalled for pathos and beauty; but when she would put together the
different parts of the mind, and sketch out a heroine or a hero--a
_Corinne_ or her _lover_--she presents incongruous beings such as
nature never produces. Her mind, after all, was but the mind of a
woman--a mind that could furnish the very best materials in the world
for a philosopher to weave into his systems--a mind too susceptible of
emotion to philosophize on abstract principles--a mind that relied on
feeling, rather than reason, to guide it to truth. In her work on the
French Revolution, though certainly very able, you see how her mind is
warped by her affection for her father, (M. Necker.) You see how her
conceptions of the Revolution as a whole, are biassed and prejudiced
by too intense a consideration of the scenes and events transpiring
immediately around her, and concerning her family. Goethe seems to
think that Madame de Stael had no idea what duty meant, so completely
was she a creature of feeling.]

Having described three distinct and separate orders of mind,
remarkable for different kinds of associations, and all widely
differing in the possession of that information suited to social
converse, I come now to compare the sexes together, in relation to the
second point essential to conversation, the power of communicating our
knowledge pleasantly and attractively to others. He undoubtedly is the
most pleasing companion in the social circle whose mind is of that
capacious, well stored kind that is capable of ranging at will through
the various classes of associations just pointed out, giving you at
one time connections and relations of abstract principles, or
philosophical deductions--at another, of analogies between objects,
effects, and emotions--and at another, interesting and circumstantial
details of the common events of every day life. "Conversation," says a
modern writer, "may be compared to a lyre with seven
chords--philosophy, art, poetry, politics, love, scandal, and the
weather. There are some professors who, like Paganini, 'can discourse
most eloquent music' upon one string only, and some who can grasp the
whole instrument, and with a master's hand, sound it from the top to
the bottom of its compass." Such individuals as these are very rare.
Perhaps Dr. Johnson,[13] McIntosh and Coleridge might be cited as
specimens in England, and Schlegel in Germany. Individuals of this
character are very rare, because in the first place, there are very
few whose minds are capable of ranging through the whole extent of
knowledge; and secondly, it does by no means follow, that those
possessing the information, might be able to communicate it to others
with that brilliancy of diction, and judgment in the selection of
matter and its quantity, which will insure complete success in the
social circle.

[Footnote 13: Johnson's style in conversation must have been too
grandiloquent and studied, to have admitted of that variety and ease
so necessary to the social circle.]

I will make a few promiscuous remarks on these two points. Men of
deeply philosophic minds, are almost sure, from the character of their
speculations, to glide imperceptibly into habits of abstraction, and
to withdraw their attention from the scenes and occurrences
transpiring around them, to the contemplation of that world of thought
in which they dwell. Their thoughts are not the thoughts of other men;
the world in which they live is not the world of others. A Newton,
while wrapt in these philosophic visions, can sit for hours in the
cold, half dressed, eyes fixed, unconscious of all around him; he can
forget to dine; he can, in fine, forget himself, his friends, and the
world in which he lives. An Adam Smith, while studying the great laws
which regulate the accumulation, distribution, and consumption of
wealth, can so far forget himself and the world, as to mimic with his
cane, a soldier, who presents arms to him through respect, and march
after him when he moves off; he can be present when toasts are drunk,
and know nothing of what is passing.[14] Minds of this order are
almost sure to neglect associations of a lighter character. They fail
to acquire that species of information which is most pleasing in
conversation. And, moreover, they are apt to have what are called
_slow_ memories; they cannot call up their knowledge quick, and utter
it with volubility. The process by which they hive their wisdom is
slow and tedious, depending on patient thought, and persevering
reflection. Such a mind has been compared, in the social circle, to a
ship of the line run a ground in a creek. It is too massive and
ponderous for the element and space in which it floats. It is said
that Newton was rather slow and dull in conversation even upon
philosophical subjects. Many an individual in Europe, of far inferior
genius, was more brilliant in conversation than himself, even upon his
own discoveries. Descartes, whose mind was of the first order, was
silent in mixed company. It was said that he received his intellectual
wealth from nature in _solid bars_, not in _current coin_.[15] Men
like these are better pleased with the contemplation of the solid
wealth in their possession, than with the means of making it glitter
and attract the gaze of the world. They value ideas more than
words--knowledge more than the _media_ of communication. They think it
better, as Spurzheim on Education says, to have two ideas with one
mode of expressing them, than one idea with two modes of expression.
Such men as these then are apt, unless stimulated by very peculiar
circumstances, to be deficient, first, in that variety requisite for
agreeable conversation, and secondly, in the style and power of
communicating their ideas to others.

[Footnote 14: It is said that Dr. Smith was one day present, when the
toast to "absent friends" was drank by the company. A friend who sat
by the Doctor, told him that he had just been toasted, whereupon he
thanked the company for the honor, and apologised for his absence of
mind, very much of course to the amusement of his friends so well
aware of his habits of abstraction.]

[Footnote 15: The character of Oliver Cromwell in this respect is well
known. He did not, during his whole parliamentary career, make one
single lucid, perspicuous speech. In fact, his speaking was almost
unintelligible; and yet his course of conduct, although that of an
usurper and tyrant, marks most generally, clearness of judgment, and
great decision of character. Of course I am not here considering his
moral character, which was detestable.]

Again, men of poetic or miscellaneous minds, possessing that varied
store of knowledge and thought so well calculated to form the staple
of conversation, may nevertheless, from various causes, be unable to
make any display in the social circle. They may write beautifully
whilst they converse badly. Addison's dulness in company is well
known. Peter Corneille, who has been called the Shakspeare of France,
it is said, did not _speak_ correctly that language of which he was so
perfect a master in his composition. His answer to his friends, when
laughing at his spoken language was, "_I am not the less Peter
Corneille!_" Virgil is said to have been dull in the social circle. La
Fontaine, whose writing was the very model of poetry, was coarse,
heavy, and stupid in conversation. Chaucer's silence was said to be
much more agreeable than his talking. And Dryden says of himself, "My
conversation is slow and dull, my humor saturnine and reserved." Thus
do we find that it is not only necessary that the mind should be
stored with pleasing and varied knowledge, in order that we may
converse well; but we must have besides the power of communicating
that knowledge agreeably to others--a power which is by no means
universally coupled with the knowledge.

Let us then for a moment examine into the character of woman in this
respect. We have already seen that she has more of the _proper
materiel_ for conversation than man. If then her power and manner of
communicating be better, she may certainly be pronounced his superior
in the social circle. In the first place I would remark, that she has
in general much less professional bias than man. When men arrive at
the age of maturity, they generally engage in some one profession or
occupation, which employs most of their time and exertion. Their
intellectual characters are, to a very great degree, modelled by their
employments. Hence an inaptitude to acquire what does not belong to
one's business--an indocility upon all subjects not strictly
professional. I recollect once to have been a member of a country
debating society, in which we had divines, lawyers, doctors, farmers,
schoolmasters, &c., and upon all topics discussed, it was easy to
determine at once the profession of the speaker. You saw immediately
the professional bias and the professional language and knowledge.
Woman is in general, except so far as affected by her husband, free
from this influence, which is so unfavorable to that varied and
brilliant conversation suited to promiscuous society.

Again, the social circle is the field in which woman wins her
trophies, displays her accomplishments, and achieves her conquests.
The art of pleasing by conversation is all and all to her. The power
of colloquial display is her greatest accomplishment--her most
irresistible weapon. Hence, while man in general aims to make himself
plain and perspicuous, woman endeavors not only to be understood, but
to delight and fascinate the hearer at the same time by her style and
manner. "Man in conversation," says Rousseau, "has need of
knowledge--woman of taste." We are instructed profoundly in a _few
things_ by the conversation of an intelligent man. The conversation of
woman embraces _many things_, and though we may not be profoundly
instructed in any, yet we have a living and moving panoramic view
presented to the mind, which sooths and charms it by the beauty,
variety, and brilliancy of the parts. Rousseau was so struck with the
differences between the sexes in conversation, that he seems (I think
erroneously) to imagine a natural difference in this respect between
them. "Women," says he, "have a more flexible tongue: they speak
sooner, more easily, and more agreeably than men. They are accused of
speaking more. That is just as it should be; this should be considered
an ornament of the sex, and not a reproach. Their mouth and eyes have
the same activity, and for the same reason."

The occupations of women are generally of such a character as to allow
full scope for their conversational talents, while their work is
advancing. Knitting, sewing, &c. invite to a free use of the tongue,
while the occupations of men will generally allow of no such
indulgence. Moreover, the business of woman is oftener social; it can
be carried on in society; whereas that of man cannot, being generally
much more solitary. This difference in the occupations of the two,
produces a much greater effect on the social differences between the
sexes than most persons are aware of. Lastly, the greater _docility_
of woman, her greater susceptibility to impression, have a tendency to
generate more conversational talent than is developed in man. Woman,
as we have frequently remarked, is made physically weaker than man;
she is, therefore, dependent on him, and looks up to him as a
protector. Man is the governing member of the human family all over
the world. Woman submits to his guidance and direction. She adapts
herself to him, and endeavors to conform to his nature. Hence a quiet
submissiveness on the part of the weaker sex to control and dictation,
even when very intelligent, and able to act for themselves. I have
known intelligent women look up to their husbands for direction in
most matters, and with pleasure submit to their will, when it was
evident to the whole world that they were vastly superior in
intellectual endowments to those whose dictation and direction they
thus seemed to court. All a woman's ambition is for the promotion of
her husband. Her own elevation is generally a secondary matter,
because always derived from his. Shakspeare makes even the fiendish
acts of Lady Macbeth, to proceed from a desire to elevate her own
husband rather than herself. This condition of woman makes her more
docile and susceptible of impression. Her nature becomes more pliant
and flexible. At one period of her life she may be the wife of a
divine, at another of a lawyer, and at a third of a physician: and she
can quickly conform to these different natures with which she has to
deal. Her docility is far superior to that of man. Mr. Stewart thinks
that women learn languages even with greater quickness, and pronounce
them much better than men. He says Fox spoke French better than any
Englishman of his acquaintance, but he knew many females who spoke it
better than he.

Now this greater docility and susceptibility of impression, while it
admirably adapts the weaker to the stronger sex, at the same time
improves greatly the conversational powers of woman. She is alive to
all that is passing around; she sees what our duller eyes fail to
behold. She thus gathers more, and details it more vividly and
impressively. While we are gathering general and stale news, she
collects that which is more special and impressive. Every one who has
ever been in the habit of paying what are called morning visits, with
intelligent ladies, must have remarked the great difference between
the sexes in this respect.

Before leaving the subject of conversation, I shall take leave to make
a few remarks on the practice so prevalent among the married and
elderly gentlemen, of separating themselves from the rest of the
company at dinner parties and evening gatherings, to talk among
themselves on those topics more congenial to their feelings and
business. Such an abstraction as this leaves the young to themselves,
and frees them from a restraint which may sometimes be irksome, but is
almost always salutary. The elderly portion are in the habit of
excusing themselves, by saying the conversation of the young is too
frivolous for their attention; that their tastes have changed, and
they take now no pleasure in the gaieties, pastimes, and frivolities
of youth. But they should recollect that this division is calculated
to produce that very frivolity of which they complain. Separate the
old and intelligent from the young and thoughtless, and you
immediately give a loose to all the wild, buoyant feelings of youth.
Lycurgus could never have succeeded in Sparta in enforcing so
completely his celebrated system of laws, but for the public tables,
which brought the old and young, intelligent and simple together. The
young learned modesty in the presence of the old, and the ignorant
imbibed wisdom from the instruction of the intelligent. If our most
intelligent men would always mingle in the social circle, they would
elevate the character of the topics discussed, while they would
stimulate the young to more thought and intellectual exertion. The
young would be improved by the instruction they would receive, and the
laudable ambition that would be exerted by the example of the old and
intelligent; and the latter would be compensated by the great
improvement which social intercourse produces on all our finer
feelings, tastes, and emotions, by the cultivation of talents which
would otherwise become dormant and useless, and the consequent opening
of new sources of enjoyment. But duty to the rising
generation--particularly to that portion for whom we feel the warmest
solicitude, because the weaker and more dependent--absolutely demands
this intercourse. It would elevate the intellectual character of the
sex, and thereby improve the general condition of society. Our wives
and daughters would become fit companions for intelligent husbands,
and the social circle would lose its unmeaning conversation and
reckless frivolity in the presence of age and intelligence.

The social circles of France are greatly improved by the free and
unrestrained intercourse of all ages together. There is no man in
Paris, it matters not what is his standing or intelligence, but has
social ambition; he aims at distinction in conversation, at reputation
in the social circle, no less than he does at winning trophies in the
field, or fame in the senate chamber. The consequence is, that,
frivolous as we consider that people as a nation, they far excel us in
the social circle, both in the dignity of the topics discussed, and
the ability displayed by both sexes, especially by the females, in
conversation. Women who enjoy the society and conversation of the
wittiest and greatest men of their country will themselves become
witty and clever. "I was talking," says Bulwer in his France, "one
evening with the master of the house where I had been dining, on some
subject of trade and politics, which I engaged in unwillingly in the
idea that it was not very likely to interest the lady. I was soon
rather astonished, I confess, to find her enter into conversation with
a knowledge of detail and a right perception of general principles
which I did not expect. 'How do you think,' said she, when I afterward
expressed my surprise, 'that I could meet my husband every evening at
dinner, if I were not able to talk on the topics on which he has been
employed in the morning.'" Let us then at least imitate the French in
this particular, certain that it will in the process of time be
productive of the most marked and happy result.

For the same reason that woman surpasses man in conversation, she is
superior to him in epistolary composition. Her letters are generally
more varied, more lively and impressive, more replete with interesting
facts and details, than those of our sex. A gentleman, in writing a
mere letter of friendship, is engaged in a business which rather
breaks in on his habits, and interrupts for a time the accustomed
routine of his thoughts and tastes. He is very apt to run off upon the
general news of the day, and commence prosing upon some subject which
we would find perhaps infinitely better handled in the public prints
than in his letter. He has no variety; he forgets to tell us of our
friends, and of what they are doing and saying. He forgets that we
have hearts, and thinks only of our heads. He omits to mention
trifles, because he considers them "light as air," when some of these
trifles might touch a chord that would vibrate to the heart, and fill
the soul with joy and gratitude. When Mr. Dacre writes to the Duke of
Fitzjames, in the Young Duke, and says in conclusion, "_Mary_ desires
me to present her regards to you"--this was worth all the letter
besides to the young duke; 'twas this he read over and over again, and
forgot his estates and his debts, while his heart was reeling with
gratitude for just this little kindness from _her_ whom he loved so
devotedly. With woman, letter writing is in complete unison with her
condition in society. The details of most interest to her
correspondents are precisely those with which she is most conversant.
She presents no mutilated picture; she gives that which delights. She
is apt to know, too, the little Goshen of our hearts, and to pay all
due attention to it. And she is sure to tell, as if by accident,
precisely the _sweetest_ things in the world to _us_. She writes with
ease, variety, and interest--because she pursues the course of the
celebrated Madame de Sévigné, (who has never perhaps had an equal in
our sex for epistolary composition.) "Il faut un peu entre bons amis,"
says Madame de S. "laisser trotter les plumes comme elles veulent, la
mienne a toujours la bride sur le cou."

I had intended, before concluding my remarks on the intellectual
differences of the sexes, to offer some considerations in favor of
improving the system of female education; but my number has already
expanded to a size greatly beyond my anticipations when I commenced
it. This subject I must therefore postpone for the present, and resume
it in my next, if my time and occupations will permit me.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO F----.


  And could'st thou F---- then believe
    That I had thought thy guileless heart
  Would prompt thee meanly to deceive,
    And stoop to play a treacherous part?

  No, lady no!--I saw thee move,
    Artless in unsuspecting youth;
  That heart I saw had learn'd to love
    The hallowed sanctity of _truth_.

  Could F----'s throbbing bosom beat
    Victims on victims to ensnare:
  Point to the lovers at her feet,
    And proudly count the captives there?

  No, lady no! to honor true,
    Thou would'st not--could'st not thus appear--
  Triumphs like these would seem to you,
    Too dearly purchased to be dear.

  These, these are arts alone allied
    To spirits yet akin to earth;
  The generous soul with nobler pride
    Spurns the poor trick, and trusts to worth.

  Yes, lady yes! such worth as thine,
    Which kindred worth and genius rules,
  To baser spirits may resign
    The mad idolatry of fools.

H.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MARY.

  _Tune_.--Gramachree.


  The vernal month comes on with flowers
    To deck the plains around,
  No more the frown of winter lowers,
    Or chills the fertile ground.

  The snow-white lily, nature's pride,
    Now blooms in every vale,
  The rose breathes fragrance far and wide,
    And perfumes every gale.

  The vocal thrush pours forth her note
    To hail the gladsome morn,
  And every warbler strains his throat,
    From garden, brake, and thorn.

  Come then, dear Mary, let us fly
    To join the impassioned lay,
  And pluck each flower whose modest eye
    Just opens into day.

  And whilst we view the sweetest charms
    That grace the new born year,
  I'll fold thee gently in my arms,
    And crush each budding care.

  I'll say the blush upon thy cheek
    Outvies the rose's hue,
  The lily blooming o'er the vale,
    No purer is than you.

