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THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.


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

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.


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




SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

Vol. I.]  RICHMOND, SEPTEMBER 1835.  [No. 13.

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




The present number closes the first volume of the Messenger; and
accompanying it, the Publisher will transmit to each subscriber a
title page and copious Index to the volume. Gratified that his past
endeavors to please, have been crowned with success--the Publisher
anticipates with confidence that, with the continued patronage of the
public, the forthcoming volume shall in no respect be behind, if it
does not greatly outstrip its predecessor.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCHES OF THE HISTORY

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

No. VIII.--[_Continued_.]


In the beginning of April 1816, Admiral Lord Exmouth, Commander of the
British naval forces in the Mediterranean, arrived at Algiers
commissioned by his Government to negotiate with the Dey, in favor of
some of the inferior powers, which were in alliance with or under the
protection of Great Britain, and in order to give greater weight to
his arguments, he was accompanied by a fleet consisting of six sail of
the line, and nineteen frigates and smaller vessels.

The particulars of this negotiation have never been made public; from
what has transpired, it appears that the Admiral began by exacting
conditions much less favorable to Algiers, than those which he finally
subscribed. Whatever may have been those terms, the Dey refused to
admit them, and demonstrations were made on both sides, of an appeal
to arms; the negotiations were however renewed, and on the 4th,
engagements were concluded, to which upon the whole the Dey could have
made no objections. The Ionian Islands which had been placed under the
protection of Great Britain, were to be respected as part of the
British dominions; and thirty-three slaves, natives of Malta and
Gibraltar (British possessions) were liberated without ransom. A
treaty of peace was made with Sardinia, by which that country was
placed on the same footing with Great Britain, except that a present
not exceeding in value five thousand pounds sterling, was to be paid
on the arrival of each of its Consuls at Algiers; the Sardinian
captives were to be restored, on payment by that Government of five
hundred dollars per man. These terms may be considered as fair, and
the King of Sardinia who had just received Genoa from the hands of the
British, acknowledged his obligations for this additional favor. But
the treaty by which the Government of the Two Sicilies was bound to
ransom its subjects at the price of one thousand dollars each, and to
pay an annual tribute of twenty-four thousand dollars, besides
Consular presents, could scarcely have been considered as a boon in
Naples, and it must have consoled Omar for the concessions made to
other two powers.[1]

[Footnote 1: The King of Sardinia, besides the Island from which his
title is derived, possesses Savoy, Piedmont and Genoa on the continent
of Europe; he likewise styles himself sovereign of Corsica, Sicily,
Rhodes, Cyprus and Jerusalem. The King of Naples is styled the King of
the Two Sicilies.]

Before the departure of Lord Exmouth, an American squadron of two
frigates and two sloops of war, under Commodore Shaw, came to Algiers
with the ostensible purpose of presenting to the Dey a copy of the
treaty, signed in the preceding year, with the ratifications by the
President of the United States. Other circumstances however had
rendered its appearance necessary.

The treaty concluded with the United States under the guns of
Decatur's ships, was more mortifying to the Algerines than any which
had previously been made with a Christian nation; captives had been
surrendered without ransom, property seized had been restored, and the
right of demanding tribute or presents had been distinctly renounced.
The Dey saw that his credit would be seriously impaired when these
engagements should become publicly known; he suspected that had he
held out longer, he might have escaped the humiliation, and he
flattered himself that he might still retrieve what had been lost. No
Barbary sovereign ever considered it incumbent on him to observe a
treaty longer than it was compatible with his interests; yet every
man, however rude may be his ideas of moral conduct, knows the
advantage of being, or of seeming to be in the right. With these views
Omar determined to seek, and he accordingly soon found a pretext for
quarrel.

It has been stated that the Algerine brig taken by the Americans and
sent into Carthagena, had been there detained by the authorities, on
the plea of irregularity in the capture, but really in order that the
Spanish Government might obtain some concessions from the Dey in
return for the vessel. Omar did not fail to express to the Consul, at
first his surprise, then his indignation at this delay, which he
insisted was a violation of the treaty. Mr. Shaler endeavored to
reason with him, and renewed his assurances that the brig would be
soon restored; but he became daily more open in his threats, and more
insulting in his language, until the Consul not knowing to what
lengths his arrogant folly might lead him, requested Commodore Shaw
who had just reached Mahon, to come with his whole force to Algiers.

Immediately after the arrival of the squadron the Consul demanded an
audience of the Dey, and presented to him the ratified treaty, in
which no alteration had been made by the American Government. Omar was
at that moment elated by his success in obtaining such immense sums
from Sardinia and Naples, through the agency of their kind and
generous patrons the British, and he determined if possible to make
the Americans pay as dearly for his friendship. He therefore at first
pretended not to understand the meaning of this second treaty as he
termed it; he however admitted though with apparent unwillingness the
explanation of Mr. Shaler, and having called for the original Arabic
copy signed in the preceding year, compared it with that now offered.
This examination being ended, the Dey insisted that the treaty
ratified by the President was essentially different from his own copy;
that several clauses had been varied, and others which he had been
particular in having inserted, were altogether omitted; among the
latter he cited one binding the United States to pay a certain sum on
the presentation of each of their Consuls, which indeed existed in the
Arabic version but had been fraudulently introduced without the
knowledge of the American Commissioners. He dwelt on the delay in
restoring the brig, as an instance of flagrant disregard of
engagements on the part of the Americans, who he considered had thus
shewn themselves unworthy of confidence, and concluded by declaring
that the treaty with them was null and void. The next day the Prime
Minister returned the ratified copy to Mr. Shaler using the most
insulting language on the occasion; and when the Consul warned him of
the consequences which might ensue, he replied with a sneer that his
master entertained no apprehensions, "as he had been assured by the
British that the Americans had neither ships nor money."

Mr. Shaler at this immediately retired on board the squadron; Omar
then became more reasonable, and after some days negotiation, he
agreed to submit the questions of the brig and of the future relations
between the two countries to the President of the United States in a
letter from himself, and to observe the treaty of 1815 until the
answer could be received. He accordingly wrote to the President on the
24th of April, recapitulating, according to his own views, the
occurrences which attended the signature of the treaty, and declaring
that as it had been violated by the Americans themselves, a new one
must be made, to which effect he proposed a renewal of the treaty of
1796.

Lord Exmouth having obtained the results above stated at Algiers,
sailed with his fleet for Tunis where similar arrangements were
subscribed at once by the Bey; the Sardinian captives were restored
without ransom, and the Neapolitans were liberated on payment by the
Sicilian Government of three hundred dollars for each. The Pasha of
Tripoli also willingly got rid of his remaining slaves from those
countries at the prices proposed by the British Commander, and the
Sovereigns of both these Regencies promised, that prisoners taken in
war with Christian nations should not in future be made slaves. The
Admiral then returned to Algiers, where he at length ventured to
require from the Dey a similar abolition of slavery in his dominions.
Omar in reply manifested his surprise at this demand, which was indeed
at variance with those made and assented to a few weeks before; he
however submitted it to his Divan[2] and soldiery, and having received
assurances of their support, he declared that as Algiers was a
dependency of the Porte, he could not enter into such an engagement
without authority from his Suzerain, and he therefore required six
months delay before he could give a final answer. Lord Exmouth granted
him but three hours, and gave evidences of an intention to bombard the
city. Omar showed no backwardness, and considering the war begun, he
imprisoned the British Consul, and sent orders to the Governors of the
other ports of the Regency to seize all vessels which might be lying
in them under the flag of his enemies; the Admiral however thought
proper to agree to a truce during the time demanded by him, and even
sent a frigate to bear his Ambassador to Constantinople.

[Footnote 2: The Divan of Algiers consisted originally of all the
soldiers and civil officers of the Government; it had however become a
mere name, and was scarcely ever convened, until Omar formally
assembled one, on a much more limited scale however, in order to
deliberate upon the propositions of Lord Exmouth. It then again
acquired importance; which it lost when the Dey in 1817 transferred
his residence to the Casauba. The members of the Government of Algiers
besides the Dey were, the Hasnagee or Minister of Finance, the Aga who
was Commander in Chief and Minister of War, the Vikel Adgee or
Minister of Marine, the Khogia de Cavallas or Adjutant General, and
the Bet el Mel or Judge of inheritances.]

The treaty between the United States and Algiers having been by this
time published in Europe, its conditions excited great attention, as
they were infinitely less favorable to the latter party than those
which had been obtained up to that period, by any Christian Power;
numerous speculations were formed by politicians as to the probability
of their being maintained, and the movements of the American squadron
in the Mediterranean were attentively noted in the public prints. The
eighteenth article of this treaty provides--that American armed
vessels should be allowed to bring their prizes into the ports of the
Regency and to dispose of them there, while those of nations at war
with the United States were to be obliged to depart with their prizes
as soon as they had procured the requisite supply of provisions and
water. The evident partiality displayed in this article induced Lord
Exmouth to demand explanations on the subject from the Dey; Omar
however soon satisfied his Lordship by an assurance that he had no
intention to observe it or any other stipulation contained in the
treaty.

The British fleet quitted Algiers about the middle of May and returned
to England where a great portion of the seamen were discharged, and
the ships were ordered to be dismantled. No official announcement had
been made of the results of the expedition, but the general tenor of
the engagements entered into were sufficiently understood, and the
newspapers of England and France were filled with articles, in which
they were severely reprobated and contrasted with those dictated by
the Americans with the aid of a trifling force. In Parliament Mr.
Brougham on the 18th of June, called for the production of the treaty
which had been made with Algiers, declaring that if the terms were
really such as were supposed, "a great stain would be fixed on the
character of the country, as they distinctly acknowledged the right of
depredation exercised by these Barbarians by providing a ransom for
the slaves whom they had made." Lord Cochrane insisted that "two sail
of the line would have been sufficient to compel the Dey of Algiers to
any terms." Lord Castlereagh the Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs evaded the call for the treaty, stating however "that the
cause of humanity had been materially advanced by the negotiations
which had been carried on, as it was for the first time agreed to by
the Dey of Algiers, that captives should be considered and treated on
the European footing as prisoners of war, and set at liberty at the
conclusion of every peace." This declaration was probably considered
by that ingenious statesman as _a necessary fiction_. The British
Government however felt that more was required of it by the nation,
and a circumstance soon occurred which afforded an excuse for the
employment of measures better calculated to secure the public voice in
its favor.

The rocks at the bottom of the sea near some parts of the shores of
Algiers and Tunis are covered with coral of the finest quality; on
these coasts, the British and French have long maintained
establishments, to which persons provided with their license annually
resorted in the spring in order to fish for this substance. The
establishments of the French were at Calle and Bastion-de-France,
where they had forts and even claimed the sovereignty of the
territory, paying however a large sum yearly to the Governments of
those Regencies. The coral fishers under British license were nearly
all natives of the Italian States and islands; they assembled
principally at Bona, a small and ruinous place in Algiers about four
hundred miles west of the capital, occupying the site of the
celebrated ancient city of Hippo-Regius, where resided a Vice Consul
of Great Britain, and a number of magazines were erected for the
reception of the coral and of goods brought for sale; there was no
fort and no pretension was made to jurisdiction over the territory.
While the British fleet was lying before Algiers, and the Dey was
momentarily in expectation of an attack, he despatched an order to his
Aga or Governor of Bona, to secure all persons living there under the
protection of Great Britain. Owing to the great distance from Algiers,
this order did not arrive until the 23d of May, by which time the
truce with Great Britain had been agreed to, and the fleet had quitted
the African coast. The Aga on receiving the commands of the Dey,
instantly sent out his whole force to seize the Christians, but the
latter being more numerous than the Algerines, made resistance and
several persons were killed on both sides. The people of the country
and neighborhood, however coming to the aid of the soldiers, the
Europeans were overpowered, some escaped in their boats, and some were
murdered by the exasperated soldiers and populace; the rest were
dragged to prison, and their magazines and dwellings including that of
the British Vice Consul were pillaged. This is a simple statement of
the facts as subsequently ascertained; the occurrence was indeed to be
lamented, but there is no reason for attributing it to any
predetermined motive either on the part of the Dey or of his agents;
it might have happened in the best regulated country, and as Shaler
observes, is by far more defensible than the massacre of the American
prisoners by the British soldiers at Dartmoor. That the Dey had a
right to order the seizure of persons living in his dominions under
the flag of a nation with which he conceived himself engaged in
hostilities, cannot be disproved; and the Europeans by their
resistance subjected themselves to the chances of war. Mr. Shaler
justly censures Lord Exmouth for not having taken measures to protect
the sufferers at Bona which he might easily have done as he passed by
the place on his way from Tunis.

The British government however chose to regard the affair as an act of
signal atrocity, and without waiting to demand explanations on the
subject, prepared immediately to avenge the cause of humanity, and to
chastise the Algerines for the insult offered to the national flag. A
fleet of five sail of the line, five frigates, five sloops of war and
forty smaller vessels, accordingly sailed from Gibraltar under Lord
Exmouth on the 14th of August, 1816; and having been joined by a Dutch
squadron of five frigates and a sloop, under Admiral Van Capellen, the
whole armament appeared before Algiers on the 27th of that month.
Before detailing the operations of this force, it will be proper to
give some account of the situation and defences of the place against
which it was sent.

Algiers stands on the western side of a semicircular bay, the shore of
which between the two Capes at its extremities, extends about fifteen
miles. Of these Capes the eastern is called Cape Matifou; the shore of
the bay on this side and on the south, is low and level, offering
every where facilities for landing, which circumstances induced
Charles the Fifth to disembark his army there, on his unfortunate
expedition in 1541. Since that period, a number of strong batteries
have been erected along the edge of the bay, connected by lines which
if well manned would render landing impracticable. The western side of
the bay is formed by a ridge of hills, which terminate on the north in
a bold promontory called Ras Acconnater or Cape Caxine; this ridge
separates the bay of Algiers from that of Sidi Ferruch where the
French forces landed in 1830.

The city is built upon the declivity of a steep hill, about three
miles south-east of Cape Caxine. Its general form presents a
triangular outline, and the houses being all white it has the
appearance of a sail when seen from a distance at sea. One side is on
the bay, the walls on the other two sides extend up the hill from the
water's edge; they are about thirty feet in height and twelve in
thickness, built of brick, with towers at intervals, and a shallow
ditch on the outside. At the place where these walls meet, is situated
the Casauba or citadel, an octagon fort separated from the houses of
the town by a deep moat, and which has served since 1817 as the
treasury and palace of the Dey. About a mile south-east of the Casauba
on a hill completely commanding the city, was a square castle of
brick, mounting sixty guns, called the Kallahai or Emperor's Castle,
which name it derived from occupying the spot where Charles the Fifth
pitched his tent. Two other forts situated near the shore, one north
of the city called Akoleit, and the other south called Babazon,
mounting about thirty guns each, completed the fortifications of the
place on the main land as they existed in 1816. They were of little
importance in a military point of view, being intended principally to
keep the inhabitants in order; they however served as effectual
protections against the attacks of the Arabs and Kabyles. The whole
circumference of the town does not exceed a mile and a half, and there
are scarcely any suburbs, the ground around the walls being devoted to
cemeteries and gardens. The houses are closely built, the streets
being with one or two exceptions narrow tortuous lanes, many of them
covered over: the mosques, bazaars and public buildings are generally
inferior in size and style. The population has been variously
estimated, but the researches made by the French since their capture
of the place, show that it has never exceeded fifty thousand,
including the Turkish garrison, the number of which varied between
seven and ten thousand.

The defences on the sea side were indeed formidable. Opposite and
eastward of the city, at the distance of two hundred and fifty or
three hundred yards was a little island, from which the place derives
its name _Al Gezeir_ or _the island_; it has been however connected
with the main land by a solid causeway of stone, and the whole
together forms a continued mole. The space of sea opposite the city
thus partially enclosed by the mole is the harbor, which opens
directly to the south, and does not exceed seven acres in extent. On
the mole are the offices and magazines of the marine department which
are surrounded by fortifications, mounting at that time two hundred
large guns and fourteen mortars.

The Dey had received notice of the approach of this expedition, and
made every exertion to place his capital in a state to resist it. The
ships were all called in and disposed in the harbor so as to present
of themselves a formidable show of guns; the fortifications were
strengthened, and temporary batteries were thrown up on proper points
which made the whole line not less than three miles in length. In
addition to the garrison on the bay a number of Arabs said to be forty
thousand, were collected to secure the place against an attack by
land.

The combined squadrons having every thing in readiness, on the morning
of the 27th a flag of truce was sent to Algiers, to urge the Dey once
more to accept the conditions of peace; after a delay of three hours,
the flag returned without any answer having been received. Omar did
not think proper, or did not dare assent to the terms offered; there
was probably however much discussion in the Divan: it is otherwise
difficult to account for the circumstance that the British Consul was
not disturbed until after the action was begun, or for the oversight
committed by the Algerines, in allowing the enemy's ships to advance
and take their stations without interruption. Lord Exmouth was so much
surprised at this inaction, that as he says, "he began to suspect a
full compliance with the terms offered." Omar afterwards endeavored to
excuse his fault, by asserting that he had been deceived by the
advance of the British, under the false pretext of the flag of truce.

The British Admiral being thus undisturbed, passed the morning in
arranging his forces according to the plan previously resolved on,
which was to concentrate their effects entirely on the mole and
shipping, his object being to destroy the fortifications and navy as
soon as possible, and to do no injury which could be avoided to the
town. His own ship the Queen Charlotte of one hundred guns was drawn
up and anchored within fifty yards of the southern extremity of the
mole, the others were distributed at points more or less distant from
the batteries, but all much nearer than had been customary on previous
occasions of a similar nature. At three o'clock the action was begun
by a shot from the mole at the Queen Charlotte which being instantly
returned the action became general. In twenty minutes the marine
batteries were silenced, and the defenders endeavoring to escape from
them along the causeway, were mowed down by the guns of the ships;
they however returned to their posts and kept up a desultory fire
throughout the afternoon. At eight o'clock the whole of the Algerine
shipping in the harbor was in flames, presenting a spectacle of
terrific sublimity; the fortifications of the mole were soon after
abandoned by the defenders, being reduced to an untenable state by the
effects of the bombardment and of the explosion vessels. At ten
o'clock the ammunition of the attacking fleet began to fail, but the
British Admiral saw that sufficient damage had been done; he therefore
took advantage of a breeze which sprung up at that time and drew off
his ships.