  But soon kind nature's sweetest flowers
    Will wither and decay,
  And that bright glow which decks thy cheek,
    Like them will fade away:

  But let not this alarm thy peace,
    Nor tremble at thy doom,
  For though the flush of youth will cease,
    Thy soul shall ever bloom.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONG.


  I will twine me a wreath of life's withering flowers,
    And bind with their brightness this aching heart,
  And wear a smile through the long, long hours,
    As if in their gladness I bore a part.

  I will seek mid the gay and festive throng,
    To check each thought of the love I cherished,
  And playfully murmur his favorite song,
    As if not a tone of its sweetness had perished.

  Tho' the flowers of feeling are fallen and faded,
    Yet the fragrance of memory may still remain:--
  And the heart by their withered leaves o'ershaded,
    May hide the wound though it nurse the pain.

  And if ever we meet upon earth again,
    He shall not know it by word or by token:
  For the eye shall still sparkle, though only with pain,
    And the lip wear a smile, while the heart may be broken.

MORNA.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMEMBER ME, LOVE.

By the late Mrs. ANN ROY, of Mathews county, Virginia.


    When afar thou art roaming love,
  In sunny climes where maidens' eyes
  Beam bright as their own glowing skies,
  Where lofty domes and scented bowers
  Gleam with the golden orange flowers;
  And many a column and fallen fane
  Tell of Italia's buried fame:
    Oh! then remember me, love!

    When woo'd by the proud and gay, love,
  And mirthful smiles and voices sweet,
  As angel's lutes united meet
  Thy eager ear, thy raptured glance,
  As they pass thee by in the joyous dance,
  Ah pause and think of the _lonely_ one,
  Whose bosom throbs for _thee_ alone:
    Oh! then remember me, love!

    Fame's glittering wreath allures thee, love;
  Ah, when thou bindest it round thy brow,
  And heartless crowds around thee bow;
  When stern ambition's meed is won,
  Ah, think of her who urged thee on
  To climb the proudest height of fame,
  And carve thyself a deathless name:
    Oh! then remember me, love!

    And should grief or death assail me, love,
  While thou art o'er the dark blue wave,
  And carest not to soothe or save,
  My latest sigh shall be breathed for thee,
  On my fading lips thy name shall be,
  And my dying words shall be a prayer
  To heaven that thou mayest love me there:
    Oh! then remember me, love!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO SARAH.


  When melancholy and alone,
  I sit on some moss-covered stone
    Beside a murm'ring stream;
  I think I hear thy voice's sound
  In every tuneful thing around,
    Oh! what a pleasant dream.

  The silvery streamlet gurgling on,
  The mock-bird chirping on the thorn,
    Remind me, love, of thee.
  They seem to whisper thoughts of love,
  As thou didst when the stars above
    Witnessed thy vows to me;--

  The gentle zephyr floating by,
  In chorus to my pensive sigh,
    Recalls the hour of bliss,
  When from thy balmy lips I drew
  Fragrance as sweet as Hermia's dew,
    And left the first fond kiss.

  In such an hour, when are forgot,
  The world, its cares, and my own lot,
    Thou seemest then to be,
  A gentle guardian spirit given
  To guide my wandering thoughts to heaven,
    If they should stray from thee.

SYLVIO.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BON-BON--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

"Notre Gulliver"--dit le Lord Bolingbroke--"a de telles
fables."--_Voltaire_.


That Pierre Bon-Bon was a Restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, no
man who, during the reign of ----, frequented the little Câfé in the
Cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at
liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree,
skilled in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more
especially undeniable. His _Patés à la fois_ were beyond doubt
immaculate--but what pen can do justice to his essays _sur la
Nature_--his thoughts _sur l'Ame_--his observations _sur l'Esprit_? If
his _omelettes_--if his _fricandeaux_ were inestimable, what
_literateur_ of that day would not have given twice as much for an
'_Idée de Bon-Bon_' as for all the trash of all the '_Idées_' of all
the rest of the _savants_? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no
other man had ransacked--had read more than any other would have
entertained a notion of reading--had understood more than any other
would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although,
while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen, to
assert "that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the Academy,
nor the depth of the Lyceum"--although, mark me, his doctrines were by
no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that
they were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of
their entire self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them
abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon--but let this go no farther--it is to
Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The
former was not indeed a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an
Aristotelian--nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those
precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a
_fricassée_, or, _facili gradu_, the analysis of a sensation, in
frivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of
ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic. Bon-Bon was equally
Italic. He reasoned _a priori_. He reasoned also _a posteriori_. His
ideas were innate--or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizond.
He believed in Bossarion. Bon-Bon was emphatically a--Bon-Bonist.

I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of Restaurateur. I
would not however have any friend of mine imagine that in fulfilling
his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper
estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was
impossible to say in which branch of his duplicate profession he took
the greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the mind held intimate
connection with the capabilities of the stomach. By this I do not mean
to insinuate a charge of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge
to the prejudice of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his
failings--and what great man has not a thousand?--if Pierre Bon-Bon, I
say, had his failings, they were failings of very little
importance--faults indeed which in other tempers have often been
looked upon rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these
foibles I should not have mentioned it in this history but for the
remarkable prominency--the extreme _alto relievo_ in which it jutted
out from the plane of his general disposition. Bon-Bon could never let
slip an opportunity of making a bargain.

Not that Bon-Bon was avaricious--no. It was by no means necessary to
the satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his
own proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected--a trade of
any kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances, a triumphant
smile was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance,
and a knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.

At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humor so peculiar as
the one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark. At
the epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity _not_ attracted
observation, there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon
reported that upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was
wont to differ widely from the downright grin with which that
Restaurateur would laugh at his own jokes, or welcome an acquaintance.
Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature--stories were told of
perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at leisure--and
instances were adduced of unaccountable capacities, vague longings,
and unnatural inclinations implanted by the author of all evil for
wise purposes of his own.

The philosopher had other weaknesses--but they are scarcely worthy of
our serious examination. For example, there are few men of
extraordinary profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for
the bottle. Whether this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a
valid proof of such profundity, it is impossible to say. Bon-Bon, as
far as I can learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute
investigation--nor do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so
truly classical, it is not to be supposed that the _Restaurateur_
would lose sight of that intuitive discrimination which was wont to
characterize, at one and the same time, his _Essais_ and his
_Omelettes_. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to
Homer. He would sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but
unravel an argument over Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a
torrent of Chambertin. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its
allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Côtes du
Rhone. Well had it been if the same quick sense of propriety had
attended him in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly
alluded--but this was by no means the case. Indeed, to say the truth,
_that_ trait of mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon _did_ begin at length
to assume a character of strange intensity and mysticism, and, however
singular it may seem, appeared deeply tinctured with the grotesque
_diablerie_ of his favorite German studies.

To enter the little _Café_ in the _Cul de Sac_ Le Febvre was, at the
period of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon
was a man of genius. There was not a _sous-cuisinier_ in Rouen, who
could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat
knew it, and forbore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of
genius. His large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the
approach of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a
sanctity of deportment, a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of
the lower jaw not altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true
that much of this habitual respect might have been attributed to the
personal appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished exterior
will, I am constrained to say, have its weight even with a beast; and
I am willing to allow much in the outward man of the _Restaurateur_
calculated to impress the imagination of the quadruped. There is a
peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the little great--if I may be
permitted so equivocal an expression--which mere physical bulk alone
will be found at all times inefficient in creating. If, however,
Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if his head was
diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the rotundity of
his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly bordering upon the
sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have seen a type of his
acquirements--in its immensity a fitting habitation for his immortal
soul.

I might here--if it so pleased me--dilate upon the matter of
habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external
metaphysician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short,
combed smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped
white flannel cap and tassels--that his pea-green jerkin was not after
the fashion of those worn by the common class of _Restaurateurs_ at
that day--that the sleeves were something fuller than the reigning
costume permitted--that the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that
barbarous period, with cloth of the same quality and color as the
garment, but faced in a more fanciful manner with the particolored
velvet of Genoa--that his slippers were of a bright purple, curiously
filagreed, and might have been manufactured in Japan, but for the
exquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of the binding
and embroidery--that his breeches were of the yellow satin-like
material called _aimable_--that his sky-blue cloak resembling in form
a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all over with crimson
devices, floated cavalierly upon his shoulders like a mist of the
morning--and that his _tout ensemble_ gave rise to the remarkable
words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, "that it was
difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise,
or the rather a very Paradise of perfection."

I have said that "to enter the _Café_ in the _Cul-de-Sac_ Le Febvre
was to enter the sanctum of a man of genius"--but then it was only the
man of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A
sign consisting of a vast folio swung before the entrance. On one side
of the volume was painted a bottle--on the reverse a _Paté_. On the
back were visible in large letters the words _Æuvres de Bon-Bon_. Thus
was delicately shadowed forth the two-fold occupation of the
proprietor.

Upon stepping over the threshold the whole interior of the building
presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room of antique
construction was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the _Café_
in the _Cul-de-Sac_ Le Febvre. In a corner of the apartment stood the
bed of the metaphysician. An array of curtains, together with a canopy
_à la Gréque_ gave it an air at once classic and comfortable. In the
corner diagonally opposite appeared, in direct and friendly communion,
the properties of the kitchen and the _bibliothéque_. A dish of
polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an oven-full of
the latest ethics--there a kettle of duodecimo _melanges_. Volumes of
German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron--a toasting fork
might be discovered by the side of Eusebius--Plato reclined at his
ease in the frying pan--and cotemporary manuscripts were filed away
upon the spit.

In other respects the _Café_ de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little
from the _Cafés_ of the period. A gigantic fire-place yawned opposite
the door. On the right of the fire-place an open cupboard displayed a
formidable array of labelled bottles. There Mousseux, Chambertin, St.
George, Richbourg, Bordeaux, Margaux, Haubrion, Leonville, Medoc,
Sauterne, Bârac, Preignac, Grave, Lafitte, and St. Peray contended
with many other names of lesser celebrity for the honor of being
quaffed. From the ceiling, suspended by a chain of very long slender
links, swung a fantastic iron lamp, throwing a hazy light over the
room, and relieving in some measure the placidity of the scene.

It was here, about twelve o'clock one night, during the severe winter
of ----, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened for some time to
the comments of his neighbors upon his singular propensity--that
Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked
the door upon them with a _sacre Dieu_, and betook himself in no very
pacific mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a
fire of blazing faggots.

It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or
twice during a century. The snow drifted down bodily in enormous
masses, and the _Café_ de Bon-Bon tottered to its very centre, with
the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies in the wall, and
pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of
the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of his Paté-pans
and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the
fury of the tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound
from its stanchions of solid oak.

I have said that it was in no very placid temper the metaphysician
drew up his chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many
circumstances of a perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to
disturb the serenity of his meditations. In attempting _Des Æufs à la
Princesse_ he had unfortunately perpetrated an _Omelette à la
Reine_--the discovery of a principle in Ethics had been frustrated by
the overturning of a stew--and last, not least, he had been thwarted
in one of those admirable bargains which he at all times took such
especial delight in bringing to a successful termination. But in the
chafing of his mind at these unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not
fail to be mingled a degree of that nervous anxiety which the fury of
a boisterous night is so well calculated to produce. Whistling to his
more immediate vicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken of
before, and settling himself uneasily in his chair, he could not help
casting a wary and unquiet eye towards those distant recesses of the
apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the red fire-light itself
could more than partially succeed in overcoming.

Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps
unintelligible to himself, Bon-Bon drew closer to his seat a small
table covered with books and papers, and soon became absorbed in the
task of retouching a voluminous manuscript, intended for publication
on the morrow.

"I am in no hurry, Monsieur Bon-Bon"--whispered a whining voice in the
apartment.

"The devil!"--ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning
the table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.

"Very true"--calmly replied the voice.

"Very true!--what is very true?--how came you here?"--vociferated the
metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at
full length upon the bed.

"I was saying"--said the intruder, without attending to Bon-Bon's
interrogatories--"I was saying that I am not at all pushed for
time--that the business upon which I took the liberty of calling is of
no pressing importance--in short that I can very well wait until you
have finished your Exposition."

"My Exposition!--there now!--how do _you_ know--how came _you_ to
understand that I was writing an Exposition?--good God!"

"Hush!"--replied the figure in a shrill under tone; and arising
quickly from the bed he made a single step towards our hero, while the
iron lamp overhead swung convulsively back from his approach.

The philosopher's amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the
stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of a figure, exceedingly
lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely
distinct by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to
the skin, but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century
ago. These garments had evidently been intended _a priori_ for a much
shorter person than their present owner. His ankles and wrists were
left naked for several inches. In his shoes, however, a pair of very
brilliant buckles gave the lie to the extreme poverty implied by the
other portions of his dress. His head was bare, and entirely bald,
with the exception of the hinder part, from which depended a _queue_
of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles, with side glasses,
protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and at the same
time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their color or their
conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a
shirt; but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme
precision around the throat, and the ends hanging down formally side
by side, gave, although I dare say unintentionally, the idea of an
ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and
demeanor might have very well sustained a conception of that nature.
Over his left ear he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an
instrument resembling the _stylus_ of the ancients. In a breast-pocket
of his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with
clasps of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned
outwardly from the person as to discover the words "_Rituel
Catholique_" in white letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy
was interestingly saturnine--even cadaverously pale. The forehead was
lofty and deeply furrowed with the ridges of contemplation. The
corners of the mouth were drawn down into an expression of the most
submissive humility. There was also a clasping of the hands, as he
stepped towards our hero--a deep sigh--and altogether a look of such
utter sanctity as could not have failed to be unequivocally
prepossessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the countenance of the
metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory survey of his
visiter's person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and conducted
him to a seat.

There would however be a radical error in attributing this
instantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher to any one of
those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had an
influence. Indeed Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to
understand of his disposition, was of all men the least likely to be
imposed upon by any speciousness of exterior deportment. It was
impossible that so accurate an observer of men and things should have
failed to discover, upon the moment, the real character of the
personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To say no more,
the conformation of his visiter's feet was sufficiently
remarkable--there was a tremulous swelling in the hinder part of his
breeches--and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact.
Judge then with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself
thrown thus at once into the society of a--of a person for whom he had
at all times entertained such unqualified respect. He was, however,
too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his
suspicions, or rather--I should say--his certainty in regard to the
true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all conscious
of the high honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed, but by leading his
guest into conversation, to elicit some important ethical ideas which
might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication, enlighten
the human race, and at the same time immortalize himself--ideas which,
I should have added, his visiter's great age, and well known
proficiency in the science of Morals might very well have enabled him
to afford.

Actuated by these enlightened views our hero bade the gentleman sit
down, while he himself took occasion to throw some faggots upon the
fire, and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of the
powerful _Vin de Mousseux_. Having quickly completed these operations,
he drew his chair _vis a vis_ to his companion's, and waited until he
should open the conversation. But plans even the most skilfully
matured are often thwarted in the outset of their application, and the
_Restaurateur_ found himself entirely _nonplused_ by the very first
words of his visiter's speech.

"I see you know me, Bon-Bon,"--said he:--"ha! ha! ha!--he! he!
he!--hi! hi! hi!--ho! ho! ho!--hu! hu! hu!"--and the devil, dropping
at once the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest extent a
mouth from ear to ear so as to display a set of jagged, and fang-like
teeth, and throwing back his head, laughed long, loud, wickedly, and
uproariously, while the black dog crouching down upon his haunches
joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at a
tangent stood up on end and shrieked in the farthest corner of the
apartment.

Not so the philosopher: he was too much a man of the world either to
laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation
of the cat. It must be confessed, however, that he felt a little
astonishment to see the white letters which formed the words "_Rituel
Catholique_" on the book in his guest's pocket momentarily changing
both their color and their import, and in a few seconds in place of
the original title, the words _Regitre des Condamnés_ blaze forth in
characters of red. This startling circumstance, when Bon-Bon replied
to his visiter's remark, imparted to his manner an air of
embarrassment which might not probably have otherwise been observable.

"Why, sir,"--said the philosopher--"why, sir, to speak sincerely--I
believe you _are_--upon my word--the d----dest--that is to say I
think--I imagine--I _have_ some faint--some _very_ faint idea--of the
remarkable honor----"

"Oh!--ah!--yes!--very well!"--interrupted his majesty--"say no more--I
see how it is." And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he
wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and deposited
them in his pocket.

If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his
amazement was now increased to an intolerable degree by the spectacle
which here presented itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a
strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain the color of his guest's, he
found them by no means black, as he had anticipated--nor gray, as
might have been imagined--nor yet hazel nor blue--nor indeed yellow,
nor red--nor purple--nor white--nor green--nor any other color in the
heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the
earth. In short Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his majesty
had no eyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications of their
having existed at any previous period, for the space where eyes should
naturally have been, was, I am constrained to say, simply a dead level
of cadaverous flesh.

It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some
inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and to his
surprise the reply of his majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and
satisfactory.