The next morning Lord Exmouth again sent to know whether the Dey would
accept the terms offered on the 27th. Omar declared his own
unwillingness to yield, and his readiness to abandon the city in
preference; but he was overruled by his Divan, and having reluctantly
agreed to submit to them, the Chevalier d'Ankarloo the Swedish Consul,
(since Chargé d'Affaires of Sweden in the United States,) was
requested by him to go on board the British fleet and make the
necessary arrangements in behalf of Algiers. On the 29th a convention
was signed, the conditions of which were--the delivery of all slaves
in Algiers without ransom, and the abolition of christian slavery in
those dominions for ever--the restitution of all sums paid as ransom
within the year 1816, including three hundred and fifty-seven thousand
dollars which had been paid by Naples and twenty-five thousand five
hundred by Sardinia, according to the terms of the treaty signed in
April preceding--reparation to the British Consul for all losses
sustained by him in consequence of his confinement, and an apology to
be made by the Dey publicly in presence of his ministers and officers.

Of the combined fleets no vessel was lost; the number of killed on
board them was one hundred and fifty-one, of wounded seven hundred and
fifty-seven. On the side of the Algerines, there is no means of
ascertaining with precision the amount of killed and wounded; the
result of the inquiries made, however, gives every reason for
believing it to have been much less than that sustained by the
attacking party. The city was severely damaged; the houses bordering
on the harbor being but little protected by defensive works, were
nearly demolished; among these was the dwelling of the American
Consul, who did not leave it during the action, but continued at his
post calmly recording his observations, while the shells were bursting
around him. The fortifications of the mole were much injured; the
arsenal and magazines of the marine, with the greater part of the
timber, ammunition and stores were destroyed; and the whole navy,
consisting of four large frigates, five corvettes, and thirty
gun-boats was consumed.

Information of what had been effected at Algiers, was instantly
communicated to the British Consuls at Tunis and Tripoli, who were
instructed to recommend to the sovereigns of those Regencies the
instant liberation of their Christian slaves. To this, under the
influence of their fears, they immediately assented; and since that
period, it is supposed that no Christians have been held in slavery in
any part of Barbary; captives have however been since compelled to
labor, and ransom has been paid for them. Treaties were also
negotiated on terms of equality between each of them, and the Kingdoms
of Sardinia and of the Two Sicilies. The Dutch Admiral also concluded
a treaty, "renewing and confirming all the articles of peace and
friendship agreed to in 1757, between the States' General and the
Government of Algiers." He then sailed with his victorious fleet for
Tripoli, where he signed another convention, by which his Government
engaged to pay to that Regency an annual tribute of five thousand
dollars!!

The bombardment of Algiers by the combined fleets was made the subject
of triumph in Great Britain, and of congratulation throughout Europe;
it was extolled as "one of the most glorious achievements in the
history of naval warfare," and "as most truly honorable to the British
nation, which had, with its characteristic generosity, entirely at its
own expense, and purely for the general benefit of mankind, performed
this great public service of putting down, with the strong hand, a
system of rapacity and cruelty." We may be permitted to examine how
far this eulogium is merited.

From the accounts already given of the occurrences in April and May
preceding the expedition, some judgment may be formed of the motives
by which it was occasioned. It has been stated that the British
Admiral in May, gave up the immediate prosecution of the demands to
enforce which he had visited Algiers with his immense fleet, agreeing
to await the decision of the Sultan, with regard to their admission by
the Dey. Now the independence of Algiers had long been recognized by
treaties, and was known to exist _de facto_; the reference to the
Porte could only have been a pretext on the part of the Dey, in order
to adjourn the decision of the question, and it is difficult to
conceive how Lord Exmouth could have viewed it in any other light.
However the British Government on his return must either have
calculated upon the Dey's accession to the conditions required, or
have determined to abandon their enforcement; for certainly we cannot
otherwise account for the dismantling of the fleet, and the discharge
of the seamen, when they would have been required at the end of six
months. The probability is strong, that the ministry had no intentions
to quarrel with "their ancient ally," until public opinion forced them
to do so; and that they seized on the "massacre at Bona," as the
pretext, when there was no other means of escaping the necessity.

The British expedition against Algiers was indeed prepared and
supported entirely at the expense of the British nation, and conducted
to its conclusion with that skill and gallantry, for the display of
which the experience of ages gave the strongest assurance. For the
first time also, was the abolition of Christian slavery in general,
and the delivery of all Christian slaves required of a Barbary Power.
These were indeed benefits to mankind, and the fact that Christians
have not been since enslaved in Barbary, would seem of itself to offer
a sufficient justification of the expedition; but history in every
page warns us against estimating the propriety of measures by the
importance of their consequences, however well ascertained. The
engagement made by the Dey to abolish slavery in his dominions, was
only of value as it gave those to whom it was made, a right to enforce
its observance; experience had already proved that national faith was
unknown in Barbary, and within three years after the promise had been
given by Omar, his successor refused to abide by it. Algiers was left
by Lord Exmouth in enjoyment of all the rights of an independent
nation; the Dey could make war on whom he pleased, provided he did not
enslave his prisoners, that is to say compel them to labor. Now this
enslavement was but a small portion of the evil caused by the Barbary
States; the number of persons reduced to servitude in them was never
large, and the produce of their labor added to the sums received for
their ransom, was scarcely more than sufficient to pay the expense of
keeping them; their condition was indeed generally better than that of
the prisoners of war in other countries. Piracy was the true ground of
complaint against the Barbary Regencies, and more on account of the
restraint it imposed upon the commerce of the lesser nations, than of
the outrages actually committed. Without the support and encouragement
of Great Britain, it would long since have ceased, and if the world
owes her Government any thanks, it is for the adoption of a more just
course of conduct by itself, for the abandonment of that selfish
policy to which the Barbary States had so long been indebted for their
impunity. Those who now entertain the political opinions which guided
the British Administration in 1815 regard the bombardment of Algiers
as a blunder, similar to the destruction of the Turkish fleet at
Navarino, and the Conservative Journals of London occasionally express
their regrets at the pursuance of that system which allows the vessels
of all nations to navigate the Mediterranean without dreading the
pirates of Africa.[3]

[Footnote 3: That no war was expected, appears clearly from the
statement made in the House of Lords on the 3d of February, 1817, by
Viscount Melville, then first Lord of the Admiralty, that "in the
month of June when Lord Exmouth returned from the Mediterranean, with
the fleet under his command, as usual at the close of a war, that
fleet was dismantled and the crews paid off and disbanded. When the
expedition against Algiers was determined upon, it became necessary to
collect men," &c. On the same day Lord Castlereagh stated in the House
of Commons, that "during the last session, when the thanks of the
House were given to several of our gallant officers for their conduct
in the late war, he entertained an earnest hope that a long course of
years would have elapsed before it would be again necessary to perform
that ceremony."]

Notwithstanding the Dey's promise to Mr. Shaler, that he would observe
the treaty of 1815 with the United States, the Consul saw from various
circumstances, that he had determined to break it on the first
favorable opportunity; and as a large American force was expected in
the Mediterranean in the course of the summer, he sent letters to
Gibraltar requesting the officer who might command it, to visit
Algiers as soon as convenient. The American squadron consisting of a
ship of the line, three frigates and two sloops under Commodore Isaac
Chauncey, entered the Mediterranean about the middle of August, and
appeared before Algiers immediately after the departure of the
combined fleets. On its arrival Omar saw that he had been deceived as
to the power of the Americans, and he therefore at once requested,
that things might remain as they were until the receipt of the
President's letter. Algiers was then entirely defenceless, the
fortifications were in ruins, the soldiers dispirited and the people
rebellious; a few broadsides from the American force would have
battered the town to pieces. But it was determined between the Consul
and Commodore Chauncey, that no advantage should be taken of the
condition of things, to exact a specific acceptance of the treaty, and
the Dey's request was acceded to; Mr. Shaler however quitted Algiers
with the squadron, which sailed for Gibraltar to await the arrival of
orders from the United States.

The President's reply came in December; it is but justice to the
eminent persons (Madison and Monroe) who signed it, to say that it is
remarkable for the dignity and temperance which pervade it. A series
of arguments based on abstract principles of International Law or
Political Economy, would have been addressed in vain to a merely
clever barbarian, while diplomatic finesse would have been equally
ineffectual, with those who never sincere themselves always suspect
knavery in others. The impropriety of the complaints respecting the
delay in restoring the brig, is simply and dearly exposed; and the
fixed determination of the American Government with regard to a return
to the principles on which the treaty of 1798 had been based, is
conveyed in the assurance that "the United States while they wish for
war with no nation, will buy peace with none, it being a principle
incorporated into the settled policy of America, that as peace is
better than war, so war is better than tribute." In conclusion, Mr.
Shaler and Commodore Chauncey were authorized to communicate with the
Dey, "for the purpose of terminating the subsisting differences by a
mutual recognition and execution of the treaty of 1815."

The Commodore and Mr. Shaler on receiving their commissions, instantly
sailed for Algiers with two of the ships, and proposed that the
negotiation should be immediately commenced. Omar had been actively
engaged, since the departure of Mr. Shaler in repairing his
fortifications; but not considering them yet able to withstand an
attack, he endeavored to gain time by insisting that the _statu quo_
should continue for eight months, on the plea that the President had
taken that space to make a reply to his letter. The Commissioners
refusing to admit of any delay the Dey yielded; accordingly, the
conduct of the negotiation on the part of the United States having
been committed entirely to Mr. Shaler, he landed and on the 17th of
December presented a note containing the _ultimatum_ of his
Government. The Dey was required to admit as a preliminary, that the
stipulations of the treaty with regard to the restoration of the
vessels had been scrupulously fulfilled by the United States; this
being admitted, the treaty was to be renewed exactly in its original
form, except that the eighteenth article might be altered, so as to
annul that portion of it, which gave to the United States advantages
in the ports of Algiers over the most favored nations; finally, as it
was ascertained that a clause had been introduced into the Arabic
translation of the said treaty, contrary to the understanding between
the Dey and the American Commissioners who signed it, by which the
United States were made to engage to pay a certain sum to Algiers, on
the presentation of each of their Consuls, it was distinctly declared,
"that no obligation binding the United States to pay any thing to the
Regency or to its officers on any occasion whatever, will be agreed
to."

The Dey struggled to avoid this additional humiliation, which he had
brought upon himself by his ill-timed breach of faith; for he saw
clearly that by submitting to it he was hastening the downfall of
Algiers and his own destruction. But Shaler possessed in an eminent
degree, these two essential qualities of a negotiator, courage and
knowledge of the human heart; his contempt of danger had been
manifested during the bombardment of the 27th of August; he had never
deceived Omar, nor ever suffered him for a moment to suppose that he
had been deceived by him, and by thus acting always, fairly and
honestly towards him, he had acquired his respect and confidence.
After a few days of discussion, the Dey in despair declared, that as
misfortune had deprived him of the means of resistance, he would agree
to the terms proposed or to any others which might be demanded,
provided the Consul would give him a certificate under his hand and
seal, that he had compelled him to do so. This was a strange request
from an absolute sovereign; however Shaler saw that the unfortunate
Omar was no longer at liberty to act as he pleased, but was the mere
agent of his Divan; he therefore gave him the required acknowledgment,
and the treaty was signed as dictated by the American Commissioners on
the 23d of December, 1816.

From that period to the overthrow of the Algerine Government, the
intercourse between the United States and this Regency was strictly
peaceful. The treaty was rigidly observed by both parties, and a few
trifling differences of a personal nature which occurred between the
officers of the Government and those attached to the Consulate, were
speedily and satisfactorily arranged. This continuation of pacific
intercourse, is to be attributed in a great measure to the personal
character of the American Consuls, to the respect which they acquired,
nay, we are even warranted in saying, to the influence which they
maintained over the members of the Algerine Government.

Omar continued his exertions to repair the losses occasioned by the
bombardment, and he soon placed the city in a defensible condition;
the Sultan presented him with a frigate and two corvettes, and he
caused other ships of war to be built at Leghorn. But his popularity
had been destroyed by the many adverse circumstances which had marked
his reign; he was stigmatized as the _unlucky_, and a plague which
ravaged Algiers in 1817 was attributed by the ignorant populace and
soldiery to the influence of their ruler's evil star. Several
conspiracies were formed against him, which he eluded by his
vigilance, but he saw that his end was near, and with honorable
forethought, he placed his mother and relations out of danger, by
sending them back to his native isle of Mytelene. A plot was at length
arranged, which was successful; the principal contrivers were Ali, a
violent and fanatical Turk, who had assumed the title of Khogia or
_the scribe_, a high literary and theological distinction, and Hussein
an officer of repute for his talents, bravery and military skill. The
soldiery and Divan entered into the conspiracy, and Omar was strangled
on the 8th of September, 1817, without a hand or a voice having been
raised in his defence.

Ali Khogia was immediately proclaimed Pasha, and he showed his
gratitude to his coadjutor Hussein by making him his Prime Minister.
The new Sovereign soon proved himself to be a monster of vice and
cruelty, which were rendered still more shocking by his affectation of
superior learning and sanctity. "When on public occasions, he was
visited by the foreign Consuls," says Shaler, "they, after stumbling
over scores of murdered carcases on their way to the hall of audience,
always found the Pasha superbly dressed, surrounded by his guards,
with a book in his hands, in the contemplation of which he would
affect to be interrupted and precipitately lay it aside on their
entrance." He set at naught the treaties with foreign nations, acting
with violence towards persons living under the protection of their
flags, and sending his cruisers to sea with orders to search their
vessels, while the plague was raging in Algiers. By the active
interposition of Mr. Shaler, the commerce and flag of the United
States were respected, but several French and Sardinian vessels were
taken under various pretences and brought into the ports of the
Regency.

Ali Khogia was one of the many Deys, who endeavored to get rid of the
foreign soldiery, and to render the crown hereditary in his own
family. With this view he transferred his residence and the immense
treasures of the State, from the old palace in the city, to the more
secure residence of the Casauba, where he surrounded himself by a
guard formed of natives; he then commenced his attacks on the Turks,
of whom he is said to have despatched fifteen hundred during his short
reign of four months. His course was suddenly arrested by the plague,
of which he died in January, 1818.

On the death of Ali Khogia, Hussein his Prime Minister assumed the
crown, without election and without opposition. He was a native of
Salonica, and then about fifty-four years old, a man of bold and
unscrupulous character, possessing much sagacity, and even some ideas
of true policy; but his irascibility often led him into difficulties,
from which his haughtiness and obstinacy prevented his retreating. He
was supposed to have councilled the persecution commenced against the
Turks by his predecessor; but if so, he must have despaired of its
success, for he instantly put an end to it, and invited other soldiers
from the East to supply the place of those who had fallen. He however
retained the Moorish guards, and continued to reside at the Casauba.

In November, 1818, a Congress composed of Representatives of the
Sovereign Powers of Europe, was convened at Aix la Chapelle; where
among other things, a resolution was taken, to oblige the Barbary
States to conform with the usages of Christian nations, in their
intercourse or wars with them; that is to say, to abstain from piracy,
not to require tribute as the price of peace, and not to enslave their
prisoners taken in war, but to treat them with humanity until they
were exchanged. The Kings of Great Britain and France were charged by
the other Powers with carrying this resolution into effect; and in
consequence a combined English and French squadron under Admirals
Freemantle and Jurien de la Graviere appeared at Algiers on the 1st of
September, to make known to the Dey the will of their Sovereigns, and
to require his compliance. Hussein after deliberating some days,
formally refused "to surrender rights, which had been recognized by
solemn treaties, and respected by all the world during a succession of
ages;" and declared that he would "maintain his privilege to enslave
the subjects of those nations with which he had no treaties, or which
paid him no tribute." This reply was certainly at variance with the
engagements to Lord Exmouth in 1816, but the Admirals could get no
other by negotiation, and their force was not sufficient to authorize
an attack on the place; perhaps also, they conceived that the appeal
made by the Dey to the past, might find a responsive echo in the
bosoms of those by whom they were commissioned, and who were so
careful in resisting innovations in their own States. The squadrons
therefore sailed for Tunis where the answer obtained from Mahmoud was
even less satisfactory. In Tripoli, the Pasha met them by expressing
his surprise that such a demand should be made of him, when it must
have been well known, that he had long reprobated the practice, and
shewn every disposition to live in harmony with Christian nations.
This latter reply was trumpeted throughout Europe, as a signal
advantage secured for the interests of humanity, through the exertions
of France and England, while those given by the rulers of Algiers and
Tunis were studiously concealed.

This appears to have been the only effort made by the European powers
in concert, to enforce the observance by the Barbary States of the
principles which regulate intercourse and warfare among more civilized
nations; the Governments of Britain and France however, as we shall
see, continued separately to maintain those principles; of the other
powers each acted for itself, paying, threatening or fighting, as it
conceived most proper for its own interests and honor.

In 1812 and 1823, when the insurrection of the Greeks had already
assumed so formidable a character, as to require the utmost exertions
on the part of the Sultan, each of the Barbary States sent ships to
his aid; on this occasion, the Government of Great Britain exacted
from the Bey of Tunis a declaration that the Greeks who might be taken
by his forces should not be enslaved, but be treated as prisoners of
war. No such promise appears recorded on the part of the Dey of
Algiers, and the propriety of requiring it for the interests of
humanity, may be doubted; a powerful incentive to the continuance of
the war against the Greeks would indeed be thus removed; but on the
other hand, it might have been supposed that little mercy would be
shown to captives who if preserved were to be supported at an expense,
while nothing was to be obtained from their labor or for their ransom.
This supposition is strengthened by the fact, that an Algerine
Ambassador who was sent to London in 1819, propounded to the Secretary
for Foreign Affairs the question--"Whether, as his Government had
engaged to make no Christian slaves, its cruisers might without
offending Great Britain, put to death those of their prisoners whom by
treaty they could not reduce to slavery?"

The Algerines sent eight ships to the Archipelago, which returned in
the autumn of 1823; how they conducted themselves in the war it is not
easy to ascertain; the Dey chose to consider that they had acquired a
title to immortal renown, and while elated by their real or fancied
successes, he ventured to commit an act of violence against the
British Consul, which caused Algiers to undergo another humiliation.

The greater part of the laborers and domestic servants of Algiers,
particularly those employed by Foreign Consuls, are of the race of
Kabyles, who as before stated, inhabit the mountainous districts of
the Regency, and are with good reason supposed to be the descendants
of the aboriginal _Nomades_. One of these tribes having made some
attacks on the people in the vicinity of Bugia, the Dey on the 22d of
October, ordered all the Kabyles in Algiers to be put in confinement.
The Consuls of some of the smaller European powers, after a little
hesitation, surrendered those in their service; the Agent of the
Netherlands offered to his the choice of remaining under his
protection, or of escaping; they chose the latter, and his premises
were not disturbed. The French Consul at first made a show of refusal
to deliver his domestics, but afterwards adroitly got rid of the
difficulty, by _paying and discharging them_; they were of course
immediately arrested. Mr. Shaler and the British representative
Macdonnell each indignantly resisted this invasion of privileges,
which had always been held as most sacred in Barbary. Mr. Shaler
placed his Kabyle servants in his cabinet, where he remained with
them, declaring to the Dey that they could only be removed from thence
by force, and warning him of the consequences which would attend such
an insult to his nation; this determined conduct produced the desired
effect, the guards were withdrawn, and the servants of the American
Consulate were effectually protected. In treating with
semi-barbarians, much depends on the personal character of the agent;
Mr. Macdonnell, a mild and amiable old gentleman, devoted to rural
pursuits, could not secure for himself that respect, which was enjoyed
by the shrewd, energetic and intrepid Shaler; so that notwithstanding
he had hoisted the flag of his nation, and placed its seal on the
doors of his house, it was forcibly entered by the Algerine guards,
and its most private apartments were ransacked in search of the
unfortunate servants.

Mr. Macdonnell complained to his Government of this insult, and a
frigate was in consequence despatched to Algiers in January 1824, for
the purpose of demanding satisfaction, and of requiring that the
rights of British Consuls should be guarantied by additional articles
to the treaty. These articles were presented to the Dey for his
signature; he refused to agree to them, and Mr. Macdonnell embarked
with his family on board the frigate, leaving his property under the
care of Mr. Shaler.[4] A large British force was soon collected before
the city under the command of Admiral Sir Harry Burrard Neale, who
endeavored to negotiate the acceptance of the conditions proposed; the
Divan were unanimous in wishing to yield points so unimportant, but
Hussein was obstinate, and although he at length on the 28th of March
agreed to admit the articles, he would not consent that Mr. Macdonnell
should return as Consul to Algiers. The Admiral then declared that war
was begun, and that the place was blockaded; but he continued his
endeavors to make peace on the terms he had first proposed. At length
on the 24th of July, the British force being increased to twenty-three
sail, a fire was commenced on the city and batteries, which was
instantly returned. On this occasion, a steam vessel was employed, for
the first time it is believed in naval warfare; its appearance excited
much astonishment on the part of the Algerines, and caused them to
direct their fire particularly at it, which was done with so much
effect that the wheels were in an instant rendered useless. After a
few minutes the Admiral displayed a flag of truce, which having been
answered by a similar signal from the Casauba, the firing ceased on
both sides, and an officer was sent on shore again to submit the
demand which had first been made. Two days having been spent in
messages and negotiations, the affair was adjusted; the Dey signed the
articles containing stipulations for the protection of the British
Consul and the support of his rights, and confirmed the engagement
made with Lord Exmouth in 1816, that in any future wars with European
powers, the prisoners should not be consigned to slavery, but be
treated with humanity until regularly exchanged. Respecting the return
of Mr. Macdonnell nothing is said in the documents signed by the Dey;
in the negotiation, he declared that he had no personal objections to
that gentleman, yet that he had made himself most obnoxious to the
inhabitants, and that no assurance could be given of his safety should
he attempt to land. This was notoriously untrue, yet the Admiral
thought proper to waive a point which he had before considered so
important, and after the trouble and expense of a four months blockade
and an attack upon the city, he accepted exactly what had been offered
in March. Thus by the determination of the American Consul, were his
privileges maintained, and a rupture between his Government and that
of Algiers was prevented; while the agent of the most powerful nation
on earth, from possessing less energy, was himself insulted, and his
country placed in the necessity of requiring satisfaction by arms.

[Footnote 4: Mr. Shaler quitted Algiers in 1829 having been appointed
Consul of the United States in Havana, where he died of cholera in the
spring of 1833. He was succeeded as Consul General for the Barbary
Regencies, by Henry Lee of Virginia, who remained in that office at
Algiers, until the city was taken by the French.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE VICTIM OF DISAPPOINTMENT.


  'Tis vanishing!--'tis vanishing!--
    The last bright star that shed
  Its cheering light upon a path,
    Whence all light else had fled!

  'Tis vanishing!--'tis vanishing!--
    As night steals on the day,
  And slowly wraps the glowing west,
    In its dark cloak of gray.

  So, silently, o'er me advance
    The shades of dark despair,
  And fade away the hopes that shone
    But yesterday, so fair!

  Aye! when they shone so fair, and seemed
    As soon to be enjoyed,
  And I (fond fool!) believed so, came,
    The blight that hath destroyed!

  I might have known it would be so!
    There is an evil sprite,
  That, ever present, watches me,
    My every joy to blight!

  I never grasp'd the cup of bliss,
    And, raising, thought to sip,
  But, straight, the envious demon came,
    And dash'd it from my lip!

  I never keenly strove to win
    What heart was set upon,
  But, when I thought it surely mine,
    And grasp'd at it--'twas gone!

  And now, the cherished dream, that hath
    So long, so deeply blessed--
  That gave me heart to struggle on,
    Hath vanished--_with the rest!_

P. H.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE,--Having long believed that Education was by far the most
important subject on which the talents of either public or private men
could be exercised, I have ever deemed that man in some degree a
public benefactor, who contributed even a mite towards its promotion.
To the study therefore of _this subject_, much more than of any other,
I have devoted my time and thoughts for the last twenty or thirty
years; vainly perhaps, hoping that I also might contribute something
in aid of this most momentous work. How far the labor has been
productive of any good, must be determined by others; but _their_
approbation, although it would certainly gratify my feelings, has
operated, I trust, only as a secondary motive. To contribute
something, be it ever so little, towards the good of my fellow
creatures, has been the chief purpose of my existence since I came to
years of serious reflection; and the consciousness of having achieved
this good in any degree, would be (could I once possess it) my highest
reward in the present life.

Influenced by such sentiments and considerations, I now send you five
manuscript lectures, delivered about two years ago, before the Lyceum
of Fredericksburg, "On the Obstacles to Education arising from the
peculiar faults of Parents, Teachers, Scholars, and those who direct
and control our Schools and Colleges."

Trite as the subject of Education is, it can never cease to be
deeply--nay, vitally interesting, so long as the happiness of the
whole human race--both in their private and public relations--both in
this world and the next, so entirely depends upon the nature of the
objects embraced by it, and the manner in which it is conducted. Deep
and deadly too will be the guilt of any wilful neglect, error, or
perversion, on the part of all those who direct the physical and
intellectual training of the youth of our country. Unless both become
what they should be, neither our forms of government, nor our
political nor literary institutions, can ever accomplish any of the
great ends for which they were designed.

I remain, dear sir, yours with regard,

JAMES M. GARNETT.

_Elm-Wood, August 1835_.


INTRODUCTORY LECTURE

To a Course on "The Obstacles to Education arising from the peculiar
faults of Parents, Teachers, Scholars, and those who direct and
control our Schools and Colleges," delivered before the Fredericksburg
Lyceum, by James M. Garnett.


Once more, my friends, I am about to address you--although at present,
on a subject by far the most important that can engage the attention
of intelligent, social, and moral beings. This subject is _Education_;
in regard to the true meaning and object of which, as many and as
fatal errors have been committed, as in relation to any other term in
our language--although nothing less than our happiness in both worlds
depends upon its being rightly understood, and properly applied. From
the earliest ages to the present day, men have differed widely, not
only as to the particulars which should be comprehended under the term
itself, and the modes and the means by whose instrumentality they
should be taught; but a large portion of society have attached the
utmost importance to certain acquirements which others have deemed at
least useless, if not actually and deeply pernicious. Literally,
Education means an elicitation, a drawing or leading forth--and when
applied to a human being, should be understood to indicate such a full
development of all his powers and faculties, both physical and
intellectual, as will best promote his own happiness, and that of his
fellow-creatures; in a word, it embraces "every influence by which man
becomes what he is, or may be made what he should be," and never
ceases until death terminates our earthly pilgrimage. Every one, I
think, may agree that any other general definition less comprehensive
of this all-important term would be false, and consequently lead to
mistakes. But the great misfortune is, the moment we approach the
details, vital differences of opinion present themselves, which often
give rise to practices decidedly hostile to each other--thereby
demonstrating, that until all such as are erroneous can be exploded,
the good will be unavoidably counteracted if not entirely superseded,
by the bad. The removal then, of all the obstacles to the universal
adoption of the former, is the great, the truly arduous task to be
performed; and the first step towards its achievement, will be to show
what these obstacles really are.

Although perfectly aware that many of the ablest writers in every age
and nation, have been so frequently and long engaged in efforts to
promote the cause of Education, as almost to preclude the possibility
of saying any thing new on the subject, still I believe there is one
view of it which has not yet been taken to a sufficient extent for all
the salutary purposes to be accomplished by it:--I mean a connected
and full exposure, apart from all other matter, of the various
obstacles which have long impeded, and still greatly retard its
progress among us. These I propose to examine thoroughly, and to trace
to their respective sources, in such a manner as to lead, if possible,
to their final removal. All of them, I believe, will be found in what
may be called the peculiar mental maladies, and moral diseases, (if I
may so express myself,) of parents, teachers, scholars, and that
portion of society by whom our literary institutions are directed and
controlled. This shall hereafter be made more fully to appear. In the
meantime, before I commence the very delicate task of apportioning
censure among such large classes of my fellow-citizens, I beg to
premise that special care shall be taken so to generalize my remarks,
that no just cause of offence shall be afforded either to any
individual persons or schools. Nothing shall intentionally be said
which can, by possibility, be fairly construed into invidious
personalities, nor be with justice ascribed to any motives whatever
but such as I have avowed. Having no other object in view--none other
at heart, than to mark for universal reprobation and avoidance the
many fatal obstructions to the general adoption of those great
fundamental principles of instruction, without which neither public
nor private Education can ever become what it should be, my hearers
may rest perfectly assured, that every example, allusion, argument, or
illustration I may use, shall be directed, in perfect sincerity and
good faith, to this end and to this alone. Previously however, to any
specifications of the obstructions interposed by either of the classes
of persons already enumerated, I beg to be indulged in several general
observations. These appear to me essential, by way of introduction to
that minute exposure of their respective prejudices, faults, and vices
which I design to exhibit--not like a faint hearted recruit, who shuts
his eyes when he pulls trigger, and recoils from the report of his own
piece--but with the resolute purpose of killing, if I can, what I wish
to destroy.

The attainment of most of the objects of human pursuit, would be a
work of comparative ease, if nothing was necessary to be done but to
devise the best ways and means of acquiring them. By far the most
difficult achievement is to remove those numerous obstacles to their
attainment which the ignorance, the folly, and the vices of mankind
either create entirely, or aggravate; for unless _this_ be first done,
all our labor will be utterly thrown away, or must fall very short of
accomplishing what otherwise might be effected. While these obstacles
remain, the task of applying the proper ways and means, and producing
the desired end, is little less discouraging than to begin building a
house without foundation or scaffolding, or to render the earth
productive of wholesome food without first clearing away the stumps
and roots, the briers and noxious weeds with which it is encumbered.
To nothing within the whole scope of our desires and efforts does this
remark apply with more truth and force, than to the great object of
Education. Hindrances and impediments, vast in number, and formidable
in degree, surround it on almost every side. Many of these have their
source in long established, but very erroneous practice--while others
are intrenched in some of the most deeply rooted prejudices of
mankind. Hence they oppose barriers of nearly insurmountable strength
to all individual skill, however great--to all isolated exertion,
however well directed.

The most prominent and pernicious of these barriers or obstacles are
so glaring, that any attempt to point them out will escape, I hope,
all imputation of presumption. No extraordinary sagacity is necessary
to detect, nor any great power of language to expose, what all who
have had any thing to do with the business of Education must long have
experienced, and deeply deplored. In fact, the undertaking to educate
the youth of our country as they should be educated, will be almost a
hopeless task, until most of these impediments are removed; and the
fortunate individual who could discover the effectual means to
eradicate them, would much better deserve a public triumph for so
glorious a victory over human prejudices and passions, than any
warrior ever gained by the most splendid of his conquests. The more
free our government and institutions generally, the more necessary
will good Education continually become to preserve them, since neither
sound morals, nor wise and salutary laws, nor social and political
happiness can exist without its general diffusion. But before such
Education can possibly be imparted to any great extent, the minds of
all the parties concerned must be entirely disenthralled from every
opposing obstacle. In regard to bodily maladies, to know the cause and
nature of the disease is said to be half the cure. Why then, may it
not be equally true in relation to the mind? Experience tells us that
so much depends upon this previous knowledge, as to render the course
both of the mental and bodily physician exceedingly dangerous without
it. Neither must make a quackery affair of his business. No guess-work
nor chance-medley will do in either case; for the death both of soul
and body often follows the administration of improper medicine. Many
constitutions of excellent original stamina have been utterly
destroyed by physic, when all that was really wanting was healthful
diet, and proper exercise; and numerous minds of the fairest promise
have been blasted forever, by the equally injudicious--equally fatal
application of unsuitable intellectual regimen. This surely ought to
happen much less frequently than in bygone times, since schools of
every grade, especially for females, have greatly multiplied of late
years--and consequently, many more mothers than formerly, ought to be
qualified so far as schools can effect it, for the arduous task of
imparting to children at least the elementary branches of knowledge.
Yet I believe it is unquestionably true that private, domestic
Education, is less common than it used to be. But two rational
explanations can be given of this fact. Either mothers and fathers
must be so naturally averse to teaching their own children as very
rarely to do it when avoidable, and therefore less often attempt it,
since it has become easier to transfer the duty to others--or the
prevalent systems of Education itself have had the effect of
preventing parental affection from exerting itself in this way. To the
last cause I hope it must be ascribed; for it would be shocking to
believe that parents generally were so barbarous, as voluntarily to
surrender the care and instruction of their helpless, innocent
offspring, to others, when they themselves were equally well qualified
for this most tender and all-important office; at the same time that
nature herself seems evidently to have destined them to fulfil,
whenever practicable, these paramount duties. _Home_ is,
unquestionably, the best place suited in all respects, at least for
_female_ education; nor should it ever be relinquished for any other,
but in cases of the strongest, most obvious necessity--such as a
thorough conviction of incompetency on the part of the parents, and of
very superior qualifications in those to whom the sacred trust is to
be confided. It is under the parental roof, and immediately under the
parental supervision and guidance, that young girls can most easily be
protected from the corrupting influence of bad companions and bad
examples. It is there, if _any where_, that all the best affections of
the heart can be most readily excited and cultivated; and it is _there
alone_ that they can best acquire all those admirable domestic virtues
and habits, to the exercise of which much the greater part of their
lives, after they leave school, should be devoted, as the sure means
of imparting to private life its greatest charm and highest
embellishment. If this be admitted, as I think it must, then the
nearer the management of any public school, whether large or small,
especially for girls, can be made to resemble that of a well regulated
private family, the better it will be calculated to attain the true,
legitimate purposes of all seminaries of Education. The more easy will
it be also to prove, when this point is conceded, that there are very
many radical defects in a large portion of such establishments in our
country. For example, in what well regulated private family will you
ever find numerous restraints enforced, which obviously have nothing
else in view but the more ease and convenience of the heads of the
establishment, entirely apart from all moral influence to be produced
on the individuals upon whom these restraints are imposed? In what
family of the kind do you see the children often _exhibited for show_,
as at public examinations--always encouraged and goaded to strive with
might and main for victory over each other in all their scholastic
exercises, and continually stimulated to toil and struggle for public
applause, as the highest earthly felicity; and all this too without
the least regard for the sufferings and mortifications of the
unsuccessful competitors? So far is this from ever being done in any
private family under proper management, that every imaginable cause of
jealousy, ill-will, heart-burning and envy, is most carefully
avoided--every symptom of distrust and animosity anxiously
removed--and brotherly love of the most tender, affectionate kind,
sedulously cultivated, as the best possible preparation of the
intellectual soil for the reception, growth and maturity of the seeds
of knowledge and virtue. Here then, at once, in the very threshold of
our temples of public instruction, do we meet with an obstacle of such
magnitude, as effectually to bar, if it be not removed, all attempts
to decorate and embellish the interior of the building with any
ornaments, such as good taste, sound judgment, and just principles
would deem most appropriate. In the moral code of far too many of
these temples, the admirable virtue of true Christian humility--that
virtue which so pre-eminently adorned the character of the blessed
Saviour himself, has no abiding place whatever; but numerous
expedients and artifices are adopted to prevent the possibility of its
entrance. The pupils are not even taught what it means, unless they
find it out while turning their dictionaries for other words; and so
far are they from ever being required to act on the principle of not
letting one hand know what the other doeth, that every effort, both of
hands and head, is most studiously directed towards giving the
greatest possible publicity to all their proceedings: first, and above
all, that the fame of their school and its teachers may be widely
diffused; and secondly, that they themselves may be talked about every
where. To accomplish this, weeks and months are spent by the students
in preparing for public examinations, during which no advances are
made in the general course of their studies, but the whole time is
sacrificed to the feeding their vanity and ambition at the expense of
real utility, common sense, and intellectual progress in useful
knowledge. A great portion of this period of strenuous uselessness is
consumed, by all the aspirants after collegiate honors, in composing,
writing, committing to memory and reciting again and again something
which is to be called an oration. This too, is often in a language
utterly unintelligible to nine-tenths of the auditors, or rather
spectators, commonly assembled upon such occasions, who are drawn
together more by idle curiosity than by any other motive. I will
readily admit that occasional revisions of past studies may be useful
to fix them in the memory; I will also admit, that to be examined in
them by or before good judges, convened especially for the purpose,
_but without any notice to the scholars of the precise time when such
examination would take place_, would also be beneficial, particularly
in schools for boys. But _any thing_ beyond this, whether it be called
examination, commencement, or what you please--especially if exhibited
(after many weeks preparation) before hundreds and thousands of
spectators who know little or nothing of what is going on--is, to
speak the plain, unvarnished truth, sheer waste of time, if nothing
worse. It is to treat young men as if they were always to be children,
incapable of being interested in any thing much above the toys and
playthings of childhood. Such _shows_, for they deserve no better
name, should never be suffered in female schools; for their only use
_there_ is to discourage the timid, the bashful, the modest--and to
render the bold, the forward, and the presumptuous still more
conspicuous for these disgusting, unfeminine qualities. Already too
anxious, like rival milliners, always to be displaying their finery at
their shop-windows, to the public gaze, the more opportunities you
give them for making this exhibition, the more eager they become to
attract visiters, admirers, and purchasers. Flattery is the chief
thing they covet; base as it really is, it is the treasure upon which
this kind of scholastic training learns them to set their hearts, and
seldom are they paid with any thing better. Whatever they do is to be
done because it will be popular, becoming, and will make a great
noise--not because it is recommended and enjoined by the precepts of
our holy religion. Moreover, to insure that the former shall be the
ruling, all-efficient motive of action, the ever restless,
soul-corroding spirit of emulation is infused into them in every
possible way that ingenuity can devise. That this is utterly
incompatible with the pure spirit of Christian humility, it needs no
argument to prove; in fact, oil and water could just as soon coalesce,
or enter into complete chemical union. Does it not, then, most deeply
concern us all to inquire whether this principle of emulation, which
may truly be called the present master-spirit of nearly all our
literary institutions, should still be suffered to prompt and to
govern all their operations? Can any societies--but especially such as
have been avowedly established for the great, the Godlike purpose of
making men wiser and better, be rationally expected to thrive, if they
run counter to the plainest dictates of wisdom and virtue, which
command us to do nothing that the gospel of Christ either expressly
forbids, or impliedly, but plainly discountenances? Does not this code
most explicitly enjoin us to "be kindly affectioned one to another
with brotherly love, in honor preferring one another." "That nothing
be done through strife or vain glory; but in lowliness of mind let
each esteem others better than themselves." And does it not class
emulations with "idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, variance, wrath,
strife, seditions, heresies, envyings," &c.? Are these nothing more
than mere abstract texts for ministers of the gospel to preach on; or
are they practical, imperative rules of conduct to govern us both for
time and eternity? If they are the latter, as all true believers in
the gospel of Christ pronounce them to be, how can they possibly be
obeyed, when every effort of our bodies and our minds, while at
school, is made to induce the world to prefer, to honor, and to esteem
_us_ far above all our companions and associates, at whatever expense
of mental suffering and anguish it may be done to them? Shall we be
told that such feelings should not be indulged by those whom we
conquer or surpass in the scholastic struggle for pre-eminence, and
therefore, that their mortification, however deep and distressing,
should not disturb us? But how can they help it, when _they_ also have
been taught that _their_ greatest honor, _their_ highest pleasure, was
to consist _in conquering and surpassing us_, and that _we had
disappointed them_? Yet this principle of emulation is a cardinal
article in the creed and practice of almost every public school of
which I have any knowledge; indeed, I might add, of a great majority
of private families. To this article might be added several others,
all going to prove that the whole course of proceeding in these
schools, whatever may be the religious principles of their managers,
partakes much more of the compromising spirit of worldly wisdom and
worldly ethics, than of the unbending, self-denying morality of the
gospel of Christ. It can never be a question among true Christians,
which should govern not only all schools, but all mankind; yet it
would be well worth the attention of all who are _not Christians_, to
inquire which would be best, _even for the present life only_. I would
send them no farther on this search for proof than to the past history
of the government--the monied institutions, and trading associations
of our own country. In this history they would most assuredly find,
that for every cent which these bodies had lost by any acknowledged
member of any Christian society, they had been defrauded and robbed of
thousands upon thousands by the open scoffers at, and known despisers
of religion. This fact alone speaks volumes of most salutary
instruction to the present generation, if they would only read them
right. It proclaims as intelligibly as if it were written on the vault
of heaven by the finger of God himself, in letters visible as the
cloudless sun, that the much lauded code of your mere worldly
morality, (admitting every thing that can be said in its favor,) is
utterly insufficient even for this poor world; although it is admitted
that thousands have lived, and do live under it alone, with very fair,
amiable characters. It is, however, like living in the midst of
contagious, pestilential and deadly diseases, without any sure charm
or antidote to protect us from destruction. I say not this to wound
unnecessarily the feelings of any one--no, God forbid! but because I
consider it a most momentous truth, which should be placed before the
public in as strong relief as language can exhibit it--since it
involves the safety, welfare and happiness, not only of thousands yet
living, but of millions yet unborn. If this highly boasted code,
founded merely on human opinion, subject to all its fluctuations, and
which tolerates drunkenness on the pretext of conviviality, while it
makes murder a duty under the term _duelling_, will not, with any
thing like certainty, restrain its professors from the meanest, most
degrading vices, from the most shocking and atrocious crimes, what can
it possibly avail in withholding them from committing acts of far more
dubious character, but often little less injurious to the peace,
order, and happiness of society? Could this code bear any sort of
comparison with that which we have ventured to contrast with it, as
furnishing the best possible rules for human conduct, even considering
the present life as the _only one_, would it not be able to support
its claim to our preference, by producing a greater number of persons
reclaimed from the paths of vice by _its superior power_, than have
ever been recovered by the influence of _the Christian code_? But how
stands the fact? Examine it, I beseech you, as impartially as
possible. I may answer, I believe, without fear of contradiction, that
while the Christian code can show its thousands, rescued by its agency
from the lowest depths of profligacy and crime, not one solitary case
can be found, nor indeed has ever been heard of, wherein the code of
worldly morality has alone effected any such restoration. The utmost
scope of _its_ power has never extended beyond carrying a small
minority of its votaries through the world, with fair characters, who
have never been strongly tempted to give them up for something which
they more passionately desired. Its influence, at best, is merely of
the _preventive_, not the _reclaiming_ kind, and therefore never
brings back, under the power of its own laws, any who have once broken
through the feeble barriers which they interpose. The worldly code,
besides sanctioning many practices which the Christian code pronounces
criminal, looks not beyond the outward seeming of our actions, because
when man, who is made the sole judge of its fulfilment, attempts to
penetrate to their source, he is incapable of doing more than making
mere approximations to the truth. On the other hand, the Christian
code, having an all-wise, infallible God for _its_ judge, allows no
actions to be _right_, but such as proceed from _right motives_. These
being the only certain test--the test by which every Christian
assuredly believes that we shall all be finally tried, make the latter
code, from this circumstance alone, as far superior to the former, as
absolute certainty is, at all times and under all circumstances, much
better than uncertainty. All who faithfully obey the requisitions of
the last, must really _be_ what they _seem to be_, or they are _not
moral_ in the Christian sense. Whereas the professors of the last, who
look only to the present life for their rewards, can obtain them all,
simply by feigning well the character they wish to possess.