"Eyes!--my dear Bon-Bon, eyes! did you say?--oh! ah! I perceive. The
ridiculous prints, eh? which are in circulation, have given you a
false idea of my personal appearance. Eyes!!--true. Eyes, Pierre
Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place--_that_, you would say,
is the head--right--the head of a worm. To _you_ likewise these optics
are indispensable--yet I will convince you that my vision is more
penetrating than your own. There is a cat, I see, in the corner--a
pretty cat!--look at her!--observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you
behold the thoughts--the thoughts, I say--the ideas--the
reflections--engendering in her pericranium?

"There it is now!--you do not. She is thinking we admire the
profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most
distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superfluous
of metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind: but to one
of my profession the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance,
liable at any time to be put out by a toasting iron or a pitchfork. To
you, I allow, these optics are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to
use them well--_my_ vision is the soul."

Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and
pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without
scruple, and make himself perfectly at home.

"A clever book that of yours, Pierre"--resumed his majesty, tapping
our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter set down his
glass after a thorough compliance with this injunction.

"A clever book that of yours, upon my honor. It's a work after my own
heart. Your arrangement of matter, I think, however, might be
improved, and many of your notions remind me of Aristotle. That
philosopher was one of my most intimate acquaintances. I liked him as
much for his terrible ill temper, as for his happy knack at making a
blunder. There is only one solid truth in all that he has written, and
for that I gave him the hint out of pure compassion for his absurdity.
I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well know to what divine moral
truth I am alluding."

"Cannot say that I----"

"Indeed!--why I told Aristotle that by sneezing men expelled
superfluous ideas through the proboscis."

"Which is--hiccup!--undoubtedly the case"--said the metaphysician,
while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux, and
offered his snuff-box to the fingers of his visiter.

"There was Plato too"--continued his majesty, modestly declining the
snuff-box and the compliment--"there was Plato, too, for whom I, at
one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew Plato,
Bon-Bon?--ah! no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at Athens, one
day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for an idea. I
bade him write down that '_o nous estin augos_.' He said that he would
do so, and went home, while I stepped over to the Pyramids. But my
conscience smote me for the lie, and, hastening back to Athens, I
arrived behind the philosopher's chair as he was inditing the
'_augos_.' Giving the gamma a fillip with my finger I turned it upside
down. So the sentence now reads '_o nous estin aulos_,' and is, you
perceive, the fundamental doctrine of his metaphysics."

"Were you ever at Rome?"--asked the _Restaurateur_ as he finished his
second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of
Vin de Chambertin.

"But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon--but once. There was a time"--said the
devil, as if reciting some passage from a book--"'there was an anarchy
of five years during which the republic, bereft of all its officers,
had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people, and these were
not legally vested with any degree of executive power'--at that time,
Monsieur Bon-Bon--at that time _only_ I was in Rome, and I have no
earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy."[1]

[Footnote 1: Ils ecrivalent sur la Philosophie (_Cicero_, _Lucretius_,
_Seneca_) mais c'etait la Philosophie Grécque.--_Condorcet_.]

"What do you think of Epicurus?--what do you think
of--hiccup!--Epicurus?"

"What do I think of _whom_?"--said the devil in astonishment--"you
cannot surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of
Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir?--_I_ am Epicurus. I am the same
philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated
by Diogenes Laertes."

"That's a lie!"--said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a
little into his head.

"Very well!--very well, sir!--very well indeed, sir"--said his
majesty.

"That's a lie!"--repeated the Restaurateur dogmatically--"that's
a--hiccup!--lie!"

"Well, well! have it your own way"--said the devil pacifically: and
Bon-Bon, having beaten his majesty at an argument, thought it his duty
to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.

"As I was saying"--resumed the visiter--"as I was observing a little
while ago, there are some very _outré_ notions in that book of yours,
Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug
about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?"

"The--hiccup!--soul"--replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS.
"is undoubtedly"--

"No, sir!"

"Indubitably"--

"No, sir!"

"Indisputably"--

"No, sir!"

"Evidently"--

"No, sir!"

"Incontrovertibly"--

"No, sir!"

"Hiccup!"--

"No, sir!"

"And beyond all question a"--

"No, sir! the soul is no such thing." (Here the philosopher finished
his third bottle of Chambertin.)

"Then--hic-cup!--pray--sir--what--what is it?"

"That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon," replied his
majesty, musingly. "I have tasted--that is to say I have known some
very bad souls, and some too--pretty good ones." Here the devil licked
his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume
in his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.

His majesty continued.

"There was the soul of
Cratinus--passable:--Aristophanes--racy:--Plato--exquisite:--not
_your_ Plato, but Plato the comic poet: your Plato would have turned
the stomach of Cerberus--faugh! Then let me see! there were Noevius,
and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius,
and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintius Flaccus--dear Quinty! as I called
him when he sung a _seculare_ for my amusement, while I toasted him in
pure good humor on a fork. But they want _flavor_ these Romans. One
fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will _keep_, which
cannot be said of a Quirite. Let us taste your Sauterne."

Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the _nil admirari_, and
endeavored to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however,
conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail.
Of this, although extremely indecent in his majesty, the philosopher
took no notice--simply kicking the black water dog and requesting him
to be quiet. The visiter continued.

"I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle--you know I am
fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso,
to my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong
twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus--and
Titus Livy was positively Polybius and none other."

"Hic--cup!"--here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded.

"But if I _have a penchant_, Monsieur Bon-Bon,--if I _have a
penchant_, it is for a philosopher. Yet let me tell you, sir, it is
not every dev-- I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to
_choose_ a philosopher. Long ones are _not_ good, and the best, if not
carefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the
gall."

"Shelled!!"

"I mean taken out of the carcass."

"What do you think of a--hiccup!--physician?"

"_Don't_ mention them!--ugh! ugh!" (Here his majesty retched
violently.) "I never tasted but one--that rascal Hippocrates!--smelt
of asafoetida--ugh! ugh! ugh!--caught a wretched cold washing him in
the Styx--and after all he gave me the cholera morbus."

"The--hiccup!--wretch!"--ejaculated Bon-Bon--"the--hic-cup!--abortion
of a pill-box!"--and the philosopher dropped a tear.

"After all"--continued the visiter--"after all, if a dev-- if a
gentleman wishes to _live_ he must have more talents than one or two,
and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy."

"How so?"

"Why we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know
that in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to
keep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death,
unless pickled immediately, (and a pickled spirit is _not_ good,) they
will--smell--you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be
apprehended when the spirits are consigned to us in the usual way."

"Hiccup!--hiccup!--good God! how _do_ you manage?"

Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the
devil half started from his seat--however with a slight sigh he
recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone, "I
tell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we _must_ have no more swearing."

Bon-Bon swallowed another bumper, and his visiter continued.

"Why there are _several_ ways of managing. The most of us starve: some
put up with the pickle. For my part I purchase my spirits _vivente
corpore_, in which case I find they keep very well."

"But the body!--hiccup!--the body!!!"--vociferated the philosopher, as
he finished a bottle of Sauterne.

"The body, the body--well what of the body?--oh! ah! I perceive. Why,
sir, the body is not _at all_ affected by the transaction. I have made
innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never
experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain, and Nimrod, and Nero,
and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and--and a thousand
others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter
part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why is'nt
there A----, now, whom you know as well as I? Is _he_ not in
possession of all his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a
keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who----but, stay! I have his
agreement in my pocket-book."

Thus saying he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a
number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the
letters MACHI----, MAZA----, RICH----, and the words CALIGULA and
ELIZABETH. His majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from
it read aloud the following words:

"In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary
to specify; and in farther consideration of one thousand _louis d'or_,
I, being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the
bearer of this agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the
shadow called my soul." (Signed) A----[2] (Here his majesty repeated a
name which I do not feel myself justifiable in indicating more
unequivocally.)

[Footnote 2: Quære--Arouet?--_Editor_.]

"A clever fellow that A----"--resumed he; "but like you, Monsieur
Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow truly!--no
such nonsense, Monsieur Bon-Bon. The soul a shadow!! ha! ha! ha!--he!
he! he!--hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasséed shadow!"

"_Only_ think--hiccup!--of a f-r-i-c-a-s-s-e-e-d s-h-a-d-ow!!" echoed
our hero, whose faculties were becoming gloriously illuminated by the
profundity of his majesty's discourse.

"Only think of a--hiccup!--fricasseed shadow!!! Now
damme!--hiccup!--humph!--if _I_ would have been such
a--hiccup!--nincompoop! _My_ soul, Mr.--humph!"

"_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?"

"Yes, sir--hiccup!--_my_ soul is"--

"What, sir!"

"_No_ shadow, damme!"

"Did not mean to say"--

"Yes, sir, _my_ soul is--hiccup!--humph!--yes, sir."

"Did not intend to assert"--

"_My_ soul is--hiccup!--peculiarly qualified for--hiccup!--a"--

"What, sir?"

"Stew."

"Ha!"

"Souflée."

"Eh?"

"Fricassée."

"Indeed!"

"Ragout or Fricandeau--and I'll let you have it--hiccup!--a bargain."

"Could'nt think of such a thing," said his majesty calmly, at the same
time arising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.

"Am supplied at present," said his majesty.

"Hiccup!--e-h?"--said the philosopher.

"Have no funds on hand."

"What!"

"Besides, very ungentlemanly in me"--

"Sir!"

"To take advantage of"--

"Hiccup!"

"Your present situation."

Here his majesty bowed and withdrew--in what manner the philosopher
could not precisely ascertain--but in a well-concerted effort to
discharge a bottle at "the villain," the slender chain was severed
that depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by
the downfall of the lamp.




THE UNITIES.


Aristotle's name is supposed to be authority for the three unities.
The only one of which he speaks decisively is the unity of action.
With regard to the unity of time he merely throws out an indefinite
hint. Of the unity of place not one word does he say.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES IN REMEMBRANCE OF THOS. H. WHITE,

Who died in Richmond, Va. October 7, 1832, aged 19 years.


    When nations prosper, they grow proud and vain,
  And give the reins to luxury and pleasure,
  Spurn their Creator and defy his power:
  To check their pride, Jehovah from his throne,
  Scatters his judgments o'er a guilty world.
  Forth from that idol land, where on the Ganges,
  The Mother to false Gods devotes her offspring,
  Or mounts the funeral pile--o'er half the earth
  Speedeth the Pestilence. Nor cold, nor heat,
  Mountains nor seasons can its course arrest.
  Realm after realm hath bowed beneath its power,
  Till o'er the vast Atlantic to our shores
  It brings the work of death. In early life
  I fell a victim to this deadly foe.
    Thanks to that blessed volume, which hath brought
  Light, Life and Immortality to Man,
  Death has no terror to the heir of heaven--
  It is the portal to his Father's throne.
  This world is full of care, and toil, and suff'ring;
  Its joys are transient, vain and fleeting all,
  Illusive as a shadow. Happy he
  At peace with God, who quits it earliest
  For purer bliss. Rather rejoice than mourn
  That I so soon have earth exchanged for heaven.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A MANIAC'S ADDRESS TO THE MOON.


  Thou pale!--thou beautiful!--to thee I kneel,
    Watching thy wandering thro' yon dark blue sky
  In silent gaze--as if my heart could feel
    Deep adoration for thee, and was nigh
  To a bright being that had look'd on me
  Ev'n from the first days of my infancy.

  Is it not so? Near to those yellow shores
    Where roll my native streams, oh! hast thou not
  Seen my young pleasures, when our busy oars
    O'er the cool wave at dusky night would sport
  On that bright pathway where thy silvery beam
  Fell beautiful upon the glossy stream.

  When thou didst rise at evening's twilight hour,
    A mighty crescent o'er the broken tower,
  Then would I wander 'neath the crumbling wall,
    Or chase my playmates thro' the ruined hall,
  Nor fearing any Spectre-Knight would play
  His frightful gambols in thy harmless ray.

  Away--away!--and when we there did sweep
    The deep black billows of the roaring ocean,
  Still high amid the heavens thou didst keep
    Steady and bright; and with a wild emotion
  Guiarra trembling did look up to thee
  To guide him safely o'er that dismal sea,
  And kindly light his weary hands to spread
  The rattling canvass o'er his giddy head.

  These skies are foreign, and I tread the ground
    My fathers saw not: yet while thou art flinging
  Upon the hills, the woods, the vales around
    Thy gentle beam, ev'n though my heart be clinging
  To other lands, still it can hold most dear
  This stranger home since it can meet thee here.

  We'll climb yon hill--we'll wander o'er yon plain--
    We'll skim yon lake: Moon! we will roam together
  Till mother earth call home her child again:
    Then part we!--part we! fair Moon!--aye, for ever!
  'Tis not for a bright thing like thee to glow
  In the deep shades where the departed go.

  Yet thou canst look upon the road that leads
    To my far dwelling place: there will be flowers
  And fresh green blades, and moss, and harmless weeds
    To point the passage. Oh! at midnight hours
  Wilt thou not smile upon those things that bloom
  All wild, all heedlessly above my tomb?

  I sit, and weave beneath thy gentle light
    A wreath of cypress and of roses bright,
  And ere it wither, or its glow be fled,
    I'll gaily bind it round my dying head.
  'Twill still the throbbing of my fever'd brow
    To wear those flowers pluck'd from the tender stem
  Where they were springing beautiful--and thou
  As beautiful wast shining above _them_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO AN INFANT NEPHEW IN ENGLAND.

By the late Mrs. ANN ROY, of Mathews county, Virginia.


  Tho' Ocean's _pride_ be thy home, my boy,
  I have heard thy laugh of infant joy;
  Tho' Albion's breezes fan thy rest,
  I have seen thee smile on thy mother's breast.

  Like the forms that float in the summer heaven,
  Fair Fancy's dreams have often given
  Thy cherub beauty to my sight
  Than those fairy tints more soft, more bright.

  Yes, I have watched in sleep thine eye,
  More darkly blue than the starlit sky,
  By thy fringed lids now hid--now beaming
  Like harebells mid a snow-wreath gleaming.

  And I've longed thy ruby lip to press,
  And I've sighed thy sunny brow to bless,
  And to teach thee thy father's land to love,
  So come o'er the wave, my island dove!

  For here the sun doth brightly beam
  Mid the feathery foam of the mountain stream,
  And o'er the lake's clear beautiful face,
  The dark trees bend with a shadowy grace.

  And in rosy bowers the Eglantine
  With the golden blossoms of Jasmine twine,
  And the fruits and flowers wear a brighter hue,
  And the heavens look on us more cloudlessly blue;

  And from each hearth at the quiet even,
  The voice of prayer ascends to heaven;
  And the wild birds carol with joyous glee,
  In our own fair land of the happy and free.

  Come list to the music of every rill,
  Which sends through our bosoms a magical thrill;
  Dream not of the depths of the dark blue sea,
  For the heavens will surely smile on thee.

  Sweet scion of Columbia's race,
  Come to thy kindred's fond embrace!
  Come to the land once thy parents home,
  Never again from her shores to roam!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.


  O! there are many brilliant things
    To light this darksome life,
  And many bright imaginings
    With wild enjoyment rife.
  The flashing of the sparkling stream--
    The billows bounding free--
  The glittering of the sunny beam
    Upon the dark green sea.
  The lightning flash that rends the air--
    The meteor's dazzling light
  That fiercely gleams with fitful glare
    Amid the starless night.

  And there are many lovely things
    That grace the smiling earth--
  The gushing of a thousand springs--
    The laughing streamlet's mirth--
  The swift deer bounding through the wood--
    The merry singing bird;--
  Its sweet tones in the solitude
    Of lonely forests heard.
  The greenwood and the grassy plain--
    The silent mountain glen
  Where nature sways her wild domain,
    Far from the haunts of men.

  The mountain where the cedars high
    Bend to the passing breeze--
  The murm'ring pines that softly sigh--
    The music of the trees--
  The sparkling dew-drop on the grass--
    The river's golden sand--
  The flitting of the shades which pass
    In grandeur o'er the land.
  The whippoorwill's sad cry at night,
    Heard from some lonely dell--
  The streaming of the pale moonlight,
    Old nature's magic spell.

  The rainbow's arch that spans the sky--
    The shining stars above--
  The glancing of a kindling eye--
    The tones of one we love.
  The glowing kiss all fondly pressed
    On lips both warm and true--
  The beating of a tender breast,
    Which only throbs for you.
  These gild with sunshine and delight
    The paths of life, and throw
  Upon its darkling streams a bright,
    And never fading glow.




By what _bizzarrerie_ does it happen that Sardanapalus is discovered
in Greek literature under the name of Tenos Concoleros?




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

Visit to Tescuco--Bath of Tescusingo--Otumba--Aqueduct of
Zempoala--Agave Americana--Pyramids of Teotihuacán.


DECEMBER 25, 1825. Mr. P. and myself left Mexico at half past nine
this morning for _Tescuco_. We travelled in a Mexican coach, equipped
in the usual style, and loaded with the usual encumbrances of beds,
&c. Following the road which leads towards _Vera Cruz_ as far as the
little Indian town of _Los Reyes_, we there left it to cross the dry
bed of the lake of _Tescuco_, upon the border of which we had been
riding, to the small village of _La Magdalena_; and soon reached a
pretty and well cultivated country, strewed thickly with villages and
farmhouses (_haciendas_). After passing Chiquluapa and Quautlalpa, we
again were in view of the lake, which an intervening ridge had
intercepted. On the left, less than a league from Tescuco, is the fine
_hacienda_ of Chapingo, owned by the Marquis of Vivanco. Between this
and the town, we passed what is called "El puente de los
Bergantines"--a pile of strongly cemented stone, through which the
road is cut, presenting not the slightest resemblance to a bridge. But
this is classic ground, for here Cortes is said to have launched his
vessels into the lake upon that memorable occasion which preceded the
destruction and capture of the seat of the Mexican Empire. On entering
a place so celebrated in the histories of the Conquest, the wretched
adobe-built houses near the gate of the town, might well diminish the
enthusiasm of the traveller and the antiquarian, were not his
attention caught by a large artificial pile, now in ruins, without the
gate to the right. Every thing connected with this remarkable people
is interesting, even although the remaining vestiges are too slight to
enable one to trace them distinctly and satisfactorily. Such is the
nature of this ruin; but the presumption may not be altogether
unfounded, that this was the site of an ancient temple, and perhaps
the centre of this once great city.

We arrived at two o'clock, the distance from Mexico being seven
leagues by the route we were obliged to travel, but only five across
the lake. After an introduction to the ladies of the house, to which
we had been kindly invited, we were conducted to the cock-pit, where
we were presented to our host. We found it filled with men, women, and
children, all taking a lively interest in the scene; but as we were
less ardent sportsmen, we soon left the place, eager to commence our
rambles in search of antiquities.

We were directed first to the Aduana--custom house--in the _patio_ or
court of which lay a coiled rattlesnake, tolerably well sculptured out
of a block of gray porphyry--its head, however, appeared
disproportionally large. It still wears the mark of paint, although it
has been exposed many years to the weather. Several other figures were
shown to us--one a female with a finely turned shoulder--another was
the arms of Spain, made probably shortly after the conquest--the rest
were imperfect. Thence we were conducted to a house, outside the door
of which was planted for a seat, a part of a human figure, of large
size. In the degraded position it occupied, we could form no opinion
of its excellence.

Thence we strolled to what is called the palace of the Tescucan kings.
Its site fills the western side of the _Plaza_. Traces of its great
extent are every where visible, but not clearly defined, for the
ground it covered has been long cultivated, and a part of it is
planted in _magueyes_. Several large stones still retain the position
they must have occupied in the edifice--those which no doubt formed a
corner, being squared and cut nicely, in a manner which would not be
discreditable to the workmen of the present day in Mexico. At regular
distances of about fifteen feet were placed others, the upper surfaces
of which are rounded irregularly. In an excavation distant a few paces
is a portion of a column, so covered that we could not discover its
dimensions. If a conjecture can be hazarded, these stones were parts
of corridors, supported by stone columns--possibly an excavation may
disclose apartments below. It is, however, futile to form plans upon
such insufficient data. The cutting of a ditch through the western
section of the ruins, has exposed to view stones curiously scooped
out, as if for the use of the founder; and near the centre of the
square is another of a different figure, cut apparently for the same
purpose--perhaps to mould a kettle which should rest on three corners
or feet--the bottom hollowed. We continued our investigations until
nearly dark, when we walked to the church of _San Francisco_, near by,
in the pavement before the door of which, are several of these
anciently wrought stones--some of very large dimensions--one is
circular with a carved surface, but so much worn that we could not
trace its figures.

The walls of the fortress which Cortes is represented to have
constructed for his quarters, were next shown to us. Their height is
about twenty feet--their width at the base about six or seven,
decreasing towards the top. Some pronounce this the work of a more
remote age, but the manner of its construction is sufficient evidence
to the contrary. That it is a work of the Conqueror is a more
reasonable conjecture, though even this is beset with difficulties.
The time Cortes is said to have occupied the city of _Tescuco_,
appears too short to have completed so huge a building: to this,
however, it may be said, that he possessed ample means, with so many
thousand Indians under his orders. But where was the necessity of
raising such strong walls against adversaries so feeble, when, without
so much severe labor, he might have defended himself equally well, and
in the event of his being compelled to abandon it, he would have
encountered less difficulty in recovering possession of it?

Thence we proceeded some distance--the moon shone brightly--to see
other remains of an ancient structure, but being unsuccessful in our
search, we returned to the house of our kind friends, the Camperos.

The town of _Tescuco_ now contains about 5,000 inhabitants--the houses
are of one story only--with regular but unpaved streets, not very
neat. Its modern mediocrity must contrast strongly with its ancient
magnificence, if the early historians of Mexico are to be credited.
During the revolution a ditch was dug around it, in order to repel the
attacks of cavalry. It was assailed several times, and suffered some
injury. It is by no means a pretty town, but is situated amid a pretty
country, and supplied with good water.

DEC. 26. We appointed to-day to visit the mountain of _Tescusingo_.
Before setting out, we made another circuit about the town, and found
on a wall in front of one of the churches, a circular stone, the
circumference of which was curiously carved. Near the northwestern
corner of the _Plaza_ is a well constructed arch of _tetzontli_,
cemented with lime, which had been discovered in opening a ditch--the
extent and purpose of it are alike unknown. We next visited the house
of the Most Holy Trinity, La Casa de la Santissima Trinidad, to
examine an arch of stone, said to have been taken from the ruins of
the palace. Its figure is beautiful--the whole is well wrought--and
would do credit to any edifice. If an antique, of which there seems
very little doubt, it proves beyond any thing I have yet seen, the
civilized state which the Indians of Mexico had attained prior to the
conquest. The arch of three pieces, and four stones which support it,
believed to have once formed a portal in the palace, are perfect. The
latter now are the sides of an entrance to a stable, the arch lies
neglected in the yard--two stones are wanting to complete the supports
to the arch.

We continued our walk to the ruins of an extensive building, upon
which are growing numerous plants of the _maguey_. The layers of
cement are seen distinctly--very smooth and hard. An old woman who
lives near, has collected large pieces of this cement with which she
has paved the _patio_ of her house; so solid is it, that one of our
companions believed it to be stone, until he had tested it with the
hammer.

At eleven o'clock we set out in our coach for the mountain distant
near two leagues to the eastward of _Tescuco_. About a quarter of a
mile from the town, we observed two circular carved stones which we
had not time to examine. After riding a league over the plain, we
stopped at the Molino de las Flores--mill of flowers--a most romantic
spot. Great labor has been expended upon the race for conducting the
water to the mill from the natural dam of rocks, over which the stream
during the rainy season, dashes in torrents into a rugged bed. The
plain from thence to the foot of the mountain being broken by deep
_barrancas_--gullies--our carriage was unable to proceed farther. We
were, therefore, compelled to walk, against our inclinations, for the
sun was scorching, and we were aware of the labor we must encounter in
the ascent of the mountain.

A walk of two miles brought us to the foot of the mountain of
Tescusingo, the steep sides of which covered with _nopal_,[1] we began
to climb slowly. After winding about midway up on the western side,
our guide conducted us to the mouth of an apparently artificial
cavern, with an entrance about six feet high--descending a dozen steps
it takes a new direction. Having no lights we were obliged to leave it
unexplored. Continuing to ascend, we passed towards the southern
declivity, and soon met with cement, which in various parts of the
mountain denotes extensive remains of ancient edifices--with walls
constructed of _tetzontli_--and particularly with a large square stone
hollowed neatly like a drain; and a reservoir for water appeared to
have existed below it. We were now about three-fourths of the distance
up the mountain, and had attained a terrace, along which we walked to
the _Bath of Tescusingo_--the chief object of our visit. This
remarkable work is cut out of a solid rock--hard feldspar
porphyry--which hangs like a bird's nest upon the steep side, which
faces to the south. An irregular platform of seven feet and a half
diameter appears to have been first cut into the rock--the sides of
the rock forming a wall smooth on the inside, nearly two feet and a
half high, the outside left as nature made it--in the centre of this
platform a circular bath is cut out, with a diameter of four feet
seven inches, two feet deep, with two steps to descend into it. A
perforation in one part of the platform shows where the water was
admitted, and it escaped from the bath by a cleft which extends from
top to bottom. The bath was probably covered with a roof--cavities in
the rock seeming to indicate where posts once stood.

[Footnote 1: _Nopal_, a species of cactus.]

The view from this spot is the most beautiful that could have been
selected on the mountain; and warmed by the sun, and sheltered from
the winds of the north, it was, also, the most delightful. The city of
Mexico is seen distinctly, the lake of _Tescuco_ and populous plains
intervening, in the southwest; and to the south rise the snowy
mountains of _Puebla_.

From the bath, we continued our walk along the terrace, upon which
still exist traces of an aqueduct, which, at the eastern extremity of
_Tescusingo_, crossed from the contiguous mountain upon an artificial
pile of stone, conveying water, we were informed, a distance of seven
or eight leagues. We were yet several hundred feet from the top.
Ascending farther, we encountered other remains of structures, and
came to a levelled surface about fifty feet square. All these are
convincing proofs of the numerous edifices which once existed upon
this mountain, but we must ever remain ignorant of their nature and
purpose. Upon the summit, which commands a fine view of the
surrounding country, is a rock of huge size, in which seats have been
cut.

In our descent on the northern side, which is very rough and steep, we
discovered accidentally a flight of seven steps cut out of a single
rock--of these, our guide, an Indian antiquarian of _Tescuco_, had
heretofore been ignorant. Many objects worthy of investigation will no
doubt reward those who should diligently extend their researches upon
the mountain of _Tescusingo_. We reached the foot without further
incident, and rejoined our carriage at the mill, much fatigued with
our ramble under a burning sun. Soon after four we were again under
the roof of our kind host.

After dinner, our friend, Don Nicolas Campero, conducted us to the
ruins which I have already mentioned to be just without the gate of
the town. Their structure and extent are marked by the revolutionary
trenches which surround them. The occasional layers of cement are
perpendicular as well as horizontal, and between them are laid
_adobes_--unburnt bricks--which compose the work. Judging from
appearances, it would not be rash, perhaps, to conjecture that this
was the site of the Great Temple, which, we are assured, was always
constructed upon eminences like this. Its distance from the palace
amply proves the extent of the ancient city of _Tescuco_ to have been
very great.

DEC. 27. After breakfast, we rode a league to see the
_ahuahuetes_[2]--cypress trees--of large dimensions, some of them are
not less than fifty feet in circumference. A large edifice, it is
believed, stood once in the midst of them. There are traces of
buildings. The regularity with which these trees are disposed, proves,
beyond a doubt, that they were planted. They are so regular, that in
order to enclose three sides of a square it was necessary to lay a few
_adobes_ only between them. Two rows of these trees form a long
street. This grove of _ahuahuetes_ is seen distinctly from the city of
Mexico, their deep green contrasting strongly with the dry and open
plain which surrounds them.

[Footnote 2: _Cupressus disticha_. The largest tree known of this
description is at the village of Atlixco, in the state of Puebla. It
is in circumference 23.3 metres, or 76½ English feet.--_Humb. New
Spain_, _l. 3. c. 8, p. 154. Ed. of 1827_.]

We employed the afternoon in revisiting the antiquities of _Tescuco_.
We were also conducted to the garden belonging to the convent of San
Francisco, where a remarkable carved stone lies neglected under a
tree. It is round and represents a man, whose nose is prodigious, in a
kneeling attitude, holding something--what it is we could not
discover--in his hands; behind him is another figure, which defied all
our efforts to decipher it.

At night, we accompanied the young ladies of the house to a ball given
by the principal merchant of the town. The room was filled with men,
women, and cigar smoke. This compelled us to make an early retreat,
for our eyes were not yet insensible to its effect.

DEC. 28. After an early breakfast, and the completion of some repairs
to our coach, we took leave of the excellent family who had
entertained us most hospitably. We now directed our steps towards
_Otumba_. Passing several small villages--some of them are very
picturesque, with their enclosures of the _cactus cylindricus_, which
grows to the height of fifteen or eighteen feet--the country became
barren and uninteresting, until we reached the fine hacienda of _San
Antonio_. Here we deviated from the direct route, but were compensated
for the loss of time by the sight of an extensive stone wall, built to
contain water for the purpose of irrigating the estate, and for the
use of the cattle. This large _presa_--or pond--was the work of the
Jesuits, who formerly owned the finest property in New Spain, and who
were sagacious and industrious in improving their possessions.
Retracing our steps, we passed the extensive buildings of _San
Antonio_, leaving immediately upon our left its beautiful wheat
fields, which the laborers were then engaged in watering. This is the
dry season, and wheat will grow only where it can be irrigated
frequently.

Beyond the village of _San Pedro_, we ascended the _tepetate_[3]
lomes--_lomas_--of the eastern side of the plain of Mexico, upon which
soil the roads are always worn deep and rough. On arriving at the
summit of a low ridge which we were crossing, the Pyramids of
Teotihuacán unexpectedly presented themselves to our view. Though
ignorant that we were so near to them, yet we could not mistake them,
their figure is still so well preserved, whilst centuries have rolled
away since their construction.

[Footnote 3: A hard white clay peculiar to the plains of Mexico,
devoid of vegetation, and very painful to the eyes under a burning
sun. The _lomas_ are the rising ground between the plains and the
mountains.]

Leaving the pyramids and village of San Juan de Teotihuacán to our
left, we travelled on two leagues farther to _Otumba_, where we
arrived at three o'clock, having been six hours on the road from
_Tescuco_. We were told the distance was only seven leagues. It is
true we once lost our way, and our kicking mules occasioned some
detention, but I think another league may be safely added.

A gentleman of _Otumba_, to whom we had brought a letter of
introduction, being unfortunately absent, we were directed to the only
_meson_--public house--in the place, where we took a hasty meal in the
kitchen, having, in the mean time, sent our letter to the gentleman's
brother, who might, we thought, aid us in our research for
antiquities. But this man sent us an uncourteous answer, and we
sallied out in quest of the curate, who was absent also; but we found
what perhaps was better--a remnant of an ancient column in the
churchyard. We met a well dressed man, from whom we expected to glean
some information. He proved to be a stupid lay-priest, who knew
nothing of the existence of any antique in _Otumba_, but he undertook
to inquire at a store near the _plaza_. Those he asked were as
ignorant as himself; but our foreign appearance having by this time
excited some curiosity, several of the inhabitants collected around
us, and learning our wish to find an ancient column which we
understood to exist there, conducted us to the centre of the _plaza_,
where the object of our search was lying prostrate. It is a column of
reddish sand stone, the base, and a portion of the shaft only
remaining, the entire length of which is eight feet two inches. The
shaft is an octagon of unequal sides, and carved with diamond figures
interchained with each other. The lower part of the shaft, one foot
and a half next the base, is of a bulbous figure, also carved. The
diameter of the column is one foot and three quarters. In another
spot, a cleft fragment was shown, seven feet two inches long, said to
have formed a part of the column above described--if so, augmenting
its entire length to fifteen and a half feet, without the capital, of
which we could discover no traces. We were told that this column,
previously to the revolution, was standing in the _plaza_, supporting
the arms of Spain. During the war it was thrown down--has been broken
for various purposes, and its remains now lie neglected, an object of
interest to the curious traveller only.

All our new friends now volunteered to show us something, and we had
nearly seen nothing in the contest of each to carry us to different
places. At length, we effected a compromise, and were carried to
search a _corral_ or cattle yard for the capital of the column. We
looked in vain in yard and stable, notwithstanding one present assured
us he had seen it. We abandoned the pursuit of the evanescent block,
and were conducted by an old man (who was called Cortés, and who
affected to be of pure Indian blood, and to despise all others who
were not,) to his house, in a corner of which was worked a carved
stone--evidently an antique, but it was a work posterior to the
conquest, for it represented an armed man on horseback. Cortés then
carried us to the rear of the church, to see another carved stone, but
it was placed so high in the wall that we could scarcely distinguish
it, but enough appeared to convince us that it bore the arms of Spain.
These instances prove how cautious we must be in adopting the opinions
of the natives on antiquarian matters.

It was now dark, and we returned to our _meson_, as miserable and
cheerless a house of entertainment as traveller ever entered. We made,
nevertheless, a good supper of eggs, _frijoles_ (beans), and wine, of
which we partook in the kitchen.

On making inquiries respecting a celebrated aqueduct which we
understood to exist in the vicinity of _Otumba_, we learned that it
was distant nearly five leagues. We had intended to return to Mexico
on the morrow, but we now determined to visit this work. During the
evening, one of our lately formed acquaintances called to introduce
one of his friends, who politely offered us horses, a favor which we
gladly accepted.

DEC. 29. We rose early, and joined by three of our new acquaintances,
were soon on horseback. One of those who attended us, was manager of
two fine _haciendas_, which we visited on our way to the arches of
Zempoala. The first, Soapayuca, owned by the _Conde de Tepa_, a
Spanish nobleman, is about a league from _Otumba_. Having been burnt
during the revolution it has been rebuilt on an extensive scale. Our
road ran along the _lomes_ of the mountains, through fields of the
_maguey_. About two leagues and a half from _Otumba_, we were shown,
on our left, the plain of _San Miguel_, where Cortes is represented to
have gained his celebrated victory, in the retreat from Mexico to
_Tlascala_. A ride of three leagues brought us to the _hacienda_ of
_Ometusco_--an estate from which _pulque_ only is made, which gives to
its owner, Don Ignacio Adalid, of Mexico, a nett profit, as we were
informed, of $15,000 a year. Here we took breakfast, and after viewing
the buildings, pursued a narrow path through the _magueyes_ to the
_Arcos de Zempoala_.