No sweeping denunciation is here intended against those who have the
unspeakable misfortune to be destitute of religion; for I know many,
and doubt not that many more are to be found in every class of
society, who fulfil the duties of the present life in such an
exemplary manner, as to be well worthy of our esteem and love. What I
mean to assert, and deem it all important for the cause of Education
to establish, is, that the above fact furnishes no adequate proof of
the sufficiency of the worldly code of morals, either to preserve or
to reclaim mankind from vice and crime. If their propensities happen
to be vicious, their desires criminal, no obstacle whatever exists to
their indulgence, but the ever variable opinions of the particular
society in which they live, and the fear of detection by mere human,
frail, and fallible witnesses. Their code may well be called a system
of compromise between sensual appetites and regard for appearances--a
calculation of chances and probabilities--a rule for conduct whose
standard has no well defined, certain marks, by which right and wrong
can always be accurately distinguished--no omnipotent sanction to
sustain all its requirements; and consequently, that, as the governing
principle of our whole lives, it will bear no just comparison whatever
with the Christian code of morality, where every thing is not only
sure, but forever unchangeable--full not only of the happiest
assurances in regard to the present life, but of the most
soul-cheering hopes as to that which is to come.

I have expressed the belief, justified, as I think, by my own
observation, that the prevalent system of Education, has had the
effect of diminishing the number of instances wherein mothers teach
their own children. Yet it is unquestionably true, that the progress
and improvement which girls or boys either make at public schools,
depend much more upon this domestic, elementary Education, than upon
any subsequent course of scholastic discipline under which they may be
elsewhere placed. First impressions, and above all, _those made by a
mother_, are always more permanent than almost any that can be made at
a later period of life, after parental instruction is changed for that
of strangers. In confirmation of my own observations, teachers of
great experience have assured me, that where natural talent has been
equal, they have invariably found those pupils the most docile, most
intelligent, most correct in their conduct, and best informed, who
have longest received the benefit of a parent's tuition, although they
may not actually have gone to school longer than others who have been
taught only in public seminaries. It is therefore of the highest
imaginable importance that the lessons given to children at home,
previously to going abroad to school, should all be such as are
calculated to give them good tempers, amiable dispositions, and sound
moral principles; for unless this all essential work be performed
under the parental care, it is rarely, if ever accomplished
afterwards. The power indeed, of _feigning them_, may be acquired by
the constant suggestion of worldly and prudential considerations; but
the actual possession is scarcely ever gained under any other
instructer than the parent. Nay, _how can it be_, when the proportion
of pupils under public teachers, compared with the children of one
mother, is often ten, fifteen, twenty to one; when the indispensable
attention of the instructers to the usual scholastic exercises of
their scholars, engages nearly their whole time; and when the forming
the heart to virtue, the regulation of the passions, the strengthening
the understanding and judgment, which are the only really valuable
ends of all Education, cannot possibly be attained in the very short
time commonly allowed for the public instruction, (at least of our
daughters,) and under all the circumstances in which they must
necessarily be placed at all large public schools. Hence, in a great
measure, the numerous failures of the best public teachers to do what
is too often expected of them; that is, in a few months, or even in a
year or two, to reform the dispositions and characters of their
pupils, at the same time that their minds are required to be stored
with all imaginable learning; although the conviction alone of the
vicious propensities and bad habits which they may have contracted at
home, would require a much longer period than the whole time usually
allotted for all scholastic acquirements put together. Public schools
may well be called _moral hospitals_, which, like some others of a
different kind, contain not only many patients the removal of whose
diseases requires a very long course of most skilful and judicious
treatment, but others who may well be designated
"_incurables_"--rendered so too, by moral distempers contracted under
the parental roof, but for which these hospitals and their doctors
have very often to bear all the blame.

Well aware that the charges which I have brought against our prevalent
systems of Education, both private and public, (greatly improved as I
admit them to be in many important respects) are of a very serious
nature, I feel myself bound to endeavor to establish them. But in
these introductory remarks, I shall do no more, in addition to what
has already been said, than give the general heads of my
accusation--reserving "the counts in the indictment" (as the lawyers
would say) for another time. These heads are--that mere external
observances are much too often substituted for internal
principles--that a puerile smattering in many comparatively trivial
things, has been made to pass for thorough knowledge in
essentials--that _emotions_ of the body and limbs in attitudinizing
(if I may so express myself,) at the harp, at the piano, and in the
dance, have been much more cultivated than the _emotions_ of the heart
and soul; and that the mere mechanical operations of the fingers and
feet have been preferred to that heavenly operation of the spirit of
God on the mind, which alone can give any real value to actions, or
intrinsic worth to character. The sciences and arts for acquiring
wealth, fame, and aggrandizement--for securing bodily comforts,
luxuries, and amusements are taught every where, with quite as much
assiduity and zeal as any can believe they deserve. But the great art
of extracting from all the events, circumstances, and conditions of
life, whatever true substantial good and happiness they are capable of
affording, and using the whole as a preparation for entering into
_another_ state of existence, where we must account for all we have
done in _this_, is no where systematically taught, unless from the
pulpit. Even there it is far too often pretermitted, for the sake of
indulging in vague speculations which lead to no profitable result,
and the useless discussion of those deeply mysterious doctrines which
all believe it passeth man's understanding to comprehend, except those
rash theological sciolists who vainly imagine that it is given to them
alone to penetrate them.

The great majority of mankind who judge solely from appearances, are
deceived by this external Education, into a pernicious belief that all
must be right _within_, because all which they behold _without_, is
fair to the eye and agreeable to contemplate; and so superficial is
their examination generally, that if they find all the pupils
presented for their inspection, have pleasing exteriors, and voluble
tongues in their public exercises, every thing else is taken for
granted. It is never even suspected, that like the trees of the
forest, many may be hollow-hearted and worthless, although all their
branches and leaves appear in the full vigor of perfect health. Boys
who go passably well through certain evolutions, for which they have
been regularly drilled for weeks and months together, doing little if
any thing else the whole time, are held forth in all public journals
as rapid and successful travellers in the high road to the greatest
attainable mental improvement--while a large portion of the
individuals engaged in this pernicious puffing, know little or nothing
of the real progress of the pupils thus lauded, who may, for aught
their eulogists can tell, have only the parrot's knowledge of nearly
all they have been heard to repeat. Many instances I have known of
this in our colleges, and still more in schools of inferior grade.
Here many of the examiners (as they are called,) are not unfrequently
persons destitute of literature and science themselves, who still
boldly certify to the quantum of each possessed by those whom they are
supposed to examine; and their awards go forth to the world, as
satisfactory proofs of the excellence of particular schools, and the
proficiency of the scholars in them, when in fact, such testimonials
are proofs of nothing but the inexcusable vanity or thoughtlessness of
the certifiers. The case of girls, at _their_ public examinations, is
far worse. Much less being expected from them, fewer qualified judges
assemble to witness _their_ performances; and if they manage to appear
with clean faces and frocks, in regular marchings to and fro, with
nicely measured steps, with prim and demure looks in the presence of
their unknown viewers, a rapid volubility in their often repeated
recitations, and all this finished off with a little music, dancing,
and drawing, they pass with their surface-skimming spectators for
marvellously accomplished girls. But woful indeed is often the
mistake, and pregnant with evil consequences. The constant tendency of
such exhibitions, although not always producing their full effect, is
to make the pupils of such schools greatly undervalue that species of
acquirement, which, although it can hardly become the subject of
newspaper notice, should always be considered of transcendent
importance in every school for either sex; I mean moral and religious
knowledge--moral and religious habits. It is true, that there is
almost always a kind of general promise promulgated of great and
unremitted attention to these matters. But every body's experience,
who has taken much notice of the manner in which schools are generally
conducted, is sufficient to convince them that such promises are more
matters of profession than practice; or, that they are complied with
in such a way, as unavoidably to impress the pupils with a belief that
it is rather an affair of form than substance. Does any one doubt this
fact? let him only take the trouble to ask the majority of the
scholars of any school the following questions, and his skepticism
will soon vanish. "What has been the course of your moral and
religious instruction? What books have you read, or have been read to
you on these subjects? What do you know of the principles of Ethics
and Christianity? How many times a week or month have you received
lessons on them? If nothing has been read specially on these
all-important topics, what has been the manner in which they have been
recommended to your attention? Has it been both by precept and
example, or by the first only; and what rank have your teachers
assigned to such studies, in the scale of importance?" Need I add,
that unless such questions can be answered to the entire satisfaction
of all such persons as really believe that the eternal welfare of the
rising generation is a matter of infinitely deeper interest than any
thing which can possibly happen to them in the present life, the
conclusion is inevitable, that _in all such cases_, by far the most
important part of Education has been either shamefully neglected, or
miserably and wickedly perverted. Let such tests be applied to _all_
schools, from the highest to the lowest, and we shall soon remove much
the most powerful of the many causes which prevent them from answering
so fully as they ought to do, the great purposes for which they have
been established and should be sustained, until the heads of every
family become capable of educating their own children--the girls
_entirely_, and the boys until the few last years of their pupilage.

The neglect of moral and religious instruction in schools generally,
may arise, in a great measure, from a belief in the teachers, that
this all essential work has been properly attended to at home. But it
should never be forgotten, that the injunction "to train up a child in
the way he should go," should be deemed obligatory during the whole
period of pupilage, on all concerned in his Education, lest if it be
intermitted at any time, the effects of the whole previous training
should be lost. It should always be remembered too, by those who have
the care of youth of either sex, that the oftener the young coursers
are permitted to run out of this track of moral and religious
training, the more apt they will be "to fly the way," not only while
the training is managed by others, but after it becomes their own
exclusive duty. It _must therefore_, be made a primary and vital
object, throughout the entire course of Education--not only at home,
but abroad--not only in the private, domestic circle, but in every
public school to which young people may be sent, or the great moral
ends and purposes of instruction will inevitably be defeated. The
_hearts_ of the pupils must first be educated, and all their motives
and dispositions brought, as nearly as practicable, to what they ought
to be, or it will be utterly vain to expect that _their actions_ can
be either generally or permanently right. It is true, that a right
action--that is, one so called--because beneficial to others, may
sometimes be performed from a wrong motive. But this can do no
possible good to the agent, whose condemnation in the eyes of God is
only the greater, when he plays the hypocrite to gain his ends.

I will not go so far as to affirm that the prevalent systems of our
schools will certainly make vain, ambitious, worldly minded men of our
sons, and actresses and _figurantes_ of our daughters, rather than
qualify the boys for fulfilling all their moral and religious duties
in the best possible manner, and the girls for becoming modest,
virtuous, intelligent, exemplary wives and mothers. But I _will say_,
that if these systems do not work such mischief in most cases, it will
be more owing to some powerfully counteracting anterior cause, over
which they have had no control, than to the doctrines which they
inculcate, the branches of human learning which they most recommend,
or the practices which they cause to be followed. It is entirely
immaterial _what_, or _how much_ instruction they profess to give, or
really do impart in all other things, but such as will insure the
fulfilment of our moral and religious duties; the vital objects of all
correct Education will be utterly lost, if matters are so managed in
our schools, that the ever restless, insatiate desire for general
admiration becomes the main spring of action, rather than the love of
knowledge for its own sake, and for the power it will give us of
contributing to human happiness. If once _such_ desire be substituted
for _such_ love, the fountain head of our whole conduct is literally
poisoned. No pure water can possibly flow from such a source; no
essential good--none I mean, which can impart real value to character,
or contribute one mite towards the eternal felicity of the individual,
can ever be effected by him. The only result to be calculated on with
any certainty is, that an eager pursuit of merely external arts and
showy attainments, will take the place of sincere, steady, deep
solicitude to enrich the heart and adorn the understanding with all
those principles of really useful knowledge and exemplary conduct,
which alone can fit us both for time and eternity. Let the project be
tried when, where, and by whom it may, of stamping indelibly on the
human heart such principles of action as all admit it should have, at
least all whose opinions should be regarded in so momentous and vital
a concern, and it will prove abortive as certainly as it is
undertaken, unless "religion, pure and undefiled" as it came from the
voice of God himself, be made the basis of the whole proceeding. _Is
this generally done in our schools, either public or private?_ I most
conscientiously believe it is not--at least, as the gospel commands
us--"line upon line, and precept upon precept;" or even as a matter to
be taught first and above all others. But if any man attempt "_to
build on other foundation_,"--if he strive ever so much to erect the
edifice of Education on any other groundwork, he may possibly rear a
very showy and even attractive house, but most assuredly his materials
will be nothing better than "straw and stubble," continually liable to
take fire from every flying spark--forever in danger of being blown
down by every assailing wind.

In determining on the proper course of Education for our children, is
it not of the highest importance, first to decide in regard to the
situations in which they will probably be placed, and the
circumstances under which they are most likely to spend their lives,
that all the instruction given may have some bearing on such
destination--some peculiar aptitude to fit them for the particular
stations which they will fill? Until society is organized differently
from what it is, all the various honest trades, professions and
callings into which it is divided, must have persons specially
educated for them. But how can this all essential plan be
accomplished, if our children are made too proud for any thing but
playing ladies and gentlemen, or following some two or three
professional pursuits, distinguished from the rest by the dignified
title--"_liberal_?" Ought it to suffice with people in their sober
senses, to hear it urged in opposition to so reasonable a scheme as
that of adapting early Education to the probable destiny of each
individual in after life, that _in our country_ every child ought to
be educated for all imaginable conditions in what is called high life,
because any, possibly, may be attained by any? Surely this would be
the perfection of folly, unless it amounted almost to certainty that a
very large majority of our youth of both sexes would reach such
elevated situations. But it so happens that there is a moral certainty
the other way, and that an infinitely larger portion of mankind will
live and die in obscurity, than can ever become conspicuous for the
possession of wealth, extraordinary talent, or official station. This
obscurity however, would be no bar to the enjoyment of great
happiness, provided half the pains were taken to inculcate principles,
tastes and habits suitable to the future circumstances in which they
would probably be placed, that are very frequently taken to impress
their minds with insatiate cravings after all the highest conditions
of society. _This world_, and this alone, with all its vanities,
follies, and seductive vices, is made the God of their idolatry; and
every thing in future life which is calculated to impede their
worship, becomes a source of unavailing discontent, if not of actual
and lasting misery. To pursue such a course with children is little
short of real madness, even on the supposition that there is no other
state of existence but the present; unless indeed, this life had been
made a scene of uninterrupted enjoyment, instead of one abounding with
much unavoidable suffering--a scene in which to escape sickness, pain,
and poverty, is among our greatest blessings--a scene whose modicum of
happiness consists not in any of those merely selfish, sensual
pursuits, so generally deemed the chief good of life, but in the
diligent culture and exercise of all the powers of our mind--of all
the best affections of our hearts. How is this to be done, especially
in our female schools, which in fact are the great laboratories for
forming elementary teachers for our whole population,--if nearly, or
quite half the time of the pupils be taken up in learning to dance, to
draw, to play on musical instruments, and to acquire polite manners,
by going at stated times to private assemblies, to plays, and operas,
as we have heard is the practice in some city schools. One of two
things invariably follows from this course; either the whole stock of
accomplishments, (as they are called,) however costly it may have
been, is entirely abandoned the moment the girls get married, because
the acquisition has always been to them a kind of up-hill work, for
which they had not the smallest taste--or, such a passionate fondness
is contracted for them, that they can find pleasure in no other
occupation. The fatal disease of discontent is the result in both
those cases. But suppose the last to be the most common. Are domestic
habits, so indispensable to the comfort and happiness of married life,
to be formed by acquiring a passion for public spectacles, for
company-keeping, and for all the preparatory equipments of costly
apparel, and other personal decorations? Can the tranquil pleasures of
retirement, the occupations of housekeeping, the necessary management
of all the domiciliary concerns of which the mistresses of families
must always take cognizance, have any charms for ladies educated in
what is called the fashionable style? Will not all such things rather
be insupportably irksome, if not actually disgusting? How will such
ladies be prepared to meet the numerous inconveniences and troubles,
the many unpleasant, and often painful occurrences that take place,
sometimes even in the happiest families? How can they bear all the
fatigues, the various trials of temper, the actual labors incident to
domestic life, if the sole object of the chief lessons which they have
received at school, has been to attract attention and admiration to
themselves? What, but the most inordinate selfishness and vanity can
be the fruit of such training? Will such preparatory studies teach
them how to keep their houses and families in order--to train their
offspring in the paths of knowledge and virtue--to administer
consolation to the sick and the dying--in a word, to turn all the
numerous incidents of domestic life to the moral and religious
improvement of those over whom it is their business and sacred duty to
exercise a constant and parental supervision? Alas! my friends, there
is scarcely any thing in all nature so illy qualified to fulfil these
momentous obligations, as a young lady educated in what is called the
fashionable style--unless, by the providence of God, she may have been
first imbued under the parental roof, with moral and religious
principles too strong to be overcome by such powerful engines of
destruction as are constantly at work to destroy them, in what are
called, by way of pre-eminence, "fashionable schools." I do not mean
to say that the extirpation of moral and religious principle is really
the object there aimed at. No, far from it; for I dare affirm that
many of the persons thus busily engaged, perhaps the whole of them,
really believe that they are fast accomplishing a very great and good
work. But the sum and substance of it, when stript of all its vain
illusions, is nothing more nor less, in fact, than a very laborious
and excessively expensive process to unfit the unfortunate subjects of
it for every kind of life but such as they are taught to lead at
school; _and that is_, to value all merely external acquirements far
above every moral qualification, and to seek their chief happiness in
the amount of admiration they can procure for these very superficial
and comparatively worthless attainments. They come forth admirably
prepared for a life of alternate excitement and gratification; but for
the real Christian life of self-control, self-denial, and humble
righteousness, they probably have not so much as heard of it, unless
perchance when they have gone to church. They can use their hands,
feet and eyes most exquisitely in attracting admiration; but when
compelled to apply themselves to any of the homely, but really
essential purposes of life, they find themselves most sadly
embarrassed, if not utterly at a loss how to proceed. Are the poor
girls to blame for all this? Far from it; they must have been
something more or less than human beings to turn out differently. The
fault--nay, I must call it the crime--if such misapplication of the
talents which God has given them for far different purposes be
criminal, lies chiefly at the parent's door. _But for them_ there
would be no such course of Education in the world. It is indeed a
course which prepares them admirably for what may truly be called
_public life_; instead of qualifying them to adorn that which is
almost entirely private and domestic--that in which an immense
majority of females are destined to live and to die. What is the
consequence of this incongruity--this manifest disagreement between
the matters taught, and the ends to which they must generally be
applied? What is the aptitude of the means to the great purposes which
parents should aim to accomplish? Are they favorable or not to
domestic happiness? If music, drawing, dressing, and dancing, with a
smattering of some living foreign language, garnished with a few
beggarly elements of Natural Philosophy, Chemistry, Geology, and
Botany, are the principal ingredients in _this happiness_, then are
the chief pursuits of fashionable female Education eminently
calculated to promote it. But if the following view from one of our
most distinguished moral and religious writers of what female
Education _should be_, has any truth or justice in it, our prevalent
systems of fashionable Education exhibit a most lamentable deficiency
in almost all essential points. This admirable writer says, in the
form of advice to a young man--"For my own part, I call
_Education_--not that which smothers a woman with accomplishments, but
that which tends to consolidate a firm and regular system of
character--that which tends to form a friend, a companion, a wife. I
call Education, not that which is made of the shreds and patches of
useless arts, but that which inculcates principles, polishes taste,
regulates temper, cultivates reason, subdues the passions, directs the
feelings, habituates to reflection, trains to self-denial, and _more
especially_, that which refers all actions, feelings, sentiments,
tastes, and passions to the love and fear of God." Elsewhere the same
author remarks--"In character as in architecture, just proportion is
beauty. The ornaments which decorate, do not _support_ the edifice."
Again it is said--"A man of sense who loves home, and lives at home,
requires a wife who can and will be at half the expense of mind
necessary for keeping up the cheerful, animating, elegant intercourse
which forms so great a part of the bond of union between intellectual
and well bred persons. The _exhibiting, the displaying wife_ may
entertain your company; but it is only the informed, the refined, the
cultivated woman, who can entertain yourself; and I presume whenever
you marry, you will marry primarily for _yourself_, and not for _your
friends_; you will want a companion--_an artist you may hire_."

Should any person doubt the preference usually given to what are
called accomplishments, over matters of infinitely higher real value,
let them ask as many pupils as they please, "what inquiries do your
parents, guardians, and friends most frequently make relative to your
studies and progress at school?" The answers will furnish undeniable
proof; for a very large proportion will be found to have been
substantially like the following: "How do you come on in your Music,
your Dancing, your Drawing, or your French?" according as they have
been striving to acquire one or more of these inestimable outfits for
their progress through Time to the realms of Eternity. It is pitiable,
most pitiable, to see the thousands of innocent little girls
throughout our country, many of them without the slightest taste or
talent for these things, still laboring four, five, or six hours in
every twenty-four, to gain a little elementary knowledge of what they
will generally abandon immediately after leaving school, or at
farthest, as soon as they get married--to gain which knowledge has
been the chief object, the painful toil for so many irrevocable years
of all this warring against nature, common sense, and moral fitness.
But suppose the success of such training as ample as heart can wish,
and the poor little creatures are made prodigies of early proficiency
in arts, which are very soon to be of little or no real use to them?
Is it politic--is it wise--in fact, is it not a most sinful breach of
parental duty, to impart to our daughters, as among the most desirable
things in life, strong tastes which they can scarcely gratify at all
without frequently seeking company abroad, nor often indulge at home,
unless by neglecting some of those important, indispensable domestic
employments which devolve exclusively on the mistress of the family?

Let it not be inferred from any of the foregoing remarks, that I am an
enemy to what are called fashionable schools--my enmity extends _only
to some of their practices_. Let _them_ be reformed, and I shall have
no enmity whatever to the title "fashionable," if it be deemed
essential to gain scholars for those who keep them. Let them make it
fashionable to fit their pupils for private life, and for all its
necessary duties, by giving them genuine moral and religious
principles first and above all things; then let accomplishments follow
in their proper, but very subordinate place, and they will have no
warmer friend than myself.

I am well aware that I subject myself to the charge of great
presumption in censuring, as I have done, many of the principal
matters taught at present in fashionable, as well as other schools,
both for boys and girls; and to this charge I am prepared patiently to
submit, provided it be made, if at all, after a full, fair, and candid
examination of all that I have said on these topics. To retract
however, my accusations, will be impossible, unless I could rid myself
of the conscientious belief, and thorough conviction, that not only
the temporal, but eternal happiness, both of the present and future
generations, depends on a radical change being made in regard to the
principal objects of Education, as well as in the means of attaining
them. These _must be_ to prepare us for this life--not as an _end_,
but only as the means of attaining happiness in the next.

My business, however, being more to point out faults, than
remedies--rather to describe diseases, than to offer nostrums for
their removal, I shall leave the curative process to other hands,
sincerely hoping that it may be attempted by some much abler moral
physicians, who will apply themselves to the Herculean task with a
degree of zeal, vigor, and perseverance fully commensurate to the
difficulty and vital importance of the undertaking. There can be no
greater object of human ambition--no more exalted purpose for human
effort--nor any human occupation, the results of which, if the
laborers in this sacred vineyard be successful, can compare with this
either in degree or extent--since human happiness, both temporal and
eternal, is its end, and must be its final consummation. Riches often
perish, and are followed by poverty, wretchedness, and extreme
suffering. Honors frequently fade away, or are snatched from us, to be
succeeded by persecution, calumny, hatred, and disgrace. Sensual
gratifications may never come at all, or _if they do_, bitter
recollections, bodily diseases--nay, incurable remorse for their
indulgence, rarely fail to come soon after; and all this too in
defiance, as it were, of what the world generally calls "good
Education." But pure Religion and true Christian morality impart a
peace to the soul which nothing in nature can destroy, nor even long
disturb; while the unutterable joys and delights of a well spent life
are the sure fruits, the certain rewards of every system of
instruction well followed out, which, without any exclusion either of
science, literature, foreign languages, or tasteful accomplishments,
makes the gospel of our blessed Saviour its beginning, its middle, and
its end.




Milton is indebted for some of the finest passages in the Paradise
Lost to Marino's "Sospetti D'Herode."




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LOSS OF BREATH.

A TALE A LA BLACKWOOD. BY EDGAR A. POE.

  O breathe not, &c.--_Moore's Melodies_.


The most notorious ill-fortune must, in the end, yield to the untiring
courage of philosophy--as the most stubborn city to the ceaseless
vigilance of an enemy. Salmanezer, as we have it in the holy writings,
lay three years before Samaria: yet it fell. Sardanapalus--see
Diodorus--maintained himself seven in Nineveh: but to no purpose. Troy
expired at the close of the second lustrum: and Azoth, as Aristæus
declares upon his honor as a gentleman, opened at last her gates to
Psammitticus, after having barred them for the fifth part of a
century.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Thou wretch!--thou vixen!--thou shrew!"--said I to my wife on the
morning after our wedding--"thou witch!--thou hag!--thou
whippersnapper!--thou sink of iniquity!--thou fiery-faced quintessence
of all that is abominable!--thou--thou--" Here standing upon tiptoe,
seizing her by the throat, and placing my mouth close to her ear, I
was preparing to launch forth a new and more decided epithet of
opprobrium which should not fail, if ejaculated, to convince her of
her insignificance, when, to my extreme horror and astonishment, I
discovered that _I had lost my breath_.

The phrases "I am out of breath," "I have lost my breath," &c. are
often enough repeated in common conversation, but it had never
occurred to me that the terrible accident of which I speak could _boná
fide_ and actually happen! Imagine--that is if you have a fanciful
turn--imagine I say, my wonder--my consternation--my despair!

There is a good genius, however, which has never, at any time,
entirely deserted me. In my most ungovernable moods I still retain a
sense of propriety, _et le chemin des passions me conduit_--as
Rousseau says it did him--_à la philosophie veritable_.

Although I could not at first precisely ascertain to what degree the
occurrence had affected me, I unhesitatingly determined to conceal at
all events the matter from my wife until farther experience should
discover to me the extent of this my unheard of calamity. Altering my
countenance, therefore, in a moment, from its bepuffed and distorted
appearance, to an expression of arch and coquettish benignity, I gave
my lady a pat on the one cheek, and a kiss on the other, and without
saying one syllable, (Furies! I could not,) left her astonished at my
drollery, as I pirouetted out of the room in a _Pas de Zephyr_.

Behold me then safely ensconced in my private _boudoir_, a fearful
instance of the ill consequences attending upon irascibility--alive
with the qualifications of the dead--dead with the propensities of the
living--an anomaly on the face of the earth--being very calm, yet
breathless.

Yes! breathless. I am serious in asserting that my breath was entirely
gone. I could not have stirred with it a feather if my life had been
at issue, or sullied even the delicacy of a mirror. Hard fate!--yet
there was some alleviation to the first overwhelming paroxysm of my
sorrow. I found upon trial that the powers of utterance which, upon my
inability to proceed in the conversation with my wife, I then
concluded to be totally destroyed, were in fact only partially
impeded, and I discovered that had I, at that interesting crisis,
dropped my voice to a singularly deep guttural, I might still have
continued to her the communication of my sentiments; this pitch of
voice (the guttural) depending, I find, not upon the current of the
breath, but upon a certain spasmodic action of the muscles of the
throat.

Throwing myself upon a chair, I remained for some time absorbed in
meditation. My reflections, be sure, were of no consolatory kind. A
thousand vague and lachrymatory fancies took possession of my
soul--and even the phantom Suicide flitted across my brain; but it is
a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the obvious and
the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal. Thus I shudderd at
self-murder as the most decided of atrocities, while the tabby cat
purred strenuously upon the rug, and the very water-dog wheezed
assiduously under the table, each taking to itself much merit for the
strength of its lungs, and all obviously done in derision of my own
pulmonary incapacity.

Oppressed with a tumult of vague hopes and fears, I at length heard
the footstep of my wife descending the staircase. Being now assured of
her absence, I returned with a palpitating heart to the scene of my
disaster.

Carefully locking the door on the inside, I commenced a vigorous
search. It was possible, I thought, that concealed in some obscure
corner, or lurking in some closet or drawer, might be found the lost
object of my inquiry. It might have a vapory--it might even have a
tangible form. Most philosophers, upon many points of philosophy, are
still very unphilosophical. William Godwin, however, says in his
"Mandeville," that "invisible things are the only realities." This,
all will allow, is a case in point. I would have the judicious reader
pause before accusing such asseverations of an undue quantum of
absurdity. Anaxagoras--it will be remembered--maintained that snow is
black. This I have since found to be the case.

Long and earnestly did I continue the investigation: but the
contemptible reward of my industry and perseverance proved to be only
a set of false teeth, two pair of hips, an eye, and a bundle of
_billets-doux_ from Mr. Windenough to my wife. I might as well here
observe that this confirmation of my lady's partiality for Mr. W.
occasioned me little uneasiness. That Mrs. Lacko'breath should admire
any thing so dissimilar to myself was a natural and necessary evil. I
am, it is well known, of a robust and corpulent appearance, and, at
the same time somewhat diminutive in stature. What wonder then that
the lath-like tenuity of my acquaintance, and his altitude which has
grown into a proverb, should have met with all due estimation in the
eyes of Mrs. Lacko'breath? It is by logic similar to this that true
philosophy is enabled to set misfortune at defiance. But to return.

My exertions, as I have before said, proved fruitless. Closet after
closet--drawer after drawer--corner after corner--were scrutinized to
no purpose. At one time, however, I thought myself sure of my prize,
having, in rummaging a dressing-case, accidentally demolished a bottle
(I had a remarkably sweet breath) of Hewitt's "Seraphic and
Highly-Scented Extract of Heaven or Oil of Archangels"--which, as an
agreeable perfume, I here take the liberty of recommending.

With a heavy heart I returned to my _boudoir_--there to ponder upon
some method of eluding my wife's penetration, until I could make
arrangements prior to my leaving the country, for to this I had
already made up my mind. In a foreign climate, being unknown, I might,
with some probability of success, endeavor to conceal my unhappy
calamity--a calamity calculated, even more than beggary, to estrange
the affections of the multitude, and to draw down upon the wretch the
well-merited indignation of the virtuous and the happy. I was not long
in hesitation. Being naturally quick, I committed to memory the entire
tragedies of ----, and ----. I had the good fortune to recollect that
in the accentuation of these dramas, or at least of such portion of
them as is allotted to their heroes, the tones of voice in which I
found myself deficient were altogether unnecessary, and that the deep
guttural was expected to reign monotonously throughout.

I practised for some time by the borders of a well-frequented
marsh--herein, however, having no reference to a similar proceeding of
Demosthenes, but from a design peculiarly and conscientiously my own.
Thus armed at all points, I determined to make my wife believe that I
was suddenly smitten with a passion for the stage. In this I succeeded
to a miracle; and to every question or suggestion found myself at
liberty to reply in my most frog-like and sepulchral tones with some
passage from the tragedies, any portion of which, as I soon took great
pleasure in observing, would apply equally well to any particular
subject. It is not to be supposed, however, that in the delivery of
such passages I was found at all deficient in the looking asquint--the
showing my teeth--the working my knees--the shuffling my feet--or in
any of those unmentionable graces which are now justly considered the
characteristics of a popular performer. To be sure they spoke of
confining me in a straight jacket--but good God! they never suspected
me of having lost my breath.

Having at length put my affairs in order, I took my seat very early
one morning in the mail stage for ----, giving it to be understood
among my acquaintances that business of the last importance required
my immediate personal attendance.

The coach was crammed to repletion--but in the uncertain twilight the
features of my companions could not be distinguished. Without making
any effectual resistance I suffered myself to be placed between two
gentlemen of colossal dimensions; while a third, of a size larger,
requesting pardon for the liberty he was about to take, threw himself
upon my body at full length, and falling asleep in an instant, drowned
all my guttural ejaculations for relief, in a snore which would have
put to the blush the roarings of a Phalarian bull. Happily the state
of my respiratory faculties rendered suffocation an accident entirely
out of the question.