These arches are sixty-eight in number, crossing a deep valley from
north to south, and are eleven hundred paces in length. The greatest
height is one hundred twenty-two and a half feet, where two arches,
one supported above the other, are thrown across the deep _barranca_.
The width above is four feet and a half, with a narrow, and shallow
channel in the centre for the conveyance of the water. This is a work
of great antiquity, constructed about the year 1540, under the
direction of a Franciscan Monk, to supply Otumba with good water, of
which it is sadly in want. Though made at an immense expense, the
aqueduct is now wholly useless, but the arches are in an excellent
state of preservation.[4]

[Footnote 4: Torquemada relates--Monarquia Indiana, l. 20, c. 63--that
a Franciscan Friar, Francisco de Tembleque, undertook and accomplished
this work, achieving an exploit "which great and powerful kings would
scarcely have undertaken to accomplish, nor would he have engaged in
such a work (although the poet says, fortune favors the bold) if he
had not been inspired by heaven, and aided especially by divine grace,
which overcomes all obstacles and provides the means of easily
surmounting the greatest difficulties." The time taken to execute this
work was 16 or 17 years, five of which were consumed on the principal
arches; "which," our author says, "may be regarded as one of the
wonders of the world." According to his statement, there are
sixty-seven arches (we counted sixty-eight) extending 1059½
_varas_--about 975 yards. The middle arch is 42½ _varas_, about 118
feet high--and 23½ _varas_, about 21½ yards wide, "which fills with
astonishment and wonder those who see so marvellous a work." There are
two other ravines, one crossed by thirteen the other by forty-six
arches. The entire length of the aqueduct was 160,496 Spanish
feet--more than fifteen leagues. Torquemada gives no dates, but this
work appears to have been constructed soon after Tembleque arrived
from Spain, which was in 1538; and our author mentions, that though
built seventy years (he wrote about 1610 or 12) it had not sustained
the smallest injury.

As a specimen of Torquemada's credulity, I extract the following "most
pure truth"--_purisma verdad_. He says that "the good Father Francisco
de Tembleque, had no other companion during this long and painful work
than a large yellow cat, which hunted in the fields by night, and at
daybreak brought to his master the fruits of his hunt, hares or
partridges, for the day's subsistence, which may seem incredible, but
it is a most pure truth: many clergy witnessed this wonderful thing,
who, passing by, stopped at the hermitage at night for the sole
purpose of seeing the fact, and of convincing themselves of the care
of the cat, for it was commonly reported through the land, how he
sustained himself and his master."]

After taking a rough measurement of this magnificent work, we retraced
our steps to the _hacienda_ of Ometusco, where our kind host showed us
the entire process of making _pulque_. A good plant of the _Agave_,[5]
under the most favorable circumstances, reaches maturity in eight
years. This state is indicated by a disposition in the central leaves
to throw up a stalk, which, when permitted to grow, rises to the
height of twelve or fourteen feet, branching at the top not unlike a
chandelier. In this critical state a large incision is made with a
sharp iron bar in the heart; a large basin, as it were, is scooped out
with much care, and being then filled with dry leaves or rubbish, is
permitted to rest unmolested for about six months, when it begins to
yield juice in abundance and of good quality. On being taken from the
plant, which operation an Indian performs morning and evening with a
long gourd acting as a syphon, the _agua miel_, or honey water, as it
is then called, is of a sickening sweetness; but after being poured
into large vats--made of untanned hides, with the hair inside--in one
week it effervesces; but when poured, as in common, upon the lees of
old _pulque_, it is prepared in one or two days, and is carried to
market in hogs' skins. After yielding during six months, from 200 to
250 gallons, and sometimes more, the plant dies, and a young sucker is
planted to succeed it. A plant ready to yield, is worth from eight to
twelve dollars, and produces three or four _cargas_, or mule loads: a
_carga_ is sold in market at four dollars.

[Footnote 5: The American aloe.]

_Pulque_ is intoxicating to those who use it too freely. The taste is
far from pleasant to me, and the odor of it is sickening; but it
improves with use, and when taken moderately is thought to be
wholesome.

The _Agave Americana_ is a most valuable plant. Independently of its
agricultural profits upon barren soils where little else would grow,
it serves a great variety of uses. From _pulque_, a strong brandy is
distilled. This and _pulque_ are the common drink of the people. The
fibres of the leaf of the _maguey_ are manufactured into coarse
cloths, which are used for bagging, as saddlecloths, and for the
_aparejos_, packsaddles; they form thread of every texture, twine, and
rope of the largest size; and the juice of the leaf is efficacious in
the cure of ulcers, especially of the galls and sores of brute
animals: the leaf itself acts in place of gutters and spouts for the
cabins of the Indians, and makes a roof to their rude dwellings: its
prickle or thorn, is a needle in case of necessity; and at certain
stages of its growth the _maguey_ may be taken as food, and was so
used during the revolution by many hungry wanderers.

Thus this plant may be the food, drink, and clothing of the Mexicans;
and from the variety of purposes to which it may be applied, the
_Agave Americana_ may safely be said to be the most valuable of the
vegetable creation.

It was dark when we returned to our lodgings in _Otumba_, having
consumed the whole day in seeing what we might have accomplished in a
few hours; but our friends were so polite, that we were obliged to
submit to their dilatory movements.

DEC. 30. Provided again with horses, we set out at an early hour for
the Pyramids, leaving our carriage to join us at _San Juan de
Teotihuacan_. After a ride of nearly two leagues, we alighted at the
foot of the smaller pyramid, which, although the ascent was steep,
rough, and overgrown with weeds, we soon surmounted. This, more
dilapidated than the larger one, still preserves its pyramidal shape,
so as easily to be distinguished. The construction seems to be of
stones thrown indiscriminately together, and, at occasional intervals,
a layer of lime crosses it horizontally. Upon its summit are the
remains of a small stone building, which bears abundant evidence of
being the work of the Conquerors. It was probably a chapel, built to
fill the place of the temple which it usurped. At the southern foot of
this pyramid is a circle surrounded either by diminutive pyramids, or
by the ruins of small edifices, or perhaps both intermingled. Near the
centre of this circle is a similar ruin, from which proceeds a regular
street forty or fifty feet wide, running north and south, and bounded
on both sides by ruins of apparently small pyramids, on which are
distinct traces of the walls of houses divided into small apartments.
At the head of the street is a large rough stone, with a circle
sculptured on one side of it; beyond the wall of this circle, on the
west, we were shown a singularly cut stone of large size. It is ten
feet three inches long, five feet one inch wide, and four feet five
inches high above the ground, in which it seems partly buried. We
collected every where various wrought pieces of obsidian.

The larger pyramid is a little distant from the street to the east of
it. As our time was limited I ascended it hastily, and found that,
except in size it differs only in one respect from the other: about
midway a terrace extends around it. The faces of both pyramids
correspond with the four points of the compass. The view from them
extends over the lake of _Tescuco_ to the city of Mexico, and beyond
the western barrier of the plain to the snow-capped mountain of
_Toluca_.

The large pyramid of _Teotihuacan_ is called _Tonatiuh Ytzaqual_, or
House of the Sun. According to _Oteyza's_ measurements[6] its base is
208 metres--682½ English feet--its perpendicular height is 55
metres--180.4 feet. The base of the other pyramid is much less than
that of the former. This is called _Mextli Ytzaqual_, or House of the
Moon: its height is 144.4 feet.

[Footnote 6: Humb. T. 2. l. 3. c. 8. p. 66.]

The construction of these pyramids is ascribed to the _Tolteck_
nation, in which event they were built in the eighth or ninth
century.[7] It has been asserted that these and the other Mexican
Pyramids are hollow; but as far as investigations have been carried,
their solidity seems established. Constructed as they are, if they
were hollow the destructive influence of so many centuries which have
elapsed since their erection, would have discovered it. The
supposition is equally ill-founded that they are mere casings or
crusts to natural eminences. So far as rains have laid them open, or
the hand of man exposed to view their interior, all is artificial. It
is idle to argue that if they were completely artificial, the
materials which form them must have been dug from some contiguous
spot, and that this has no where been discovered. Places are seen from
which the materials have been collected; and the circumjacent plain is
strewed thickly with _tetzontli_, quite abundant enough to build other
pyramids, without being reduced to the necessity of digging into the
earth.

[Footnote 7: Humb. T. 2. l. 3. c. 8. p. 67.]

At _San Juan_, about half a league from the pyramids, we rejoined our
carriage, and at 11 A. M. set out for Mexico, distant ten leagues. We
travelled rapidly over a dreary but not a bad road, and passing
_Tololcingo_, crossed the dry bed of the lake of _Tescuco_, shortening
our ride a league or so. At a _venta_, or small inn, near _Santa
Clara_, we had the good fortune to meet with an idol, dug up in the
vicinity, which we bought; it represents a naked female, her hands
crossing her breast, her nose of prodigious size, and hair plaited
down the back. The figure is about two feet high.[8]

[Footnote 8: This idol was sent to the museum of the college at
Charleston, S. C.]

We arrived at _Guadalupe_ at 3 P. M. and an hour's ride over a good
_calzada_, bordered with pretty aspins, brought us to the capital. Our
jaunt has been very delightful, and we have met with great kindness.
From what we have seen of the antiquities of Mexico, we are impressed
with a far more favorable opinion than we had entertained of the
civilized state of the Indians before the Conquest.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE:

The subjoined copy of an old Scotch ballad, contains so much of the
beauty and genuine spirit of by-gone poetry, that I have determined to
risk a frown from the fair lady by whom the copy was furnished, in
submitting it for publication. The ladies sometimes violate their
promises--may I not for once assume their privilege, in presenting to
the readers of the Messenger this "legend of the olden time," although
_I promised not_? Relying on the kind heart of the lady for
forgiveness for _this breach of promise_, I have anticipated the
pardon in sending you the lines, which I have never as yet seen in
print.

SIDNEY.


BALLAD.


  They have giv'n her to another--
  They have sever'd ev'ry vow;
  They have giv'n her to another,
  And my heart is lonely now;
  They remember'd not our parting--
  They remember'd not our tears,
  They have sever'd in one fatal hour
  The tenderness of years.
    Oh! was it weal to leave me?
    Thou couldst not so deceive me;
    Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee,
      Lost, lost Rosabel!

  They have giv'n thee to another--
  Thou art now his gentle bride;
  Had I lov'd thee as a brother,
  I might see thee by his side;
  But _I know with gold they won thee_,
  And thy trusting heart beguil'd;
  Thy _mother_ too, did shun me,
  For she knew I lov'd her child.
    Oh! was it weal to leave me?
    Thou couldst not so deceive me;
    Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee,
      Lost, lost Rosabel!

  They have giv'n her to another--
  She will love him, so they say;
  If her mem'ry do not chide her,
  Oh! perhaps, perhaps she may;
  But I know that she hath spoken
  What she never can forget;
  And tho' my poor heart be broken,
  It will love her, love her yet.
    Oh! was it weal to leave me?
    Thou couldst not so deceive me;
    Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee,
      Lost, lost Rosabel!




  From the Baltimore Visiter.

THE COLISEUM. A PRIZE POEM.

BY EDGAR A. POE.


  Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
  Of lofty contemplation left to Time
  By buried centuries of pomp and power!
  At length, at length--after so many days
  Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst,
  (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
  I kneel, an altered, and an humble man,
  Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
  My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.

  Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
  Silence and Desolation! and dim Night!
  Gaunt vestibules! and phantom-peopled aisles!
  I feel ye now: I feel ye in your strength!
  O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
  Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
  O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
  Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

  Here, where a hero fell, a column falls;
  Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
  A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat:
  Here, where the dames of Rome their yellow hair
  Wav'd to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle:
  Here, where on ivory couch the Cæsar sate,
  On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder:
  Here, where on golden throne the monarch loll'd,
  Glides spectre-like unto his marble home,
  Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
  The swift and silent lizard of the stones.

  These crumbling walls; these tottering arcades;
  These mouldering plinths; these sad, and blacken'd shafts;
  These vague entablatures; this broken frieze;
  These shattered cornices; this wreck; this ruin;
  These stones, alas!--these gray stones--are they all--
  All of the great and the colossal left
  By the corrosive hours to Fate and me?

  "Not all,"--the echoes answer me; "not all:
  Prophetic sounds, and loud, arise for ever
  From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
  As in old days from Memnon to the sun.
  We rule the hearts of mightiest men. We rule
  With a despotic sway all giant minds.
  We are not desolate--we pallid stones;
  Not all our power is gone; not all our fame;
  Not all the magic of our high renown;
  Not all the wonder that encircles us;
  Not all the mysteries that in us lie;
  Not all the memories that hang upon,
  And cling around about us as a garment,
  Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written in the Village of A----, Virginia.


  Sweet village of the mountain glen!
    Thy verdant shades are dear to me;
  I shun the busy haunts of men,
    And to thy peaceful bosom flee;
  For smiling nature's summer home
    Is found beside thy flashing rills,
  And when the winter-tempests come,
    She reigns upon thy rugged hills.

  Upon thy rocks the tow'ring pine,
    The hemlock and the cedar grow;
  And high the wild and flow'ring vine,
    Its tendrils round their branches throw.
  'Tis sweet to stray thy paths along,
    Beside some bright and rippling stream
  Whose waters with a murm'ring song,
    Glance gaily in the sunny beam.

  Through distant lands my feet may roam,
    In foreign climes my dwelling be,
  Unchang'd where'er I make my home,
    My heart will still abide with thee.
  Yes! still with thee, in joy or woe,
    On desert land, or stormy sea,
  In pain or bliss, where'er I go,
    My love will ever dwell with thee.

A. L. B.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Extracts from the Auto-biography of Pertinax Placid_.

MY FIRST NIGHT IN A WATCHHOUSE.

CHAP. II.

  This was our hero's earliest scrape; but whether
    I shall proceed with his adventures is
  Dependent on the public altogether:
    We'll see, however, what they say to this.
                                            [_Don Juan_.


We found Fenella in much trouble. That buoyant mind which the
vicissitudes of a changing and precarious profession could not sadden
or subdue, proved itself vulnerable to the weapons of ridicule.

"And so, my young deserter, you have come at last. Here have I been
grieving myself to death at the malice of Mc----, and you have felt no
sympathy in my trouble, or have been too indolent or indifferent to
give me one word of comfort. Shame on you! Is this your friendship?"

I made my excuses with the best grace I could assume, and assured her
I had just learned the cause of her uneasiness. She readily believed
me, for she was too sincere herself to doubt the sincerity of others.

"I do not know," said she, "but my annoyance at this affair may seem
overstrained. To those who call themselves philosophers, it may appear
childish in me to grieve at such an attempt to render me ridiculous.
But I am a mere woman, and no philosopher; besides, my case is a
peculiar one. On the stage we have so often, I might say so
habitually, to overstep what by other women are considered the bounds
of modesty, that she who preserves the essential principle of that
great charm of the sex, is most jealous in keeping her claim to it
inviolate. The world gives us credit for but little feminine
delicacy--and the world reasons correctly in doing so. But correct
reasoning does not always reach the facts of peculiar cases. It may be
thought strange, but I know it to be true, that a woman who in the
presence of hundreds suffers herself to be embraced, kissed, and
fondled by men of gross character and disgusting manners, and who
embraces and caresses them in turn, should revolt at the idea of
permitting such liberties in private. I know this to be so in my own
case. And even were all those women whose lot is unfortunately cast
upon the stage, as licentious as both the virtuous and the vicious are
pleased to suppose them, they must indeed be debased and degraded, to
yield themselves to that indiscriminate licentiousness which the
world's censure would imply. Few know how far the enthusiasm of an
artist, his aspirations after excellence, his love of abstract beauty,
may check and overcome every prurient thought, every low born
imagination. The sculptor, when he moulds the beings of his fancy into
forms of loveliness, is alive only to the spirit of his art; his mind
is filled with the beauty of his conceptions, and is purified by the
intenseness of his desire to attain the summit of excellence, from
every grovelling idea. He is not, surely, to be classed with those
who, looking upon his works with vulgar eyes, find in them food for
lascivious thoughts, and stimulants to unhallowed passions. So it is
with acting. The actress has placed before her a mark of excellence
which she is ambitious to attain, and in striving for its attainment,
all minor considerations are thrown aside. The exhibition of a passion
must not be shorn of its accessories; and whatever is necessary to its
full development she yields to, with as little thought of grossness or
indelicacy in caressing an individual who represents her husband or
her lover, as the artist indulges when painting Eve in the undress of
nature. It would be well for such as suppose that these exhibitions
indicate a want of modesty, to know how totally the mind is absorbed
in the desire to embody the conceptions of the poet, when an actress
in Belvidera or Monimia gives a loose rein to the passions, and
regardless of the being with whom she is associated, contributes, by
the very freedom which the over-virtuous delight to censure, in
producing the delusion of the scene. In playing her part, not one
thought is given to the man whom she embraces. No--she is for the time
a fictitious character--the character of the scene, insensible to any
other feeling but that which the poet has delineated. But how
differently do the work-a-day world argue this matter. They seldom, if
ever, separate the _actress_ from the _woman_--and every action is
judged of according to the gross ideas of the vulgar minded, or the
fastidious scruples of those who measure a dramatic representation by
the rules which prevail in private society. I know full well the
invidious position which, as an actress, I occupy in the opinion of
the public; and a consciousness that in my unfortunate profession,
every step towards the achievement of excellence must be gained by a
sacrifice of personal respect, often gives me melancholy sensations.
Do you then wonder at the pain I have suffered from this malignant
endeavor of Mc----'s to render me ridiculous?"