As however, the day broke more distinctly in our approach to the
outskirts of the city, my tormentor arising and adjusting his
shirt-collar, thanked me in a very friendly manner for my civility.
Seeing that I remained motionless, (all my limbs were dislocated, and
my head twisted on one side,) his apprehensions began to be excited;
and arousing the rest of the passengers, he communicated, in a very
decided manner, his opinion that a dead man had been palmed upon them
during the night for a living _boná fide_ and responsible
fellow-traveller--here giving me a thump on the right eye, by way of
evidencing the truth of his suggestion.

Thereupon all, one after another, (there were nine in company)
believed it their duty to pull me by the ear. A young practising
physician, too, having applied a pocket-mirror to my mouth, and found
me without breath, the assertion of my persecutor was pronounced a
true bill; and the whole party expressed their determination to endure
tamely no such impositions for the future, and to proceed no farther
with any such carcasses for the present.

I was here accordingly thrown out at the sign of the "Crow," (by which
tavern the coach happened to be passing) without meeting with any
farther accident than the breaking of both my arms under the left hind
wheel of the vehicle. I must besides do the driver the justice to
state that he did not forget to throw after me the largest of my
trunks, which, unfortunately falling on my head, fractured my skull in
a manner at once interesting and extraordinary.

The landlord of the "Crow," who is a hospitable man, finding that my
trunk contained sufficient to indemnify him for any little trouble he
might take in my behalf, sent forthwith for a surgeon of his
acquaintance, and delivered me to his care with a bill and receipt for
five and twenty dollars.

The purchaser took me to his apartments and commenced operations
immediately. Having, however, cut off my ears, he discovered signs of
animation. He now rang the bell, and sent for a neighboring apothecary
with whom to consult in the emergency. In case, however, of his
suspicions with regard to my existence proving ultimately correct, he,
in the meantime, made an incision in my stomach, and removed several
of my viscera for private dissection.

The apothecary had an idea that I was actually dead. This idea I
endeavored to confute, kicking and plunging with all my might, and
making the most furious contortions--for the operations of the surgeon
had, in a measure, restored me to the possession of my faculties. All,
however, was attributed to the effects of a new Galvanic Battery,
wherewith the apothecary, who is really a man of information,
performed several curious experiments, in which, from my personal
share in their fulfilment I could not help feeling deeply interested.
It was a source of mortification to me nevertheless, that although I
made several attempts at conversation, my powers of speech were so
entirely _in abeyance_, that I could not even open my mouth; much less
then make reply to some ingenious but fanciful theories of which,
under other circumstances, my minute acquaintance with the
Hippocratian Pathology would have afforded me a ready confutation.

Not being able to arrive at a conclusion, the practitioners remanded
me for further examination. I was taken up into a garret; and the
surgeon's lady having accommodated me with drawers and stockings, the
surgeon himself fastened my hands, and tied up my jaws with a pocket
handkerchief--then bolted the door on the outside as he hurried to his
dinner, leaving me alone to silence and to meditation.

I now discovered to my extreme delight that I could have spoken had
not my mouth been tied up by the pocket-handkerchief. Consoling myself
with this reflection, I was mentally repeating some passages of the
----, as is my custom before resigning myself to sleep, when two cats,
of a greedy and vituperative turn, entering at a hole in the wall,
leaped up with a flourish _à la Catalani_, and alighting opposite one
another on my visage, betook themselves to unseemly and indecorous
contention for the paltry consideration of my nose.

But, as the loss of his ears proved the means of elevating to the
throne of Cyrus, the Magian or Mige-Gush of Persia, and as the cutting
off his nose gave Zopyrus possession of Babylon, so the loss of a few
ounces of my countenance proved the salvation of my body. Aroused by
the pain, and burning with indignation, I burst, at a single effort,
the fastenings and the bandage. Stalking across the room I cast a
glance of contempt at the belligerents, and throwing open the sash to
their extreme horror and disappointment, precipitated myself--very
dexterously--from the window.

The mail-robber W----, to whom I bore a singular resemblance, was at
this moment passing from the city jail to the scaffold erected for his
execution in the suburbs. His extreme infirmity and long-continued ill
health, had obtained him the privilege of remaining unmanacled; and
habited in his gallows costume--a dress very similar to my own--he lay
at full length in the bottom of the hangman's cart (which happened to
be under the windows of the surgeon at the moment of my precipitation)
without any other guard than the driver who was asleep, and two
recruits of the sixth infantry, who were drunk.

As ill-luck would have it, I alit upon my feet within the vehicle.
W----, who was an acute fellow, perceived his opportunity. Leaping up
immediately he bolted out behind, and turning down an alley, was out
of sight in the twinkling of an eye. The recruits aroused by the
bustle, could not exactly comprehend the merits of the transaction.
Seeing, however, a man, the precise counterpart of the felon, standing
upright in the cart before their eyes, they were of opinion that "the
rascal, (meaning W----) was after making his escape," (so they
expressed themselves) and, having communicated this opinion to one
another, they took each a dram, and then knocked me down with the
but-ends of their muskets.

It was not long ere we arrived at the place of destination. Of course
nothing could be said in my defence. Hanging was my inevitable fate. I
resigned myself thereto, with a feeling half stupid, half acrimonious.
Being little of a cynic, I had all the sentiments of a dog. The
hangman, however, adjusted the noose about my neck. The drop fell. My
convulsions were said to be extraordinary. Several gentlemen swooned,
and some ladies were carried home in hysterics. Pinxit, too, availed
himself of the opportunity to retouch, from a sketch taken upon the
spot, his admirable painting of the "Marsyas flayed alive."

I will endeavor to depict my sensations upon the gallows. To write
upon such a theme it is necessary to have been hanged. Every author
should confine himself to matters of experience. Thus Mark Antony
wrote a treatise upon drunkenness.

Die I certainly did not. The sudden jerk given to my neck upon the
falling of the drop, merely proved a corrective to the unfortunate
twist afforded me by the gentleman in the coach. Although my body
certainly _was_, I had, alas! no breath _to be_ suspended; and but for
the shaking of the rope, the pressure of the knot under my ear, and
the rapid determination of blood to the brain, should, I dare say,
have experienced very little inconvenience.

The latter feeling, however, grew momentarily more painful. I heard my
heart beating with violence--the veins in my hands and wrists swelled
nearly to bursting--my temples throbbed tempestuously--and I felt that
my eyes were starting from their sockets. Yet when I say that in spite
of all this my sensations were not absolutely intolerable, I will not
be believed.

There were noises in my ears--first like the tolling of huge
bells--then like the beating of a thousand drums--then, lastly, like
the low, sullen murmurs of the sea. But these noises were very far
from disagreeable.

Although, too, the powers of my mind were confused and distorted, yet
I was--strange to say!--well aware of such confusion and distortion. I
could, with unerring promptitude determine at will in what particulars
my sensations were correct--and in what particulars I wandered from
the path. I could even feel with accuracy _how far_--to _what very
point_, such wanderings had misguided me, but still without the power
of correcting my deviations. I took besides, at the same time, a wild
delight in analyzing my conceptions.[1]

[Footnote 1: The general reader will I dare say recognize, in these
_sensations_ of Mr. Lacko'breath, much of the absurd
_metaphysicianism_ of the redoubted Schelling.]

Memory, which, of all other faculties, should have first taken its
departure, seemed on the contrary to have been endowed with quadrupled
power. Each incident of my past life flitted before me like a shadow.
There was not a brick in the building where I was born--not a dog-leaf
in the primer I had thumbed over when a child--not a tree in the
forest where I hunted when a boy--not a street in the cities I had
traversed when a man--that I did not at that time most palpably
behold. I could repeat to myself entire lines, passages, names, acts,
chapters, books, from the studies of my earlier days; and while, I
dare say, the crowd around me were blind with horror, or aghast with
awe, I was alternately with Æschylus, a demi-god, or with
Aristophanes, a frog.

       *       *       *       *       *

A dreamy delight now took hold upon my spirit, and I imagined that I
had been eating opium, or feasting upon the Hashish of the old
Assassins. But glimpses of pure, unadulterated reason--during which I
was still buoyed up by the hope of finally escaping that death which
hovered, like a vulture above me--were still caught occasionally by my
soul.

By some unusual pressure of the rope against my face, a portion of the
cap was chafed away, and I found to my astonishment that my powers of
vision were not altogether destroyed. A sea of waving heads rolled
around me. In the intensity of my delight I eyed them with feelings of
the deepest commiseration, and blessed, as I looked upon the haggard
assembly, the superior benignity of _my_ proper stars.

I now reasoned, rapidly I believe--profoundly I am sure--upon
principles of common law--propriety of that law especially, for which
I hung--absurdities in political economy which till then I had never
been able to acknowledge--dogmas in the old Aristotelians now
generally denied, but not the less intrinsically true--detestable
school formulæ in Bourdon, in Garnier, in Lacroix--synonymes in
Crabbe--lunar-lunatic theories in St. Pierre--falsities in the Pelham
novels--beauties in Vivian Grey--more than beauties in Vivian
Grey--profundity in Vivian Grey--genius in Vivian Grey--every thing in
Vivian Grey.

Then came, like a flood, Coleridge, Kant, Fitche, and Pantheism--then
like a deluge, the Academie, Pergola, La Scala, San Carlo, Paul,
Albert, Noblet, Ronzi Vestris, Fanny Bias, and Taglioni.

       *       *       *       *       *

A rapid change was now taking place in my sensations. The last shadows
of connection flitted away from my meditations. A storm--a tempest of
ideas, vast, novel, and soul-stirring, bore my spirit like a feather
afar off. Confusion crowded upon confusion like a wave upon a wave. In
a very short time Schelling himself would have been satisfied with my
entire loss of self-identity. The crowd became a mass of mere
abstraction.

About this period I became aware of a heavy fall and shock--but,
although the concussion jarred throughout my frame, I had not the
slightest idea of its having been sustained in my own proper person;
and thought of it as of an incident peculiar to some other
existence--an idiosyncrasy belonging to some other Ens.

It was at this moment--as I afterwards discovered--that having been
suspended for the full term of execution, it was thought proper to
remove my body from the gallows--this, the more especially as the real
culprit had now been retaken and recognized.

Much sympathy was now exercised in my behalf--and as no one in the
city appeared to identify my body, it was ordered that I should be
interred in the public sepulchre early in the following morning. I
lay, in the meantime, without signs of life--although from the moment,
I suppose, when the rope was loosened from my neck, a dim
consciousness of my situation oppressed me like the night-mare.

I was laid out in a chamber sufficiently small, and very much
encumbered with furniture--yet to me it appeared of a size to contain
the universe. I have never before or since, in body or in mind,
suffered half so much agony as from that single idea. Strange! that
the simple conception of abstract magnitude--of infinity--should have
been accompanied with pain. Yet so it was. "With how vast a
difference," said I, "in life and in death--in time and in
eternity--here and hereafter, shall our merest sensations be
imbodied!"

The day died away, and I was aware that it was growing dark--yet the
same terrible conceit still overwhelmed me. Nor was it confined to the
boundaries of the apartment--it extended, although in a more definite
manner, to all objects, and, perhaps I will not be understood in
saying that it extended also to all _sentiments_. My fingers as they
lay cold, clammy, stiff, and pressing helplessly one against another,
were, in my imagination, swelled to a size according with the
proportions of the Antoeus. Every portion of my frame betook of their
enormity. The pieces of money--I well remember--which being placed
upon my eyelids, failed to keep them effectually closed, seemed huge,
interminable chariot-wheels of the Olympia, or of the Sun.

Yet it is very singular that I experienced no sense of weight--of
gravity. On the contrary I was put to much inconvenience by that
buoyancy--that tantalizing _difficulty of keeping down_, which is felt
by the swimmer in deep water. Amid the tumult of my terrors I laughed
with a hearty internal laugh to think what incongruity there would
be--could I arise and walk--between the elasticity of my motion, and
the mountain of my form.

       *       *       *       *       *

The night came--and with it a new crowd of horrors. The consciousness
of my approaching interment, began to assume new distinctness, and
consistency--yet never for one moment did I imagine _that I was not
actually dead_.

"This then"--I mentally ejaculated--"this darkness which is palpable,
and oppresses with a sense of suffocation--this--this--is indeed
_death_. This is death--this is death the terrible--death the holy.
This is the death undergone by Regulus--and equally by Seneca.
Thus--thus, too, shall I always remain--always--always remain. Reason
is folly, and Philosophy a lie. No one will know my sensations, my
horror--my despair. Yet will men still persist in reasoning, and
philosophizing, and making themselves fools. There is, I find, no
hereafter but this. This--this--this--is the only Eternity!--and what,
O Baalzebub!--_what_ an Eternity!--to lie in this vast--this awful
void--a hideous, vague, and unmeaning anomaly--motionless, yet wishing
for motion--powerless, yet longing for power--forever, forever, and
forever!"

But the morning broke at length--and with its misty and gloomy dawn
arrived in triple horror the paraphernalia of the grave. Then--and not
till then--was I fully sensible of the fearful fate hanging over me.
The phantasms of the night had faded away with its shadows, and the
actual terrors of the yawning tomb left me no heart for the bug-bear
speculations of Transcendentalism.

I have before mentioned that my eyes were but imperfectly closed--yet
as I could not move them in any degree, those objects alone which
crossed the direct line of vision were within the sphere of my
comprehension. But across that line of vision spectral and stealthy
figures were continually flitting, like the ghosts of Banquo. They
were making hurried preparations for my interment. First came the
coffin which they placed quietly by my side. Then the undertaker with
attendants and a screw-driver. Then a stout man whom I could
distinctly see and who took hold of my feet--while one whom I could
only feel lifted me by the head and shoulders. Together they placed me
in the coffin, and drawing the shroud up over my face proceeded to
fasten down the lid. One of the screws, missing its proper direction,
was screwed by the carelessness of the undertaker deep--deep--down
into my shoulder. A convulsive shudder ran throughout my frame. With
what horror, with what sickening of heart did I reflect that one
minute sooner a similar manifestation of life, would, in all
probability, have prevented my inhumation. But alas! it was now too
late, and hope died away within my bosom as I felt myself lifted upon
the shoulders of men--carried down the stairway--and thrust within the
hearse.

During the brief passage to the cemetery my sensations, which for some
time had been lethargic and dull, assumed, all at once, a degree of
intense and unnatural vivacity for which I can in no manner account. I
could distinctly hear the rustling of the plumes--the whispers of the
attendants--the solemn breathings of the horses of death. Confined as
I was in that narrow and strict embrace, I could feel the quicker or
slower movement of the procession--the restlessness of the driver--the
windings of the road as it led us to the right or to the left. I could
distinguish the peculiar odor of the coffin--the sharp acid smell of
the steel screws. I could see the texture of the shroud as it lay
close against my face; and was even conscious of the rapid variations
in light and shade which the flapping to and fro of the sable hangings
occasioned within the body of the vehicle.

In a short time however, we arrived at the place of sculpture, and I
felt myself deposited within the tomb. The entrance was secured--they
departed--and I was left alone. A line of Marston's "Malcontent,"

  "Death's a good fellow and keeps open house,"

struck me at that moment as a palpable lie. Sullenly I lay at length,
the quick among the dead--and _Anacharsis inter Scythas_.

From what I overheard early in the morning, I was led to believe that
the occasions when the vault was made use of were of very rare
occurrence. It was probable that many months might elapse before the
doors of the tomb would be again unbarred--and even should I survive
until that period, what means could I have more than at present, of
making known my situation or of escaping from the coffin? I resigned
myself, therefore, with much tranquillity to my fate, and fell, after
many hours, into a deep and deathlike sleep.

How long I remained thus is to me a mystery. When I awoke my limbs
were no longer cramped with the cramp of death--I was no longer
without the power of motion. A very slight exertion was sufficient to
force off the lid of my prison--for the dampness of the atmosphere had
already occasioned decay in the woodwork around the screws.

My steps as I groped around the sides of my habitation were, however,
feeble and uncertain, and I felt all the gnawings of hunger with the
pains of intolerable thirst. Yet, as time passed away, it is strange
that I experienced little uneasiness from these scourges of the earth,
in comparisons with the more terrible visitations of the fiend
_Ennui_. Stranger still were the resources by which I endeavored to
banish him from my presence.

The sepulchre was large and subdivided into many compartments, and I
busied myself in examining the peculiarities of their construction. I
determined the length and breadth of my abode. I counted and recounted
the stones of the masonry. But there were other methods by which I
endeavored to lighten the tedium of my hours. Feeling my way among the
numerous coffins ranged in order around, I lifted them down, one by
one, and breaking open their lids, busied myself in speculations about
the mortality within.

"This," I reflected, tumbling over a carcass, puffy, bloated, and
rotund--"this has been, no doubt, in every sense of the word, an
unhappy--an unfortunate man. It has been his terrible lot not to walk,
but to waddle--to pass through life not like a human being, but like
an elephant--not like a man, but like a rhinoceros.

"His attempts at getting on have been mere abortions--and his
circumgyratory proceedings a palpable failure. Taking a step forward,
it has been his misfortune to take two towards the right, and three
towards the left. His studies have been confined to the Philosophy of
Crabbe.

"He can have had no idea of the wonders of a _Pirouette_. To him a
_Pas de Papillon_ has been an abstract conception.

"He has never ascended the summit of a hill. He has never viewed from
any steeple the glories of a metropolis.

"Heat has been his mortal enemy. In the dog-days his days have been
the days of a dog. Therein, he has dreamed of flames and
suffocation--of mountains upon mountains--of Pelion upon Ossa.

"He was short of breath--to say all in a word--he was short of breath.

"He thought it extravagant to play upon wind instruments. He was the
inventor of self-moving fans--wind-sails--and ventilators. He
patronized Du Pont the bellows-maker--and died miserably in attempting
to smoke a cigar.

"His was a case in which I feel deep interest--a lot in which I
sincerely sympathize."

"But here," said I--"here"--and I dragged spitefully from its
receptacle a gaunt, tall, and peculiar-looking form, whose remarkable
appearance struck me with a sense of unwelcome familiarity--"here,"
said I--"here is a wretch entitled to no earthly commiseration." Thus
saying, in order to obtain a more distinct view of my subject, I
applied my thumb and forefinger to his nose, and, causing him to
assume a sitting position upon the ground, held him, thus, at the
length of my arm, while I continued my soliloquy.

--"entitled," I repeated, "to no earthly commiseration. Who indeed
would think of compassionating a shadow? Besides--has he not had his
full share of the blessings of mortality? He was the originator of
tall monuments--shot-towers--lightning-rods--lombardy-poplars. His
treatise upon 'Shades and Shadows' has immortalized him.

"He went early to college and studied Pneumatics. He then came
home--talked eternally--and played upon the French horn.

"He patronized the bag-pipes. Captain Barclay, who walked against
Time, would not walk against _him_. Windham and Allbreath were his
favorite writers. He died gloriously while inhaling gas--_levique
flatu corrumpitur_, like the _fama pudicitiæ_ in Hieronymus.[2] He was
indubitably a"----

[Footnote 2: _Tenera res in feminis fama pudicitiæ et quasi flos
pulcherrimus, cito ad levem marcessit auram, levique flatu
corrumpitur--maxime_, &c.--Hieronymus ad Salvinam.]

"How _can_ you?--how--_can_--you?"--interrupted the object of my
animadversions, gasping for breath, and tearing off, with a desperate
exertion, the bandage around his jaws--"how _can_ you, Mr.
Lacko'breath, be so infernally cruel as to pinch me in that manner by
the nose? Did you not see how they had fastened up my mouth--and you
_must_ know--if you know any thing--what a vast superfluity of breath
I have to dispose of! If you do _not_ know, however, sit down and you
shall see. In my situation it is really a great relief to be able to
open one's mouth--to be able to expatiate--to be able to communicate
with a person like yourself who do not think yourself called upon at
every period to interrupt the thread of a gentleman's discourse.
Interruptions are annoying and should undoubtedly be abolished--don't
you think so?--no reply, I beg you,--one person is enough to be
speaking at a time. I shall be done, by and bye, and then you may
begin. How the devil, sir, did you get into this place?--not a word I
beseech you--been here some time myself--terrible accident!--heard of
it I suppose--awful calamity!--walking under your windows--some short
while ago--about the time you were stage-struck--horrible occurrence!
heard of 'catching one's breath,' eh?--hold your tongue I tell you!--I
caught somebody else's!--had always too much of my own--met Blab at
the corner of the street--would'nt give me a chance for a
word--could'nt get in a syllable edgeways--attacked, consequently,
with Epilepsis--Blab made his escape--damn all fools!--they took me up
for dead, and put me in this place--pretty doings all of them!--heard
all you said about me--every word a
lie--horrible!--wonderful!--outrageous!--hideous!--incomprehensible!--et
cetera--et cetera--et cetera--et cetera"----

It is impossible to conceive my astonishment at so unexpected a
discourse; or the extravagant joy with which I became gradually
convinced that the breath so fortunately caught by the gentleman--whom
I soon recognized as my neighbor Windenough--was, in fact, the
identical expiration mislaid by myself in the conversation with my
wife. Time--place--and incidental circumstances rendered it a matter
beyond question. I did not however, immediately release my hold upon
Mr. W.'s proboscis--not at least during the long period in which the
inventor of lombardy poplars continued to favor me with his
explanations. In this respect I was actuated by that habitual prudence
which has ever been my predominating trait.

I reflected that many difficulties might still lie in the path of my
preservation which extreme exertion on my part would be alone able to
surmount. Many persons, I considered, are prone to estimate
commodities in their possession--however valueless to the then
proprietor--however troublesome, or distressing--in precise ratio with
the advantages to be derived by others from their attainment--or by
themselves from their abandonment. Might not this be the case with Mr.
Windenough? In displaying anxiety for the breath of which he was at
present so willing to get rid, might I not lay myself open to the
exactions of his avarice? There are scoundrels in this world--I
remembered with a sigh--who will not scruple to take unfair
opportunities with even a next door neighbor--and (this remark is from
Epictetus) it is precisely at that time when men are most anxious to
throw off the burden of their own calamities that they feel the least
desirous of relieving them in others.

Upon considerations similar to these, and still retaining my grasp
upon the nose of Mr. W., I accordingly thought proper to model my
reply.

"Monster!"--I began in a tone of the deepest indignation--"monster!
and double-winded idiot!--Dost _thou_ whom, for thine iniquities, it
has pleased Heaven to accurse with a two-fold respiration--dost
_thou_, I say, presume to address me in the familiar language of an
old acquaintance?--'I lie,' forsooth!--and 'hold my tongue,' to be
sure--pretty conversation, indeed, to a gentleman with a single
breath!--all this, too, when I have it in my power to relieve the
calamity under which thou dost so justly suffer--to curtail the
superfluities of thine unhappy respiration." Like Brutus I paused for
a reply--with which, like a tornado, Mr. Windenough immediately
overwhelmed me. Protestation followed upon protestation, and apology
upon apology. There were no terms with which he was unwilling to
comply, and there were none of which I failed to take the fullest
advantage.

Preliminaries being at length arranged, my acquaintance delivered me
the respiration--for which--having carefully examined it--I gave him
afterwards a receipt.

I am aware that by many I shall be held to blame for speaking in a
manner so cursory of a transaction so impalpable. It will be thought
that I should have entered more minutely into the details of an
occurrence by which--and all this is very true--much new light might
be thrown upon a highly interesting branch of physical philosophy.

To all this, I am sorry, that I cannot reply. A hint is the only
answer which I am permitted to make. There were circumstances--but I
think it much safer upon consideration to say as little as possible
about an affair so delicate--so _delicate_, I repeat, and at the same
time involving the interests of a third party whose resentment I have
not the least desire, at this moment, of incurring.

We were not long after this necessary arrangement in effecting an
escape from the dungeons of the sepulchre. The united strength of our
resuscitated voices was soon efficiently apparent. Scissors, the Whig
Editor, republished a treatise upon "the nature and origin of
subterranean noises." A reply--rejoinder--confutation--and
justification followed in the columns of an ultra Gazette. It was not
until the opening of the vault to decide the controversy, that the
appearance of Mr. Windenough and myself proved both parties to have
been decidedly in the wrong.

I cannot conclude these details of some very singular passages in a
life at all times sufficiently eventful, without again recalling to
the attention of the reader the merits of that indiscriminate
philosophy which is a sure and ready shield against those shafts of
calamity which can be neither seen, felt, nor fully understood. It was
in the spirit of this wisdom that, among the ancient Hebrews, it was
believed the gates of Heaven would be inevitably opened to that
sinner, or saint, who with good lungs and implicit confidence, should
vociferate the word "_Amen!_" It was in the spirit of this wisdom that
when a great plague raged at Athens, and every means had been in vain
attempted for its removal, Epimenides--as Laertius relates in his
second book of the life of that philosopher--advised the erection of a
shrine and temple _to prostekonti Theo_--"to the proper God."




The "Acajou et Zirphile" of Du Clos is a whimsical and amusing Fairy
Tale, ingeniously composed in illustration of a series of grotesque,
and extravagant engravings, whose figures, rats, apes, butterflies,
and men, have no earthly meaning or connection but that given by the
pen of the writer.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CUPID'S SPORT.

  "And is this Cupid's realm?--if so, good by!
   Cupid, and Cupid's votaries I fly:
   No offering to his altar do I bring--
   No bleeding heart, nor hymeneal ring."


In the third number of the Messenger, my good reader, you and I were
engaged in taking a peep at Cupid's Sport. Unless you have fallen out
with me, (as I certainly have not with you,) we will again travel
together, in a half merry, half serious mood, through some three or
four pages. We shall perhaps be forced to scramble over hedges matted
with brambles, or amble along some grassy mead or velvet lawn; it may
be we

  "Must pore where babbling waters flow,
   And watch unfolding roses blow."

You no doubt remember in what a sad plight we left our young friend
Timothy Wilberforce; how he had been gradually led on by Cupid, buoyed
up and transported, till he attained within a step of the pinnacle of
bliss--and then, how the mischief-making God had precipitated him to
the very brink of despair; how, like Sisyphus,

  "Up the high hill he heav'd the huge round stone;"

and how

  "The huge round stone resulting with a bound,
   Thunder'd impetuous down, and smoked along the ground."

In fine, he had been caught and caged, manacled, cuffed, and then
_kicked_, (that's the word,) by our good little, sweet little Molly,
to his heart's content. Alas! this truly is one of the miseries of
human life. Had Tim received a kick from a man fashioned like himself,
he might at least have returned the blow. Had it been bestowed by one
fashioned after the manner of the Houyhnims, with hock and hoof, or
had it been driven full in his face by an ass, shod with a double set
of irons, he might have consoled himself with the reflection that some
skilful surgeon would replace the mangled elements, or kind nature
reproduce a healthy action. But the impress of a damsel's foot upon a
generous heart was far more difficult to efface. The wound it
inflicted, had baffled through all ages the skill of anatomists,
phrenologists, and philosophers. Tim then, could only bewail the
hopelessness of his situation in the mournful strains of the gentle
Corydon:

  "She is faithless, and I am undone.
   Ye that witness the woes I endure,
   Let reason instruct you to shun
   What it cannot instruct you to cure."

These were the first sensations of his softened soul, but as time
moved on with his unslackened wing, other thoughts unbidden sprung
upon his mind. Memory indeed, for awhile continued to brood over "the
ills that flesh is heir to," but the good Tim, at last, came to the
same conclusion with the wise McPherson, that

  "To cut his throat, a brave man scorns,
   So, instead of his throat, he cut--his corns."

Tim, like all honest bachelors, swore most roundly, that he would
never more be caught by woman's wiles; that she was heartless,
faithless, deceitful, "and desperately wicked." Alas! poor Tim knew
not the susceptibility of his own heart; and Cupid but smiled to think
how easily he could hold our hero in magic thraldom. Tim indeed could
cry out in the agony of woe,

  "Have I not had my brain sear'd, heart riven,
   Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied away?"

but still, blindfold and unconscious, he would find himself worse than
ever entangled and ensnared. A ringlet tastefully displayed, a soft
melting eye, it might be a keen piercing one, it mattered not to him,
a dimpled cheek, a laughter making mouth, were to him more attractive,
than a diamond to a miser, a ship with her canvass swelling to the
breeze to the jolly tar, or a well fed steed to a Dutchman's fancy.
The very hopes he once cherished, now nipped and blighted; his former
fondness for society which he now shunned and despised, served by the
contrast to make him doubly gloomy and alone,

  "Lone--as the corse within its shroud,
   Lone--as a solitary cloud,
         A single cloud on a sunny day,
         While all the rest of heaven is clear,
         A frown upon the atmosphere,
         That hath no business to appear
         When skies are blue, and earth is gay."

Feeling so doubly lone, Tim would again seek a partner to sympathize
in his sorrows, and to whom could he go? to man--cold calculating man?
What is man worth in sorrow? Has he the tender sensibility, the warm
hearted sympathy that is ever alive in a female's bosom? If you tell
him your love sick tale, he will laugh you to scorn, he will frown you
down for a puling blockhead; but woman will listen to your griefs,
will alleviate your pain, assuage your sorrow, and if she but smiles,
Tim would exclaim,

  "How she smiled, and I could not but love."

With feelings such as these, Tim _accidentally_ became acquainted with
"the lass with the auburn curls." These accidents occur sometimes, so
happily and apropos, that we are tempted to believe them not merely
the result of casualty; my own opinion is, that they are all devised,
planned and executed by that wily urchin cupid, to bring those
together, upon whom to sport his strange fantastic freaks.

One autumn's eve, when the sun was low, Catherine and her Cousin Tony
issued forth, to ramble along the winding banks of the James River
Canal. They were admiring the beauty of the scenery, and occasionally
turning to view the dazzling brilliancy of many of the windows in the
city, caused by the reflection of the setting sun, producing the
effect of an illumination shifting from house to house as they changed
their position.

They had progressed along the canal as far as the first water-fall,
the situation of which, many of my readers will no doubt remember; not
as it is at present, but as it existed a few years ago, before the
polishing hand of art had shorn it of half its beauties. There is an
arch turned there, spanning the ravine, over which the canal passes at
its usual level, and is thus raised, some thirty feet perhaps, above
the base of the ravine. Under this arch a pellucid rivulet gently
ripples, till reaching the brink of the acclivity below, it leaps and
bounds towards the river. Above the sides of this arch, the waste
water from the canal rushed headlong, mingling with the clear waters
of the rivulet, and dashing foamingly along, or eddying and bubbling
among a rugged bed of granite. On the east side of this fall, there
was once a rock, raised high above the rest, by the side of which a
little cedar grew, over and around whose boughs the wild grape and
sweet brier intertwined their branches until they hung a verdant
canopy above. This place, adorned as it was with its native drapery,
had obtained the name of "Cupid's Cavern,"--for here, many a loving
couple, after an evening's walk, would rest, feasting upon the
beauties of the surrounding scenery. And here, many a tale of love had
been told, which the roar of the water-fall deafened to all, but the
ears into which they had been whispered. On the rock just mentioned,
by the side of the cavern, Tony and Kate at length seated themselves,
and will you believe it, Tony was actually endeavoring to persuade his
_cousin_ to permit him, to call her, by a more endearing title.

Tim too, had been attracted by the delicious softness of the evening,
to gaze upon the same beauties; he was a little behind them during the
walk, but had been so absorbed with his own reflections, that he had
scarcely noticed that any one was before him. Here, he had often
walked with his once sweet Molly in the days of his happiness, and
although he now boasted that his heart was free as air, association
necessarily brought to his mind, her whom he wished to banish, and
spite of himself, he more than once repeated,

  "Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
   I could wander with pleasure alone."

A few yards above the fall I have vainly endeavored to describe, there
was a little bridge across the canal, then formed of two logs, each
about a foot wide, but without railing or safeguard of any kind. From
its proximity to "Cupid's Cavern," it might well have been termed the
"Bridge of Sighs." These logs had been so long exposed to the weather,
and were so much used and worn, as to have become very much decayed
and absolutely dangerous. Still, through mere habit, they were daily
crossed by many, and their dilapidated condition was scarcely noticed.
One had evidently, already, partially given way near the middle, while
the other was not in a much more sound condition.

Upon the end of this bridge, Tim determined to rest, and while
thoughtfully musing, his eyes fell upon the cousins I have just
described, seated on the rock below.

Reader, I cannot tell you all that Tony or Kate said; I wish I could.
A word or two must suffice. It is not what they said I care about. I
desire you to look at Kate, and then tell me if you can blame Tim for
looking too.

"Cousin Kate," said Tony, "Did you ever feel as if you would choke
when you attempted to speak?" This was a plain, common place question,
and Catherine might have answered straight forward, "Yes, cousin Tony,
I have,"--or "No, Tony, I have not;" or "I do not know cuz;"--but,
some how or other, girls are strange beings. Catherine said not one
word, but began to blush. "I have called you _cousin_," said Tony,
"long enough, Kate." Here the perspiration stood upon Tony's brow, and
Kate blushed crimson. "Cousin Tony," said Kate, "It is time for us to
be returning home." "Ah Kate," said Tony, "you know how long and how
ardently I have loved you; may I not, one day, drop that epithet of
Cousin?" Tony looked at Kate for some reply. "Cousin Tony," said
Catherine, summoning up all her courage, "we can never be more than
friends and cousins." Then Kate's brow began to cool, but whenever
Tony would press the matter, all he saw was new blown blushes, for
Kate had seen that Tim's eyes were fastened upon her, and from Tony's
eager gaze and manner, she well knew a stranger's suspicions must be
roused.

Gentle reader, I have told you thus much of Tony's courtship, that
you, as well as Tim, might see a few of Katy's blushes. She was as
delicately refined in thought and sentiment as you can possibly
conceive. Her's was

  "A beautiful transparent skin,
   Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in;"

so soft, and thin, and white, that you might perceive each pulse as it
ebbed and flowed; indeed, whenever her heart was excited by any sudden
emotion, the delicate ruby would come and go, till the consciousness
of blushing would make her doubly crimson. She would endeavor to
conceal her emotions,

  "But o'er her bright brow flashed a tumult strange,
   And into her clear cheek the blood was brought,
   Blood red, as sunset summer clouds, which range
   The verge of heaven."

Good reader, I hate formal introductions, and therefore I have not
introduced you formally to my heroine, but since I have let you into
the secret that Kate's foible was blushing, I must go a little
further; when she did blush, she had a habit, as if to cool her brow,
of parting her ringlets, and then, carelessly, throwing them back,
there wantonly hung

  "Down her white neck, long floating auburn curls,
   The least of which, would set ten poets raving."

You are not to consider this a description of Katy's person; when I
attempt such a delineation, it will be with a flourish of trumpets,
louder and longer than Joshua made, when he encompassed the walls of
Jericho and blew them into fragments. At present, you see our
Catherine in a simple, neat, white dress, which

  "Like fleecy clouds about the moon, play'd 'round her."

All this time, Tim, that most notorious contemner of beauty, and the
man of all others who could most manfully resist loveliness, "in any
shape, in any mood," sat drinking in these unconscious exhibitions of
Katy's character and mind. He saw not Tony, much less did he hear or
imagine what he said. All he perceived was Catherine's face, and those
rich, floating curls. It was indeed cruel in Cupid to place him there.
At every succeeding blush, a poisoned arrow flew from his silver bow,
and Tim's poor heart fluttered in his bosom. Determining for once,
however, to out general Cupid, Tim gallantly resolved upon a hasty
flight; accordingly, he took himself across the little bridge, and
began sauntering away on the opposite hill.

About the same time, Catherine again insisted upon returning, and Tony
finding all effort at persuasion perfectly hopeless, began to put upon
the matter the best face he could muster. Taking his cousin's arm he
insisted she should vary the walk, by crossing to the other side of
the canal, and return to the city in that direction. Kate expressed
her uneasiness at crossing this insecure bridge, but as Tony was
importunate, she reluctantly consented, not desiring farther to add to
his mortification by a positive refusal. Tony, as a man of gallantry
naturally would do, placed Catherine upon the soundest of the logs, he
himself walking by her side on the weaker of the two, not reflecting
that the weaker log would much more easily bear her weight than his.
As fate would have it, Catherine became alarmed by the trembling of
the bridge, and leaned the more heavily upon Tony for support, and as
he was not in a mood to care much whether he broke his own neck or
not, he insisted upon proving to his cousin, that the bridge was
perfectly secure, and that all her fears were totally groundless. So
taking her by the arm, in a careless way, and telling her gaily, "Now
mind what you are about," he raised himself upon his feet several
times, so as to produce an oscillating motion in the log. At this
moment, Tim had turned about to cast one lingering look, merely to
inquire with himself, what lassie that might be, when perceiving the
danger they were in, he shouted at the top of his voice, "Take
care!"--but it was too late,--down went the log with a terrible crash,
and poor Tony and sweet Kate were precipitated into the water below,
in the middle of the canal, at the deepest point. If ever you have
seen in the hand of some ruthless urchin, an innocent bird (which he
has just succeeded in securing from his trap,) flurried, gasping and
panting with fright, you will have a correct idea of Katy. She gave
one shriek as she fell, and then rose almost breathless, gasping and
panting in an agony of alarm. Luckily the water was not more than
waist deep. Tony went down feet foremost, following the decayed
timbers, (pity he had not fallen on his head,) but Catherine, clinging
to his arm at the time of the accident, and having her support
suddenly taken from her, was precipitated at full length into the
water. In an instant, Tim rushed to the spot. Into the canal he went,
and catching the terrified Kate in his arms, he brought her safely to
the shore. Tony did all he could, but poor fellow he was completely
involved among the broken fragments, and though he strove to rescue
Kate, it was as much as he could do to extricate himself. Tim knew
there was no danger of Tony's drowning, and so he left him to struggle
for himself, giving all his attention to Kate, who was truly an object
worthy of his care, and yet not the less of his admiration. She,
though thoroughly wet, withal looked so grateful, and her countenance
expressed so many thanks, and her pitiable situation, together with
the freshness of the water, heightened the bloom of her cheek to such
a degree, that Tim never once noticed her dress. Well might he have
imagined her the beauteous Goddess Thetis, with her silvery drapery,
as she issued from her watery mansion. But when she took off her
fragile bonnet, to adjust her dishevelled hair, and he viewed

  "O'er her white forehead the gilt tresses flow,
   Like the rays of the sun on a hillock of snow,"

who could have blamed him, if he had given way to his raptures, and
exclaimed,

  "My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've sold,
   And bartered my freedom for ringlets of gold."