"But still," said Nichols, "the attack in itself is unworthy of
notice. The same talent might render the proudest woman in the city an
object of equal ridicule."

"Very true, but it would not find the public disposed to laugh with
the caricaturist. The general sentiment would be against him, for he
would have outraged what every man would be ready to defend--the
sanctity of female privacy, and the decencies of social life. But such
a case is strongly contrasted with mine, and it is that which renders
it to me so peculiarly painful. The actress lives in the full glare of
public observation, and the libeller who holds her up to contempt,
invades no sanctuary which all hold sacred; he only makes her
subservient to public amusement in a new character. If her pride be
wounded, if her delicacy be shocked--she has few to sympathise with
her, for few believe she possesses either pride or delicacy, and none
deem it their duty to defend her from the attacks of her enemy."

Fenella paused, and I saw the tears glisten upon her cheek; but she
turned away her face, and hastily brushed them off, as if ashamed that
her weakness should be observed.

"You do your friends injustice," said I. "You do indeed. There are a
few who do not think thus lightly of your feelings, and who are ready
to defend you from assaults of whatever kind."

"Doubtless there are a few," said she, "who feel for me. It would be
unjust in me to doubt it. But it is the want of that _general_ feeling
of sympathy which would be excited in favor of any other woman, that I
feel most keenly. To know that in proportion as my professional
exertions are admired, my private feelings are disregarded, gives
point to the malice of Mc----, and renders that a cause of pain and
mortification which ought to be the object of contempt. But we will
say no more upon the subject. Perhaps I have said too much, for I see
that you and Nichols are distressed by my complaints. I will not
repeat them; but endeavor to display more of what Nichols calls
philosophy."

The train of our conversation was broken off by the entrance of Selden
and Cleaveland. Fenella's spirits were soon restored, and she became
as gay and fascinating as usual. Various topics were discussed, and
much pleasant _badinage_ filled up the time until tea--which Fenella
particularly patronized, in spite of the fashion--made its appearance.

"Pray, Master Pertinax," said Fenella, "how have you employed your
time since I last saw you? You have lost a deal of green room scandal,
and missed seeing some of the finest of green room absurdities, by
your long estrangement from the Theatre."

"Well, saving your presence, I have been occupied with better
things--a hard student have I been--and although the merry bells of
the Driving Club sounded their peals under my windows twice during my
seclusion; although I saw their gorgeous train of _carioles_ piled
with buffalo robes, and flaunting in blue and crimson trimmings, glide
merrily by; and though among the furred and feathered _demoiselles_
who sat within them, I knew there was one whom it would have been
delightful to be near; nay more, although under a silver-grey
Chinchilla bonnet, there shone forth two lustrous black eyes--yet did
I resist the lure, and turn again to my studies. I have declined three
balls where I knew I should meet that 'Cynthia of the minute,' with
whom, at this particular time, I cannot but believe I am most
foolishly in love. I have resisted the temptation of skating, and a
special invitation from the Curling Club to witness an important
match. All these and many more allurements have failed to withdraw me
from my books."

"Bless me, what a Solomon you will become, if you persevere in your
labors! But your stoicism surprises me. Can it be possible that Marian
Lindsay's _load-stars_ failed in attraction?"

"Nonsense! I have said nothing of Marian Lindsay or her load-stars, as
you are pleased to call them. Her eyes are not _black_, nor are they
those I spoke of."

"What, a new attraction! Well, I see that I must relinquish the task
of keeping you steady. I had hopes, when I prudently endeavored to
prevent your falling in love with me, (which you cannot deny you had
more than half a mind to do,) by directing your amorous disposition
towards a proper object, that your fancy would endure at least a month
or two. Do you not now perceive what a folly I should have been guilty
of, had I suffered you to dangle, as you wished, at my apron string?"

"I do indeed. Still, I may say with honest Jack Falstaff, 'ere I knew
_thee_, I knew nothing.'"

"Yes," said she, "and I can finish the sentence with equal truth--'and
now art thou little better than one of the wicked.' But I deny your
declaration, for you have confessed to the truth of your intrigues
with the little Canadian milliner, and the blue eyed _Irlandaise_."

"I admit it; but those were unsophisticated flirtations."

"Unsophisticated! Mercy on us!"

"Oh yes," said Selden, "and he stoutly denies having ever sighed to
you, Fenella; and talks a deal of nonsense about friendship, as though
such a feeling ever existed between a lad of nineteen and a lady under
twenty-five."

"Upon that subject," replied Fenella, "we can at least keep our own
counsel."

"Come, Cleaveland," said I, "we are bound in the same direction. I
have a few words to say to you, and if you are at leisure we will
walk."

"I hope I have not driven you away," said Selden.

"Pshaw! I am not so easily driven."

Tea was over, and Cleaveland and I rose to depart. Fenella accompanied
us to the door, and said to me in a monitory tone: "Now, Pertinax, be
careful what you do in relation to the caricature. Keep out of
difficulty with Mc----. You cannot be of any service to me in that
affair, and may injure yourself by your interference. I know your
disposition to serve me; but I also know that your impetuosity is more
likely to involve you in difficulty than to bring me out of it. Be
cautious, I beseech you."

"Do not be alarmed," said I, somewhat piqued, "my _indifference_ will
be my protection."

"I do not believe that, nor do I believe that you are indifferent to
my feelings; and the caution I now give you is a proof that I do not
think so."

A pressure of the hand was my only reply to this conciliatory speech;
and we left the house.

It was early in the evening, and quite dark, as we mounted the ice in
the middle of the street, preferring the risk of being run down by
_traineaus_ or _carioles_, on that narrow pass, to stumbling against
steps, cellar doors, and other obstructions on the _trottoir_ of an
avenue, feebly lighted by here and there a dim and solitary lamp. We
pursued our way down St. Paul's street, and in passing the shop where
"Timothy Crop, Fashionable Hair Dresser and Perruquier," shone in gilt
letters, illuminated by a lamp, a glance shewed us two copies of
Fenella's effigy, displayed with most provoking prominence in a
bow-window, which was brilliantly lighted.

"Curses on that fellow," said I. "Is there no way in which this
nuisance can be prevented? You are fertile in schemes, Cleaveland;
cannot you contrive some plan, if not to stop the issue of these
libels, to revenge the insult offered to our friend?"

"Not I indeed, unless we hire _Felix Sans Pitié_[1] to thump the
artist, or get _Piquet_,[2] the retired bully, to break his right
arm."

[Footnote 1: There was a family of _Sans Pitiés_, belong to a
neighboring seignory, celebrated for their muscular frames and
pugilistic powers. They were _Voyageurs_ in the service of the North
West, or Hudson's Bay Companies, at the time when those associations
were at deadly feud, out of which grew the massacre at Red River. In
the spring, previous to the setting out of the North West expeditions,
the _voyageurs_ of these companies had their rendezvous in Montreal
for a day or two, during which they were generally intoxicated, and
scarcely an hour passed that was not distinguished by a pugilistic
combat in the old market place, which was their peculiar haunt. The
_Sans Pitiés_ when present were the champions, and challenged all
comers with nearly uniform success. I have never seen more magnificent
forms than these brothers displayed, when stripped for a fight. Their
chests and shoulders would have been fine models for a Hercules, so
muscular were they, and devoid of superfluous flesh. Their style of
hitting was peculiar, and differed entirely from the English system,
being far more rapid and eccentric. In general an English pugilist was
more than a match for the best Canadian bully; but in one instance the
youthful gladiator referred to in the text, was triumphant over a
skilful pupil of Crib. It is worthy of remark, that the English bully,
when completely _sewed up_, (to use a phrase of the prize ring)
declared in a faint voice, that he had been beaten contrary to all
rule, and that _Sans Pitié_ knew no more about boxing than a horse.
But the Canadian champion was once well beaten by an antagonist as
little skilled as himself in the arts and mysteries of the Five's
Court. I was witness to this conflict between him and an English
sailor, not half his weight. The Jack-tar completely overcame his
Herculean opponent, when it seemed to me that had his frame been made
of any material softer than iron, he must have been demolished by
_Sans Pitié's_ blows.]

[Footnote 2: Monsieur _Piquet_ was about this time a member of the
Provincial Parliament. How he got there I do not exactly know: the
station seemed rather inconsistent with the situation occupied by him
in early life. He was a man of uncommon muscular vigor; and had in his
youth been employed by the North West Company, as the _bully_ of their
expeditions. His duty was to punish any refractory subordinate by the
application of the fist. The _voyageurs_ were an ignorant and lawless
set of men, engaged by the company to navigate their _batteaux_, and
to carry the merchandize which constituted their freight, across the
portages. The goods were arranged in sacks containing about ninety
pounds each and were transported (or perhaps _toted_ would be a more
proper word in our latitude) by the _voyageurs_ where the navigation
failed. Their labors were consequently very severe; and it may readily
be believed that few but the most reckless and unworthy characters
enlisted in these expeditions. They were generally accompanied and
conducted by one or two clerks or partners, who required some strong
executive power to keep their followers in due submission. Some trusty
individual of uncommon strength and hardihood was selected to perform
this duty--and such was the situation held by _Piquet_. He was
successful in his enterprizes, and as I was told amassed considerable
wealth. At any rate, I knew him as a legislator. I was once in company
with this man, when he related some of his early adventures;
particularly one, in which, being necessitated to quell the turbulent
spirit of a refractory _voyageur_, he broke the arm of the brawler
with one blow of his fist--an achievement of which Monsieur _Piquet_
seemed not a little proud.]

"Not bad ideas, but impracticable. Felix is at Red River, or
thereabouts--and Piquet is in Parliament, which should argue that his
powers of maiming are fully employed upon the laws of the province."

We had paused involuntarily before the window. The shop was thronged
with customers, and we saw the barber take down one of the caricatures
and exhibit it to an individual, who laughed immoderately as he
examined it. My blood boiled as I witnessed this scene. I had been
deeply impressed by Fenella's description of her defenceless
condition, and the absence of that general feeling of resentment in
her case, which would have existed had any other woman been the object
of such ridicule. The hearty laugh of the examiner of the picture--the
gusto with which he enjoyed the ludicrous figure before him, inspired
me with most unchristian feelings, and I could, with the greatest good
will, have tweaked his nose with the hot curling irons which the man
of hair was applying to his head.

As we moved away, I vowed that I would be revenged on the malicious
barber--that he at least should not escape. A few moments brought us
to my lodgings in the _Vieux Marché_. We sat down by a hot stove, and
after having listened to Cleaveland's description of the last party at
Madame Feronnier's, without hearing one word, I broke silence.

"Cleaveland," said I, "will you join me in a scheme which I have been
revolving since we left that infernal barber's?"

"I shall be better prepared to give you an answer, when you tell me
what you propose."

"Then you will not enlist until you know my plan."

"Not I. It is my luck to engage in so many hairbrained scrapes of my
own, that I will be led blindfold into none of your planning."

"But you must not fail me. I have set my heart on your assistance. If
I had asked it of Selden, he would have stifled me with prudent
advice. Nichols has not hardihood enough for any wicked act; and
Marryatt is so completely bewitched with his brunette beauty in the
Recolet Suburbs, that he cannot find time for any other roguery. Now
for a stirring adventure you are just the lad--first, because you like
it, and secondly, because you have the spirit to go through with it."

"Really you speak of your enterprize in the Hotspur vein, for like him
it seems you are about to

  ----'read me matter deep and dangerous,
  As full of peril and adventurous spirit,
  As to o'erwalk a current roaring loud,
  On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.'

But be it what it may, propose to me any reasonable mischief, and _je
suis à vous_."

"It is nothing very dangerous in the performance, and the consequences
must take care of themselves. I only intend to smash, and that
shortly, the bow-window of our friend the barber--to scatter his
perfumes about his own head, and give his next door neighbor, the
glazier, a job?"

"Is that all? Bless me, how reasonable! Selden himself could not have
advised a more rational and moral mode of punishing this impudent
barber.--Why, Pertinax, I did not think you capable of a conception so
brilliant. As to breaking the window and scattering the perfumery, 'we
may do it as secure as sleep'--and for the consequences, I have
nothing to say on that subject, because they come _afterwards_; and as
Father De Rocher used to tell us, questions must be considered in
their proper order: besides, all the wise ones say that _fore_-thought
is better than _after_-thought. But independent of these
considerations, it would be inconsistent in me, who never yet gave a
thought to consequences, to do so now; and some political proser in
the _Spectateur_, said the other day that consistency was a jewel."

"Then you enlist in the service."

"Yes, my Hotspur; 'it is a good plot as ever was laid--an excellent
plot. My Lord of York commends the plot, and the general course of the
action.' So here is my hand. We will take some pains to do that which
will cost Timothy Crop many panes to remedy; and if we escape the
pains and penalties therefor, all will be well."

"We must rely upon our heels for that. Give me six yards the start,
and I defy any barber in the Canadas to overtake me. We must show
Master Timothy that we have not played at cricket, or run foot races
on the wind-mill common for nothing."

"But what missiles shall we use?--have you thought of that, _Mon
Général_?"

"What can be better than these?" said I, taking up a couple of billets
of oak from the stove-pan.

"Admirable! And when shall we proceed to business?"

"Now--this very hour--we cannot wish a darker night; and the sooner we
carry our design into effect the better."

"Very true, for Shakspeare says, that

  'Between the acting of a dreadful thing
   And the first motion, all the interim is
   Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream.'

We will dream as little upon it as possible."

"_Allons donc!_ Take your billets, and let us march."

We sallied forth into the street. It was about nine o'clock, and all
was quiet. The light from Crop's window shone brightly in the
distance, and invited us to our revenge.

The heavy falls of snow are a serious inconvenience in the narrow
streets of Montreal, and the manner in which it is disposed of, gives
to them a peculiar appearance. When a storm subsides, the whole town
is alive with the business of shovelling the snow from the side-walks
into the middle of the street, which in the course of a few weeks
after the winter sets in, is elevated several feet above its natural
level. On the top of this ridge vehicles of all descriptions are
forced to pass, and while guiding a _cariole_ along the height, you
nod to your pedestrian friends on the side-walks, many feet below you,
and peep, if you have any curiosity, into the windows of your
neighbor's second story. By gradual packing and freezing, this
_high_-road becomes a complete rampart of ice, along which _carioles_
and _traineaus_ are driven with alarming velocity--to a strange eye
presenting the constant prospect of their being hurled down to the
side-walk. But such accidents seldom happen. In their own awkward
fashion, the Canadian drivers are uncommonly expert, and their hardy
little horses are equally so.

We kept the side-walk until we reached the corner of St. Nicholas and
St. Paul streets, and here we stopped to confer.

"By the way," said I, "we had better decide upon the manner of running
away. Crop is a tall fellow and long in the legs. It will not do for
us to keep together. My plan is this--I will dive into the alley,
leading up to the city hotel, cross St. Peter's street and get into
the Jesuits's grounds.[3] You had better take to the opposite
side-walk, for you will be perfectly safe there, as you may turn the
left corner of St. Peter, and skim away towards the _Soeurs Gris_,
before Tim can climb to that side of the street. When we have
confounded the chase, we will rendezvous in front of the _Petit
Seminaire_, in College street. We shall be near the Mansion House,
where we may refresh ourselves with a bottle of Martinant's London
particular, and call at Fenella's on our way home."

[Footnote 3: These grounds have since been devoted to public use, and
are now intersected by Lemoine, St. Helen, and Recolet streets. They
were formerly attached to the religious establishment of the
brotherhood, the building of which faced upon Notre Dame street, and
were filled with noble elms, all of which have I believe fallen
beneath the axe. The accommodations were spacious; but the buildings,
with the exception of the Recolet church, which occupies nearly a
centre position, had been appropriated to other than monastic uses
long before my recollection. During and just after the last war they
were used as the barracks of a regiment of British infantry, and at
the grated windows which once let in the light upon the ascetic
pursuits and rigid ceremonials of these bigoted religionists--soldiers
were seen scouring their muskets or whitening their belts. More
recently, the southern portion has been occupied as a Young Ladies
Seminary, and the northern as the City Watch-house. The buildings had
become public property by the operation of some condition relative to
the decrease of the numbers of the order. One only was alive in my
time; and he was often seen in the streets, wearing a small black
skull cap, and a long black robe fastened around his body by a white
woollen girdle. The Recolet church is to this day a place of Catholic
worship, opened on stated days and uncommon occasions. Whether it has
been embellished or altered since I saw it, I know not--but at that
time it presented a melancholy appearance of decay and dilapidation.
It was remarkable for a rude carving over the entrance representing
two hands and arms issuing out of the sea, and crossing each other.
The carving was colored most unnaturally, and the waves of the sea
resembled a congregation of pewter platters.]

"I see no objection to your plan, Pertinax, only that your part of it
is the most hazardous. If Crop pursues, he will naturally stick to his
own side-walk, and you must leap in front of him from the street into
the alley."

"Oh, never fear for me--I shall be scudding through the old Jesuits's
elms, long before he will find the hole by which I make my escape.
Recollect the rendezvous at the College."

Our plan of retreat having been settled, we mounted into the middle of
the street, and were in two minutes opposite the devoted shop-window.
The lights burned brightly, and at a glance we saw that there was no
one within but Crop and a little boy. The window was filled with
bottles of _Eau de Cologne_, _Eau de jasmin_, _extrait de bergamotte_,
with pots of _pommade extraordinaire_, and the like; and there still
hung the offending caricatures. We were elevated some feet above the
window, and it presented the finest imaginable mark.

"Now," said Cleaveland, "let us separate a few paces, that we may give
our object a raking fire, and do the more execution."

We were just about to proceed to business, when the sharp sound of a
horse's hoofs rang upon the ice near the corner of St. Peter's street.
We drew back from the glare of the window to allow the horse and his
rider to pass--when, as they approached us, we perceived Marryatt,
mounted on his shaggy Shetland pony.

"Hey dey," said he, as we made our appearance--"what mischief is in
the wind now?"

"Stay a moment," said I, "and see us demolish Crop's bow window."

"Oh ho, is that the project? Well I will witness the crash, as I have
especial means of escape. I cannot say as much for you or Cleaveland.
Crop will catch one or both of you to a certainty."

"That is our own concern--but he shall have a race for it. Stay where
you are Marryatt, and witness the performance."

Cleaveland and I then approached the window, and levelling our billets
simultaneously, they fell with unerring aim in the centre of the
window, scattering pictures, pomatum and perfumery in every direction.
A second billet from each of us completed the work of destruction, and
we took to our heels. Cleaveland slipped down to the pavement on the
opposite side, and vanished in an instant. I was about ten paces from
the alley, (which entered St. Paul street on the same side with the
barber's shop,) but before I had cleared that short distance, I was
sensible that Crop was in pursuit. From the high ridge of ice on which
I stood, to the pavement was at least five feet, and on coming
opposite the alley I made a flying leap across the side-walk into its
entrance. But alas for human hopes!--I had neglected to substitute a
pair of shoes for my boots on coming out, and my boot heels were
covered with plates of brass, in conformity to a very ridiculous
fashion. I cleared the side-walk in gallant style; but I alighted on
my heels in a spot covered with the smoothest ice. The consequence
was, that my feet flew from under me, and I fell prostrate. But this
was not the worst--I struck my knee upon the ice with a force which
might have broken a joint of iron. I made an effort to rise, which was
at first ineffectual. The sound of Timothy's feet struck on my ear as
he turned the corner. He was within two paces of me, and in a second
more would have stumbled over me in the dark. But the idea of being
captured gave me sudden vigor, and overcame the pain of my bruised
knee. I sprang upon my feet, and bounded away towards the entrance of
the City Hotel, turned short to the left, and crossing St. Peter's
street by another alley, kept on under the wall of Thatcher's livery
stables.

Rapidly as I had taken leave of Timothy, he had not lost sight of me
for a second, until I turned the farther corner of the stables. At
this point there had been, a few weeks previous, a gap in the
enclosure of the Jesuits's grounds, through which I had often passed;
and by means of this opening I had intended to lead the chase into
those grounds, with all the turnings of which I was well acquainted,
and where a number of old elms would serve to cover my retreat.

What was my consternation on reaching the spot, to find that the
opening had been closed! I was completely cornered, without means of
escape, except by the steep path up which I had come. Along that path
I heard the footsteps of my pursuer, as he picked his way in the dark.
Not a moment was to be lost, and my determination was instantly taken.
I again turned the corner of the stables, and ran down the path with
my utmost speed, intending to overthrow Timothy by running against
him. As I approached him, he stopped, and seeming to comprehend my
object, veered a little from the path, so as to break the force of the
shock, and grasped at me with both his hands.

And here but for my boot heels I might have escaped; but again they
failed me, I slipped, and Timothy and I were rolling on the ground
together--he clutching to hold me fast, and I struggling to get away.
By mutual consent we soon rose upon our feet--he still holding on with
the tenacity of a bull-dog, upon the collar and breast of my clothing.

I had not lived five years in Montreal without becoming sensible of
the value of _science_ in the use of the fist, and I had taken a
series of rude lessons from an Irish sergeant--Fuller not having then
appeared in Canada to teach the 'manly art of self-defence.' The
moment that we were on our feet, I attacked Timothy, in hopes that he
would loosen his hold in showing fight, and give me another
opportunity of escape. But he was a philosopher in his way, and did
not regard pugilistic _punishment_ so much as the retention of his
prisoner. He allowed me therefore to _mill_ him without mercy, dodging
to avoid my blows, but making no offensive demonstration. I pommelled
him severely, and might possibly have broken his hold by my repeated
attacks, but for the slippery place on which we stood. Several times I
lost my footing and came to the ground. At last yielding to necessity,
I relinquished the contest and walked quietly with him to the street,
determined when on better ground, to make another effort for liberty.

Instead of returning towards his shop, as I supposed he would have
done, he turned up St. Peter's street, and led the way towards Notre
Dame. I did not then perceive his object--perhaps I was too much
flurried to think of it. We paced along in a very friendly manner,
until we reached the corner of St. Sacrament street, running midway
between and parallel with St. Paul's and Notre Dame. Here the snow was
firm, and the spot inviting to my purpose, for St. Sacrament offered
me a number of places of retreat, where I might have defied the scent
of my antagonist.

At this corner therefore I made a halt, and while Timothy was
endeavoring to force me forward, I struck him a right handed blow in
the face, which made him bound from his feet and brought him down like
a shot. But true to his object he still held to my coat with his right
hand, and while I was endeavoring to disengage his grasp, he rose
again to his feet, and matters assumed their former aspect. Grown
desperate by my disappointment, I fell upon Timothy without mercy,
hitting right and left whenever I could bring him within the range of
my blows--for he avoided many of them by leaping aside. At length a
chance blow took effect on his throat and I was momentarily freed from
his hold, but I was so weakened by my exertions that I stumbled, and
again measured my length on the snow. Before I could recover myself,
Timothy had as firm a grasp upon me as ever.

Up to this time, not a syllable had passed the lips of either: but at
this juncture, Timothy opened his mouth, and to some purpose,
bellowing "Watch!" at the top of his voice. Instantly the rattles were
heard at no great distance; and Timothy repeating the call, we were
soon surrounded by half a dozen watchmen, with staves, rattles and
lanterns.

I saw plainly that the game was up with me, and yielding with a good
grace, I followed them in silence. I was much surprised to find that
we had turned the left corner of Notre Dame Street, and were entering
the decayed gate of a building which was once an appendage of the
Recolet Church, and part of the establishment of the decayed
brotherhood of Loyola. This building had recently been occupied as a
watchhouse; a fact of which I was ignorant, or master Timothy Crop
would not have led me so easily into the lion's den.

We entered the building, and found ourselves in a rude barrack-like
room, around which were the "guardians of the night," as they are
poetically termed, sitting, standing, and lying--eating, drinking, and
smoking. They were nearly all Canadians; and in their blue and grey
_capots_ with the addition of slouched hats, they might have been
taken for a gang of banditti in their cavern.

When the door closed upon us, and not 'till then, Timothy Crop
loosened his hold upon my raiment. I turned to look at him, and saw
sufficient proof that my blows, although aimed in the dark, had not
been made in vain. His visage exhibited various contusions, and
streams of _claret_ were trickling from his nostrils. But Timothy, to
do him justice, was true _game_; and he returned the smile which his
pickle brought into my face, with a triumphant expression that raised
him much in my estimation.

While we were eyeing each other an inner door opened, and the captain
of the watch made his appearance. Timothy gave me in charge, and the
man of authority conducted me with all due ceremony into his innermost
den, where he invited me to take a seat by the stove, and pointing to
a dirty straw pallet in a corner of the room, gave me to understand
that upon it I was to spend my first night in a watch-house.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The following translations pretend to no other merit than fidelity.
The only aim of the translator has been to give as literal a version
as the genius of the languages would permit. He has not presumed to
blend his own with the pure conception of his author, or to obscure
with ornament the inimitable beauty of his chaste, unaffected
expression; he regrets that the necessity of a measure has obliged him
more than once perhaps, to expand a thought whose concentration he
admired:--the sin, however, was involuntary.


Lib. 1. Ode v. AD PYRRHAM.

  Quis multâ gracilis te puer in rosâ
  Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus
    Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?
      Cui flavam religas comam,
  Simplex munditiis? heu! quoties fidem,
  Mutatosque Deos flebit, et aspera
    Nigris æquora ventis
      Emirabitur insolens,
  Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aureâ:
  Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem
    Sperat, nescius auræ
      Fallacis! miseri, quibus
  Intenta nites. Me tabulâ sacer
  Votivâ paries indicat uvida
    Suspendisse potenti
      Vestimenta maris Deo.


Translation.

  What slender youth whom liquid odors lave,
  Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave
      Pyrrha?--for whom with care
      Bind'st thou thy yellow hair
  Plain in thy neatness? Oft alas! shall he
  On faith and changed Gods complain, and sea
      Rough with black tempests ire
      Unwonted shall admire!
  Who now enjoys thee credulous--all gold--
  For him still vacant, lovely to behold
      Hopes thee: of treacherous breeze
      Unmindful. Hapless these
  To whom untried thou shinest dazzling fair.
  Me Neptune's walls, with tablet vowed, declare
      My shipwrecked weeds unwrung
      To the sea's potent God to have hung.

       *       *       *       *       *

ADRIANUS AD ANINAVULAM.

  Animula, vagula, blandula;
  Hospes, comesque corporis!
  Quo nunc abibis in loco
  Pallidula, rigida, nudula?
  Nec ut soles dabis jocos.


Translation.

  Little rambling, coaxing sprite,
  Tenant and comrade of this clay,
  Into what distant regions say
  Pale, naked, cold, wingst thou thy flight?
  Nor wilt thou joke as wont in former day.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lib. 1. Ode xxxv. AD FORTUNAM.

  O Diva, gratum quæ regis Antium,
  Præsens vel imo tollere de gradu
    Mortale corpus, vel superbos
      Vertere funeribus triumphos:
  Te pauper ambit solicitâ prece
  Ruris colonus; te dominam æquoris,
    Quicunque Bithynâ lacessit
      Carpathium pelagus carinâ.
  Te Dacus asper, te profugi Scythæ,
  Urbesque, gentesque, et Latium ferox,
    Regumque matres barbarorum, et
      Purpurei metuunt tyranni,
  Injurioso ne pede proruas
  Stantem columnam; neu populos frequens
    Ad arma cessantes ad arma
      Concitet, imperiumque frangat.
  Te semper anteit sæva Necessitas,
  Clavos trabales et cuneos manu
    Gestans ahenâ; nec severus
      Uncus abest, liquidumque plumbum.
  Te Spes, et albo rara Fides colit
  Velata panno, nec comitem abnegat,
    Utcunque mutatâ potentes
      Veste domos inimica linquis.
  At vulgus infidum, et meretrix retro
  Perjura cedit: diffugiunt cadis
    Cum fæce siccatis amici,
      Ferre jugum pariter dolosi.
  Serves iturum Cæsarem in ultimos
  Orbis Britannos, et juvenum recens
    Examen Eois timendum
      Partibus, Oceanoque Rubro.
  Eheu! cicatricum et sceleris pudet,
  Fratrumque: quid nos dura refugimus
    Ætas? quid intactum nefasti
      Liquimus? unde manum juventus
  Metu Deorum continuit? quibus
  Pepercit aris? O! utinam novâ
    Incude diffingas retusum in
      Massagetas Arabasque ferrum.


Translation. TO FORTUNE.

  Goddess whose mandate lovely Antium sways,
  Prompt at thy will from humblest grade to raise
    Weak mortals, or proud triumphs turn
      To the sad funeral urn!
  Thee the poor rustic sues with anxious prayer:
  Thee, Arbitress of Ocean all revere,
    Who with Bithynian keel adventurous brave
      The rough Carpathian wave.
  Thee wandering Scythians, thee the Dacian boor
  Cities and nations, Latium fierce adore:
    Mothers of barbarous kings grow pale,
      Tyrants in purple quail
  Lest with insulting foot thou spurn their proud,
  Unshaken column: lest th' assembled crowd
    Laggards to arms, to arms should wake,
      And their dominion break.
  Ruthless Necessity before thy band
  Forever walks: in her resistless hand
    Wedges and spikes: the hook severe
      And molten lead still near.
  Thee Hope attends, and spotless Faith so rare,
  Robed in pure white: nor then departs whene'er,
    With vestments changed and hostile lower,
      Thou leav'st th' abodes of power.
  But shrink the faithless herd and perjured quean:
  Friends too skulk off, the casks drained dry, unseen:
    Too treacherous equally to brook
      Adversity's hard yoke.
  Guard Cæsar bound 'gainst Britain's distant land,
  Limit of earth--preserve the new-formed band
    Of Youths, by Eastern realms to be
      Feared, and by the Red Sea!
  Alas! I blush for public crimes and rage;
  For brothers too: what have we, hardened age,
    Eschewed? what vice untried disdained?
      When have our youth restrained
  Their hands through fear of Heav'n? what altars spared?
  Grant to reforge, on anvil new-prepared,
    From civil strife our blunted swords,
      'Gainst Scythian and Arabian hordes!

       *       *       *       *       *

Lib. 3. Ode iii.

  Justum, et tenacem propositi virum
  Non civium ardor prava jubentium,
    Non vultus instantis tyranni
      Mente quatit solidâ, neque Auster,
  Dux inquieti turbidus Adriæ,
  Nec fulminantis magna Jovis manus:
    Si fractus illabatur orbis,
      Impavidum ferient ruinæ.
  Hâc arte Pollux, et vagus Hercules
  Innixus, arces attigit igneas:
    Quos inter Augustus recumbens
      Purpureo bibit ore nectar.
  Hâc te merentem, Bacche pater, tuæ
  Vexêre tigres, indocili jugum
    Collo trahentes: hâc Quirinus
      Martis equis Acheronta fugit.

Translation.

  The upright man tenacious of design,
  Nor civil rage commanding acts malign,
    Nor tyrant's frown,[1] in fierce career,
    Shakes in his firm resolve with fear:
  Nor Auster, restless Adria's stormy king,
  Nor Jove's strong hand upraised the bolt to wing.
    Should Heaven's burst vault sink on his head
    The wreck would strike him undismayed.
  Pollux, and wandering Hercules, sustained
  By arts like these, the starry summits gained,
    Mid whom reclining Cæsar sips
    Rich nectar with empurpled lips;
  Thee, Bacchus, thus deserving virtue's prize
  With yoke on neck indocile to the skies
    Thy tigers bore--thus Rhea's son
    On steeds of Mars 'scaped Acheron.

[Footnote 1: _Glance_ would perhaps be more expressive. Translator.]

       *       *       *       *       *

Lib. 2. Ode xvi. AD GROSPHUM.

  Otium Divos rogat in patenti
  Prensus Ægoeo, simul atra nubes
  Condidit Lunam, neque certa fulgent
        Sidera nautis;
  Otium bello furiosa Thrace,
  Otium Medi pharetrâ decori,
  Grosphe, non gemmis, neque purpura ve-
        nale, nec auro.
  Non enim gazæ, neque consularis
  Summovet lictor miseros tumultus
  Mentis, et curas laqueata circum
        Tecta volantes.
  Vivitur parvo bene, cui paternum
  Splendet in mensâ tenui salinum;
  Nec leves somnos timor aut Cupido
        Sordidus aufert.
  Quid brevi fortes jaculamur oevo
  Multa? quid terras alio calentes
  Sole mutamus? patriæ quis exul
        Se quoque fugit?
  Scandit æratas vitiosa naves
  Cura; nec turmas equitum relinquit,
  Ocior cervis, et agente nimbos
        Ocior Euro.
  Loetus in præsens animus, quod ultra est
  Oderit curare, et amara lento
  Temperet risu. Nihil est ab omni
        Parte beatum.
  Abstulit clarum cita mors Achillem:
  Longa Tithonum minuit senectus:
  Et mihi forsan, tibi quod negârit,
        Porriget hora.
  Te greges centum, Siculæque circum
  Mugiunt vaccoe; tibi tollit hinnitum
  Apta quadrigis equa: te bis Afro
        Murice tinctæ
  Vestiunt lanoe: mihi parva rura, et
  Spiritum Graioe tenuem Camenoe
  Parca non mendax dedit, et malignum
        Spernere Vulgus.

Translation. TO GROSPHUS.

  For ease, to Heaven the seaman prays,
  Caught in the wide Ægean seas
    When black clouds wrap the sky,
  Nor moon nor well known star to guide
  His barque along the treacherous tide,
    Shines to his practised eye.
  For ease the Thracian fierce in fight
  And Parthian graced with quiver light,
    To Heaven incessant sigh.
  Ease, which nor gold, nor gems can buy,
  Nor robes of Tyria's costly dye.
    For wealth or power can quell
  No wretched tumults of the breast,
  Nor cares, aye fluttering without rest,
    Round sculptured domes, dispel.
  Well does he live in humble state,
  Whose father's salt-stand--his sole plate,
    Shines on his frugal board.
  Nor fears to lose disturb his rest,
  Nor sordid avarice goads his breast
    To gain a useless hoard.
  Why daring aim beyond our span,
  Through distant years at many a plan
    When life so brief we find?
  Why long 'neath other suns to roam?
  What exile from his native home
    Has left himself behind?
  Fell care ascends the brazen poop,
  Nor yet forsakes the horseman's troop,
    Outstrips the stag and wind.
  Pleased with the present--ills beyond,
  The man who loves not to despond,
    To trace will wisely shun:
  And when they come with tempering smile
  The bitter of his cup beguile
    Or sweeten ere 'tis done.
  In youth the great Peleides sunk,
  With tardy age Tithonus shrunk,
    For nought is wholly blest.
  So time perhaps extends for me
  The hour he still denies to thee,
    Of choicest gifts possest.
  Thee--numerous flocks and herds surround,
  Thy neighing coursers paw the ground,
    For princely chariot meet.
  Rich fleeces steeped in murex bright
  Invest thy limbs with purple light
    And flow around thy feet.
  To me content, veracious heaven
  A little farm to till has given
    In independence proud,
  A gentle breath of Grecian muse
  Its airy visions to infuse
    And scorn the envious crowd.




CRITICAL NOTICES AND LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.


_Visit to the American Churches, by Doctors Reed and Matheson; 2 vols.
New York: Harpers._--This work is excellent in its way--being a fine
addition to the already numerous commentaries of the English upon our
country. The writers, in the present instance, were delegated, about
two years since, by the dissenting churches in Great Britain, to visit
the United States, for inquiry into our religious condition and
character, and were favorably received by our countrymen. They have
shown themselves peculiarly free from unworthy prejudice, and have
gleaned, with indefatigable zeal, and surprising accuracy, a mass of
secular as well as religious information in relation to the United
States. The book consists of six hundred closely printed pages,
abounding with acute comment, and replete with valuable statistical
details. It has a value, too, particularly its own, as exhibiting the
real views of two well-educated English clergymen upon the
_religious_, more especially than upon the political and social aspect
of our land. The volumes are well written, and likely to do much good
in England as well as in the United States. Our readers will remember
Doctor Reed as the author of _No Fiction_, and _Martha_, both of which
publications were favorably noticed in a former number of the
Messenger.

_The Black Watch, by the author of the Dominie's Legacy; 2 vols. E. L.
Carey and A. Hart._--This is perhaps the best of all the writings of
this author. The _soubriquet_ of "The Black Watch" is familiar in the
anecdotary annals of our country. We all remember its celebrity at
Crown Point, and among the wild doings at Lake George. We should be
pleased, did it not interfere too much with our arrangements, to give
an extract from this novel in our present number. We must, however,
confine ourselves to a general recommendation.

_Magpie Castle; 1 vol.: by Theodore Hook. E. L. Carey and A.
Hart._--This is one of the finest trifles we have had the pleasure of
looking into for many years. Hook is a writer more entirely original
in his manner of thinking and speaking than many of his literary
brethren who possess a greater reputation.

_The American Journal of Science and the Arts, by Benjamin Silliman,
M.D., L.L.D. &c. Vol. XXVII--No. 11. New Haven: Hezekiah Howe &
Co._--We are glad to see that this admirable Journal is no longer in
immediate danger of decline. It is the only work of the kind in the
United States, and it would be positively disgraceful to let it perish
from a want of that patronage which, in the opinion of all proper
judges, it so pre-eminently deserves. We perceive a suggestion in the
New York American on this subject--an appeal to the lovers of sound
knowledge, calling upon them for their aid in behalf of the Journal,
and urging them not to let slip any opportunity of speaking a word in
its favor. To this appeal we take pleasure in cordially responding. We
positively can call to mind, at this moment, _no work whatever_, more
richly deserving of support; and it _must_ be supported, if only for
the justice of the thing--it _will_ be supported, we believe, for the
credit of the country. The present number, among many well written
articles of pure science, contains not a few of universal and
practical interest to the people. We beg leave also to call the
attention of our readers to the very interesting paper entitled "An
Ascent to the summit of the Popocatepetl, the highest point of the
Mexican Andes, eighteen thousand feet above the level of the sea." We
have been nearly tempted to extract the entire article.

_The Manual of Phrenology; 1 vol. 350 pp. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea &
Blanchard._ This is a summary of Dr. Gall's system, and a translation
from the fourth Paris edition. We might as well make up our minds to
listen patiently.

_Recollections of an Excursion to the Monasteries of Alcobaca and
Batalha, by Beckford, the author of Vathek,_ have been recently
published in London. We have had occasion before to speak of the
author of Vathek, and, without having seen this his last production,
we have taken up an idea that it must bear a family resemblance to
that heterogeneous, tumid, and blasphemous piece of _Easternism_, by
which Mr. Beckford has acquired so much notoriety. We hope not,
however, for the writer's sake, who is undoubtedly a man of genius and
fine imagination. However this matter may eventuate--whether we prove
to be true prophets, or false--one thing is certain: the work of which
we are now speaking, as indeed any book whatever from the same pen,
will be read with eagerness; and this for no better reason which we
can discover, than that the world have habituated themselves to mix up
in their fancy the mind and writings with the former fine house and
furniture of Mr. Beckford--the gorgeous nonsense of Vathek, with the
vast and absolute magnificence of the Abbey of Fonthill. We predict
for the book a rapid sale in this country. The notices which we have
seen merely speak of it as a charming specimen of a book made up from
nothing at all. It is said, however, to give a faithful picture of
monastic life, and a sprightly view of Portugal in 1794.

P. S. It appears that we have not been altogether mistaken in our
pre-supposition touching this book. The _Recollections_ consist of
little more than a glowing description of monastic epicurism and
_gourmandise_.

_The Wife and Woman's Reward_, by the Hon. Mrs. Norton, editress of
the London Court Journal, has been republished by the Harpers. We have
merely glanced at the book, and can therefore say very little about
it. Mrs. Norton's name however is high authority. She has written some
of the most touching verses in the language, imbued with poetry and
passion; and since we saw her lately at breakfast in Frazer's
Magazine, we have fallen positively in love with her, and intend to
look with a favorable eye upon each and all of her future productions.

_The Brothers, a Tale of the Fronde; 2 vols. New York: Harper and
Brothers._--This novel is from the pen of Mr. Herbert of New York, one
of the editors of the American Monthly Magazine. Detached chapters of
it have appeared from time to time in that journal, and gave
indication of the glowing talent which is now so apparent in the
entire work. As an historical novel, in excellent keeping, written
with great fluency and richness of diction, we know of (nothing?) from
the American press possessing higher claims than _The Brothers_ of Mr.
Herbert.

_Letters to Young Ladies; by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney._ W. Watson of
Hartford, has just published a second edition of this little volume.
It contains 200 pages, and consists of twelve letters on subjects
appertaining to the female character. Mrs. Sigourney blends a strong
and commanding good sense, with the loftier qualities of the poet. She
has written nothing which is not, in its particular way, excellent.

Hilliard, Gray & Co. have just published _The Comprehensive
Pronouncing and Explanatory Dictionary of the English Language, with
Pronouncing Vocabularies of Classical, Scriptural and Modern
Geographical Names, by J. E. Worcester; 1 vol. 12 mo._ Also--_An
Elementary Dictionary for Common Schools, &c. &c.; by the same._ The
latter of these two works is merely a condensation of the former; and
is in so much to be preferred, as it omits references and
authority--giving, in cases of doubt, what is deemed upon the whole
the proper pronunciation. The Comprehensive Dictionary was first
published in 1830. Several editions have been since printed. It
contains 6000 words more than Walker.

Matsells, of Chatham, New York, has published _A Few Days in Athens,
being a translation of a Greek M.S. discovered in Herculaneum; by
Frances Wright._--We have been sadly puzzled what idea to attach to
this very odd annunciation--the book itself we have not yet been able
to obtain. What it is, and what it is not, must deeply concern every
lover of Fanny Wright, pure Greek, and perfect independence.

We perceive that J. N. Reynolds' Voyage of the United States' Frigate
Potomac--Dr. Bird's Infidel--Tocqueville's Democracy in
America--Professor Longfellow's Outre-Mer--and John P. Kennedy's
Horse-Shoe Robinson--all of which we noticed favorably in the
Messenger--are highly praised in the London Literary Gazette.
Outre-Mer sells in that city for nearly $5--Horse-Shoe Robinson, and
the Infidel, for $6 50 each.

A superb work has appeared in Paris--_Descriptions of the French
Possessions in India_, viz: Views of the Coromandel and Madras
Coasts--Sketches of the Temples, Gods, Costumes, &c. of the
inhabitants of French India. The book is richly ornamented with
lithographic plates of exquisite finish, and altogether the
publication is worthy of the government under whose direction it has
been gotten up.

The July number of the London New Monthly Magazine contains a portrait
of Mrs. Hemans (from the bust by Angus Kecher,) engraved on steel by
Thompson. This is the only likeness of Mrs. Hemans ever published.
There is also an article by Willis entitled _The Gipsey of Sardis_.
Since the secession of Campbell in 1831, Samuel Carter Hall has edited
the New Monthly--the editorship of Bulwer only enduring for a short
interval.

_Robert Gilfillan_, of Edinburg, the Scottish lyrical writer, has
published a second edition of his songs. Some of them are said to be
of surpassing beauty.

Mr. Hoskins' _Travels in Ethiopia above the Second Cataract of the
Nile_, are very highly spoken of. The work is a large quarto; and the
expense of getting it up has been so great, as to leave its author no
chance of remuneration. It contains ninety illustrations, by a
Neapolitan artist of great eminence. The risk attending the
publication of so valuable a book, will operate to deter any American
bookseller from attempting it.

The new number of Lardner's Cyclopædia is _A History of Greece, vol.
1, by the Rev. C. Thirwall, M.A., Fellow of Trinity College,
Cambridge_. There will be three volumes of it. Alas, for our old and
valued friend, Oliver Goldsmith! The book is said to be faithful--but
very stupid.

_Anecdotes of Washington, illustrative of his patriotism and courage,
piety and benevolence_, is the title of one of the last of the "_Books
for the Young_." It is a Scottish publication.

Sir James Mackintosh has just issued _A View of the Reign of James II,
from his accession to the enterprize of the Prince of Orange. The
History of the Revolution in England in 1688_, a late work by the same
author, sold for three guineas: it was reprinted by the Harpers. The
present book is said to be nothing more than a part of the former work
in a new dress.

The Honorable Arthur Trevor has issued a volume of _The Life and Times
of William III, King of England, and Stadtholder of Holland_.

_Irving's Crayon Sketches, Parts I and II_, have been reprinted in
Paris by Galignani. _Fanny Kemble_ has been also reprinted there.

Captain Ross, the hero of the North Pole, is losing ground in public
favor. Singular discrepancies are said to have been discovered in his
last volume, between his map and his text.

_Sketches of American Literature_, by Flint, are in course of
publication in the London Athenæum. They are not very highly spoken
of--being called abstruse and dull.

The finest edition ever yet published of Milton's Paradise Lost, is
that of Sir Egerton Brydges, of which the first volume is already
issued. It contains the first six books--an engraving from Romney's
picture "Milton Dictating to his Daughter," and a fine vignette, "The
Expulsion," by J. M. W. Turner, R.A. The edition will be completed in
six vols.

The Right Hon. J. P. Courtney has in press _Memoirs of the Life,
Works, and Correspondence of Sir William Temple_.

James, the author of Darnley, has completed the _Life of Edward the
Black Prince_.

Lady Dacre, who wrote the _Tales of a Chaperon_, has published _Tales
of the Peerage and Peasantry_. The work is ostensibly _edited_ by Lady
Dacre, but there can be no doubt of her having written it. Every lover
of fine writing must remember the story of _Ellen Wareham_ in the
Tales of a Chaperon. Positively we have never seen any thing of the
kind more painfully interesting, with the single exception of the
Bride of Lammermuir. The Tales in the present volumes are _The
Countess of Nithsdale_, _The Hampshire Cottage_, and _Blanche_.

Willis' _Pencillings by the Way_ are regularly republished in the
Liverpool Journal.

The _Canzoniere of Dante_ has been translated by C. Lyell with
absolute fidelity, and of course with correspondent awkwardness.

Barry Cornwall's _Life of Edmund Kean_ is severely handled in
Blackwood's Magazine for July.

The seventh Bridgewater Treatise has appeared in two volumes. It is by
the Rev. W. Kirby, the naturalist, and treats of _The History, Habits,
and Instincts of Animals_. The article on the Bridgewater Treatises in
the London Quarterly (we believe,) is one of the most admirable essays
ever penned--we allude to the paper entitled _The Universe and its
Author_.

A second edition of _Social Evils_, by Mrs. Sherwood, has appeared.
Mrs. S. is now well advanced in years.

A political novel is also in press--_Mephistopheles in England, or the
Confessions of a Prime Minister_.

_The Life of Edward, Earl of Clarendon_, is in preparation by Lister,
author of Granby.

Joanna Baillie is about to issue three new volumes of _Dramas on the
Passions_. She is, in our opinion, the first literary lady in England.

The London Quarterly Review is especially severe on Fanny Kemble's
Journal--while an article on the same subject in the last New England
Review is as particularly lenient. The paper in the Quarterly is from
the pen of Lockhart.

Dr. Bird is preparing for the press a new novel under the name of _The
Hawks of Hawk's Hollow_. The adventures of a band of refugees, who
during the revolutionary war infested the banks of the Delaware, will
form the groundwork of the story.

_Halleck's Poems_ are in press, and will speedily be published. This
announcement has been received with universal pleasure. As a writer of
light, airy and graceful things, Halleck is inimitable.

Mr. Simms, author of the _Yemassee_, has in preparation a novel
founded upon incidents in the war of the revolution in South Carolina.
He will thus find himself at issue with Mr. Kennedy in Horse-Shoe
Robinson. De Kalb, Marion, Gates, and a host of other worthies will
figure in the pages of Mr. Simms.

We are looking for _The Gift_ with great anxiety. This annual will
have few, perhaps no rivals any where. Its embellishments are of the
very highest order of excellence; and a galaxy of talent has been
enlisted in its behalf. It is edited by Miss Leslie, and will be
issued from the press of Carey and Lea early in September.

In conclusion. Charles Kemble is reported to have said that Fanny's
is, beyond doubt, the best and truest book ever published, with the
exception of Byron and the Bible.




TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.


It has been our custom, hitherto, to offer some few _Editorial
Remarks_ explanatory, complimentary, or otherwise, upon each
individual article in every Messenger. For this we had many reasons
which it will be unnecessary to mention in detail. But although, in
the infancy of our journal, such a course might have seemed to us
expedient, we are _now_ under no obligation to continue it. We shall
therefore, for the future, suffer our various articles to speak for
themselves, and depend upon their intrinsic merit for support.

In our next will appear No. VIII of the Tripoline Sketches: No. III of
the Autobiography of Pertinax Placid: and many other papers which we
have been forced for the present to exclude. Many poetical favors are
under consideration.

We avail ourselves of this opportunity again to solicit contributions,
especially from our Southern acquaintances. While we shall endeavor to
render the Messenger acceptable to all, it is more particularly our
desire to give it as much as possible a _Southern_ character and
aspect, and to identify its interests and associations with those of
the region in which it has taken root.

As one or two of the criticisms in relation to the Tales of our
contributor, Mr. Poe, have been directly at variance with those
generally expressed, we take the liberty of inserting here an extract
from a _letter_ (signed by three gentlemen of the highest standing in
literary matters) which we find in the Baltimore Visiter. This paper
having offered a premium for the best Prose Tale, and also one for the
best Poem--_both_ these premiums were awarded by the committee to Mr.
Poe. The award was, however, subsequently altered, so as to exclude
Mr. P. from the second premium, in consideration of his having
obtained the higher one. Here follows the extract.

"Among the prose articles offered were many of various and
distinguished merit; but the singular force and beauty of those sent
by the author of the _Tales of the Folio Club_, leave us no room for
hesitation in that department. We have accordingly awarded the premium
to a Tale entitled _MS. found in a Bottle_. It would hardly be doing
justice to the writer of this collection to say that the Tale we have
chosen is the best of the six offered by him. We cannot refrain from
saying that the author owes it to his own reputation, as well as to
the gratification of the community, to publish the entire volume, (the
Tales of the Folio Club.) These Tales are eminently distinguished by a
wild, vigorous, and poetical imagination--a rich style--a fertile
invention--and varied and curious learning.

  (Signed)

  JOHN P. KENNEDY,
  J. H. B. LATROBE,
  JAMES H. MILLER."

We presume this letter must set the question at rest. Lionizing is one
of the Tales here spoken of--The Visionary is another. The _Tales of
the Folio Club_ are sixteen in all, and we believe it is the author's
intention to publish them in the autumn. When such men as Miller,
Latrobe, Kennedy, Tucker, and Paulding speak unanimously of any
literary productions in terms of exalted commendation, it is nearly
unnecessary to say that we are willing to abide by their decision.

In every publication like ours, a brief sentence or paragraph is often
wanted for the filling out a column, and in such cases it is customary
to resort to selection. We think it as well, therefore, to mention
that, in all similar instances, we shall make use of _original_
matter.