As for Tony, if you could have seen him, as he crept out of the water,
with his "long tailed blue," tapering to a point, and dripping like an
old rooster under a cart, on a rainy day, with his head up and his
tail down, you really would have pitied him; he knew not which way to
look, nor what to say. I have seen a dog caught in the act of killing
sheep; have seen a wet rat creeping out of a tub; and I saw the gay
Tony sneaking out of the canal after having been turned off by his
sweetheart, and each of these animals, dog, rat, and Tony, had the
same identical sickly phiz. The dog slunk to his kennel, the rat crept
to his hole, but Tony was forced to his mistress, who with all
imaginable sweetness forgave him in an instant. He ought, if he could,
to have crept into an augur hole and hid himself there forever.

However, finding Tim was an old friend of his, he thanked him kindly
for his timely assistance, and introduced him to her, of all others,
with whom Tim most desired some farther acquaintance.

In a little time, our three friends began to laugh the matter over as
well as they could, and being thoroughly drenched, they endeavored to
keep each other in countenance, on their way homeward. Tim accompanied
Kate to her door, and then, wishing she might experience no farther
inconvenience from her accident, and having received a polite
invitation to visit the family, retired with Tony to procure a drier
suit.

My kind reader, you must listen to me with patience; hereafter, I will
not ramble so much at large, but will hasten on with my story. Time's
magic wing sped on, and days, weeks and months rolled by. In the mean
time, Tim continued his visits to Kate. Sometimes, at an interval of a
fortnight; at other times but a week would elapse; then this short
week began to appear an entire month; finally, weeks were reduced to
days, and days to hours, and Tim was not satisfied unless he paid a
visit at least twice a day.

The gossips of the city were thus furnished with a new theme to run
riot with, and Tim and Catherine were bandied about at a merciless
rate. Some thought it passing strange--others thought it natural
enough. "Did you hear Mr. Wilberforce was courting?" said one; "Did
you know Miss Catherine was engaged?" said another; "I'll bet my life
they will be married!" "I know she has turned him off!" "She will
never have him in the world," said a third, "for she is already
engaged to her cousin Tony." And thus, Tim was known to be courting,
engaged, turned off and jilted, before he himself had ascertained what
his fate would be; but the latter opinion, that he was certainly
turned off, gained the more currency, particularly as our friend was
suddenly called off, by business, to a distant city, where he was
compelled to remain for several months. The busy bodies could not but
notice, with what a heavy heart he departed, and there could be no
possibility of doubt about it. Tim had certainly received his walking
papers. No matter, friend Tim, thou must learn

  "What it is to admire and to love,
   And to leave her we love and admire."

My best wishes attend thee wherever thou goest.

Most persons would suppose, that after the honest denial, and the
decent ducking Tony had obtained, that the ardor of his love would
have been somewhat cooled, and that he would have been the last person
who would ever have attempted again to mention love in Catherine's
presence. Not so, Tony. He had been more than once rejected already by
his cousin, but because they were cousins, and Catherine had always
treated him kindly, Tony was still induced to harbor hope, when almost
any other person would only have welcomed despair. He found it
impossible "to look and not to love." He was one of those luckless
wights, who love and are not beloved, and yet cannot bring themselves
to give up the loved object--who, though driven from the presence of
their fair ones, continue to cast a lingering look behind, to catch a
glimpse of relenting compassion. He reminded me of the glowing
description of Lot's wife, once given by an humble divine, when he
endeavored to explain to his flock why it was that she continued to
look back as she fled from the ill-fated Sodom. "Ah, my brethren," he
said, "no doubt the good woman had a pleasant little garden there,
filled with all kinds of vegetables, and the remembrance of her
greens, and her turnips, her potatoes, tomatoes, her squashes and
beans, about which she had experienced many moments of anxiety and
vexation, caused her heart to cling to the world, and so from the top
of every little knob, she looked,--and looked,--and there she stands,
a pillar of salt." If Tony but received a look of recognition, it was
sufficient encouragement for him. If he accidentally received a civil
bow, in return for a gracious smile, he would imagine himself welcomed
to her arms. If he offered his hand, and she did not put her arms
akimbo, and look like a very virago, he would return the next morning,
and if he was again told of _friendship_ merely, Tony would only
express his astonishment, and say, "Why then did you give me such
encouragement,--why did you look in that way?" Look in that way! Now
the fact is, no matter which way Catherine might have looked, it would
have been all the same to Tony. If she looked mild and placid, or
fierce and acid; if she had been pensive and musing, or laughing and
romping; had she looked out of her right eye athwart her nose, or out
of her left athwart her shoulder, or had she not looked at all, "like
Paddy, when he shut his eyes to peep in the glass, to see how he
looked when asleep," Tony would have discovered ample cause for
indulging in hope in each smile, frown, curl of the lip, or play of a
muscle. But though, continuing in the same hopeless condition, he
always consoled himself by saying,

  "She gaz'd as I slowly withdrew,
   My path I could hardly discern,
   So sweetly she bade me adieu,
   I thought that she bade me return."

Time still moved onward. And Catherine still attracted and received
the admiration of all who beheld her. One day, as she was seated alone
in her parlor, in a somewhat melancholy mood, (for it was a rainy,
dreary day,) with a book in her hand, her back to the door, and her
head leaning against the sash of the window, she began to hum to
herself a little song a friend had lately given her. She would sing a
line or two, and pause,--and then again would raise her mellow voice.

  "If he return not, ah, she said,
   I'll bid adieu to Hope to-morrow."

And this was sung with so much feeling, you could plainly see her
heart had given utterance to its inmost sentiments. Her singing was so
sweet, we might truly say,

  "It was the carol of a bird;
   It ceased, and then it came again,
   The sweetest song ear ever heard."

The notes however died away, and Kate still sat in a seeming reverie.
When we are fairly in one of these musing moods, we will sit for
hours, without being able to tell upon what object our eyes or
thoughts have been so keenly rivetted. Our senses seem to be closed
against ordinary impressions. At any rate, while Catherine continued
thus leaning, some one walked lightly into the room, and discovering
he was not noticed, gently placed his hands over her eyes without
speaking.

"Now, cousin Tony," said Kate, "none of your tricks; I am not in a
humor for trifling to-day." Tony was not satisfied with feeling cousin
Katy's eyes, but turning her head gently back, was feasting on the
face, which a little vexation had slightly ruffled. "I'll pay you for
this, Tony," she said, in a sprightlier tone, "I know it is you, so
let me go." Tony had often played this trick before. "I thought, after
what passed," said Kate, and she was about saying something harsh, but
checking herself, she added, "Never mind, Tony." "Indeed, Kate, it is
not Tony," said the gentleman, releasing his prisoner.

Reader, you have seen blushes! Had you been with me that day, you
would have witnessed "smiles playing with dimples, suffused with
blushes, Aurora alone could rival." You would have seen surprise and
joy chasing away sorrow from a pensive brow; and from the "joy
sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem," you would have sworn that
these were acknowledged lovers.

  "Oh, there are looks and tones that dart
   An instant sunshine through the heart."

Who do you think could have thus intruded and taken such a liberty,
other than cousin Tony? It was our old friend Timothy Wilberforce,
returned from his travels.

Any one of ordinary comprehension, who could have witnessed this
meeting, and seen these looks, would have felt no hesitation in making
affidavit to the fact, that Kate had not only never rejected Tim, but
that they were upon _pretty reasonable terms_.

Some of my fair readers, I have no doubt, have already determined, if
any engagement actually existed, that Tim was a cold, phlegmatic,
inanimate being, or he would have kissed her at every hazard. I know
one young lady, who jilted a beau, because he never offered to salute
her,--she "had no idea of icicles"--not she. And I know another, who
swears! (ladies never swear,) who "vows, 'pon honor, she would turn
off any man under the sun, who would have the presumption to approach
her with such an intention even." But if the doors were closed, blinds
drawn, and they were all alone, and she was sure nobody could see
them, I rather think it would not be quite as shocking as some people
might imagine. The fact is, my dear madam, Tim was excessively remiss
on this occasion, but he must be excused, because, just as he was in
the very act, with one hand under Katy's chin, and the other at the
back of her head, and just as her little lips began to crimson, in
came Katy's dear old aunty! I take my oath, I would have gone the
whole figure, and old aunt Tabby might have gone to the ----. (I beg
pardon.) Tim and Kate took it out in looking, and

  "In the large dark eyes mutual darted flame,"

enough was said and felt to compensate the loss.

Now, you must understand, that for some cause, I never could divine
what, aunt Tabby had taken up a mortal antipathy to our friend Tim;
indeed, she was his evil genius, and she always managed to step in, at
the very moment of all others, when her company was least desired. If
he paid a morning visit, and the rest of the family kindly dropped off
one by one, (each, by the bye, making a lame excuse for his or her
absence,) just as Tim would draw up his chair close along side, and
begin those endearments, which all know how to use, but few to
express,

  "The gentle pressure and the thrilling touch,
   The least glance, better understood than words,"

in would pop aunt Tabby, and down she would sit, like a cat at a hole,
and sit there for hours. Oh how Tim's heart would sicken. If he made
an evening call, and sat till all the family retired to repose, good
aunt Tabby did not think it proper for young ladies to be left alone
with young gentlemen; such things were not tolerated in her day. Thus
did the old lady keep her nightly vigils, rattling away about ten
thousand fooleries, and fretting honest Tim more than a legion of
devils, and at last, after vainly spending the evening, the poor
fellow would slowly depart, growling smothered curses:

  "So turns the lion from the nightly fold,
   Though high in courage, and with hunger bold,
   Long galled by herdsmen, and long vex'd by hounds,
   Stiff with fatigue, and fretted sore with wounds:
   The darts fly round him from an hundred hands,
   And the red terrors of the blazing brands:
   'Till late, reluctant, at the dawn of day,
   Sour he departs, and quits the untasted prey."

Some readers will say, "what difference would it make if aunt Tabby
was present?" I set all such down as utter boobies; for if any one
could carry on a courtship, or after engagement could carry on a
conversation with his intended, when the "Mother of Vinegar" was
present, in the shape of an old maid, and that old maid a sworn enemy,
I would unhesitatingly pronounce, that Cupid had nothing in the world
to do with the matter.

Tim and Kate however, found opportunities, at other times, to elude
even the vigilance of aunt Tabby, and the old lady finding matters
were going on swimmingly, in spite of her interruptions and vigils,
only became the more determined to break off the match, if it could by
possibility be accomplished. The dear old lady never failed to whisper
into Katy's ear, every idle slander that the fertility of her own mind
enabled her to invent, or that she accidentally picked up among the
malicious gossips of the neighborhood, and more than once Katy's faith
had been shaken by her plausible inventions. Nevertheless, as yet, Tim
was smoothly gliding on the unruffled wave of happiness; all was quiet
and calm, and but a few days had elapsed since Kate appointed the
period for the consummation of their nuptials.

On a former occasion, when Tim and little Molly were engaged, my
readers will remember how Tim endeavored to break the matter to his
mother. How he began with a desire to have the old house in which they
lived, newly painted, and how, before they came to the conclusion to
do so, the matter was suddenly terminated, by the unlucky intrusion of
a small _friendly_ epistle, which not only rendered it unnecessary to
paint the house, but actually caused Tim to kick up more dust and
soot, than could be effaced by the best coat of English lead that
could be procured.

At the present juncture, the first intimation the old lady had of the
matter, was afforded her by an army of carpenters, bricklayers,
stone-masons and painters, scaling her house with ladders and
scaffolds, and turning the whole concern, topsy turvy, from the garret
to the cellar. Here ran the painters devils, rubbing every thing with
sand paper; there shouted the bricklayer, "mortar! bricks here!" Here
whistled the carpenter, and jarred the old timbers with his hammer,
banging and whacking away with the force of a giant.

"In the name of common sense," said the old lady, "good people what do
you mean?" If ever you saw a hen fluttering when a hawk made a sudden
dart at one of her brood, you would have some idea of the old lady on
this memorable occasion. It was as plain as the nose in her face, that
something was to pay, and she half suspected what it was; but that Tim
should go to work without any consultation was unaccountable, and more
than that, it was unreasonable. She hallooed for Tim; he was not
forthcoming. She asked the carpenter what he was about? "Mr.
Wilberforce had ordered him to mend every thing that required
mending." She inquired of the bricklayer what he was doing? "Mr.
Wilberforce told him to cap the chimnies, relay the hearths and mend
the whole concern." She asked the painter what he meant by all this
preparation? "Mr. Wilberforce sent him to paint the house all over."
"You must have made a mistake in the house," said Tim's mother.
"No--there was no mistake. It was to be done, and in the best style,
and in the shortest possible time." The old lady packed off the
servants in all directions for Tim, and in the mean time continued
fluttering about, stowing away this thing and that thing, into this
hole and that cuddy, until she had fatigued herself into a perfect
fever. At length, Tim arrived. "My dear son," said she, "what in the
world has got into you? Do you mean to ruin yourself, Tim?" "Mother,"
says Tim, kindly, "I told you I was going to be married." "No you
did'nt." "Well, I tell you so now, and I think our house wants a
little furbishing." Now, the old lady had frequently of late, been
charging Tim with being in love with Kate, and though he never exactly
denied it, yet he never had admitted it; and though she had no decided
objection to the match, yet she never had made up her mind to it, and
therefore she seated herself and began to cry. She did'nt ask Tim, who
he was to marry? Where the young lady lived? What she was like?
Whether she had a fortune or not? But she sat down, as one bereft of
all hope, and tuned up her pipes. Alas for Tim! He had been too
precipitate. Such matters require some introduction.

The truth was, nothing could give the old lady so much happiness, as
to contribute in any way to Tim's comfort and felicity, or to know
that he was happy; but then, she and Tim had lived so long together,
now that he was going to be married, it seemed to her as though she
and he were to be divorced forever, and a thousand conflicting
feelings rushed into her bosom. Tim asked his mother if she was
dissatisfied with the match? "No," she said, in a tone of
inextinguishable grief, and then burst forth into fresh weeping.

Now, gentle reader, I have told you that the painters were making
terrible preparations for their work, and while Tim and his mother
were engaged, as we have just seen,--he, endeavoring to soothe the old
lady's unreasonable and ill-timed grief, and she, exhibiting as much
woe as she could possibly have done, had Tim been wrapped in his
winding sheet before her,--one of these aforesaid daubers kept
continually passing in and out at the door, until he had heard enough
to satisfy him that Tim was going to be married, and that the old lady
was most vehemently opposed to the match. He had not heard her deny
her opposition, but he had seen and heard her weepings and wailings,
which convinced him that she would never consent to the match in the
world. So, on his way home that day, he happened to meet his cousin
Patsy Wiggins, and stopping her in the street,--"Did you know, cousin
Patty, that young Mr. Wilberforce is going to be married?" said
brushy. "But I tell you what, it has kicked up a terrible rumpus. I
just left the old lady, breaking her heart about it, and poor Mr. Tim
is in a peck of troubles." Brushy went his way, and so did cousin
Patty, but meeting her dear friend Miss Deborah Dobbins, as she was
gossiping about the neighborhood; "Ah, my dear Deb," says she, "have
you heard the news? Old Mrs. Wilberforce says, she will see her son in
his grave, before she will give her consent to his marrying, and
what's more, Miss Catherine Turberville shall never darken her doors
while her head is hot. You may rely upon it, they will have monstrous
work of it." So off posted the friendly Deborah Dobbins, to visit her
crony, good Miss Catherine's dear aunt Tabby. "Aunt Tabby," said Deb,
"I am afraid I have bad news to tell you." "What is it child?" "I know
it will _distress you_ to hear it, but Mrs. Wilberforce has just heard
that her son and your niece are engaged, and she has told her son, in
the most peremptory manner, that her family shall never be disgraced
by such a connexion--that your niece is beneath his notice, and if he
does not break off the match immediately, he never more shall see her
face. Now, Mr. Tim swears he will marry her in spite of all
opposition, and so the whole house is in an uproar. If I were Kate,
I'd let them know who was disgraced."--"Beneath them!" said aunt
Tabby, turning up her nose until it nearly twisted over the back of
her head--"Beneath them, indeed!" "Darken her doors!" "She disgraced
by my niece!" "She!"

Gentle reader, you may readily imagine what else these good people
said and devised; but while this tale was going the rounds, gathering
as it rolled, Tim had entirely reconciled his mother to his intended
marriage, and as he unfolded his little plans, for his own and her
future comfort, the old lady cheered up and resumed her wonted good
humor.

The next day, Tim as usual, called to see his dearest Catherine, but
he was told she was not at home that morning. In the evening he called
again. "Miss Catherine was so unwell, she had taken to her bed." Early
the day after, Tim called to inquire how Catherine was. "Tell Miss
Catherine," said Tim, "I called to see her, and hope she is better."
Tim rambled about the lower part of the house. "Miss Catherine was not
so well." In this way, Tim called for several days, vainly hoping to
see his Kate, or at any rate to receive some kind word or message. At
last, he was honored with the following letter.

"_Richmond, March 10th_.

"I hope Mr. Wilberforce will pardon me for having denied myself so
often. At first, it was to me as painful as it could have been to him,
but if he knew the reason which prompted the course I have adopted, he
could not fail to applaud, what he now, no doubt, condemns. In
determining not to see him again, I have consulted not only his peace,
and the felicity of those dearest to him, but I am convinced, my own
happiness also. My reasons would satisfy the most scrupulous--but as I
cannot divulge them, I must bear the scoffs of the world, for the
fickleness and coquetry which my conduct apparently justifies. I hope
my friend will bear this blow with becoming fortitude. The
determination I have made is painful to myself, but it is irrevocable.
If it will afford my friend any satisfaction to know, that nothing
that he has said or done, has produced this sudden change in my
purposes, I freely acknowledge the fact. He is in every respect worthy
of the best and loveliest. Forgive me, as freely as I acquit you. Our
engagement is terminated.

  CATHERINE TURBERVILLE."

Tim sat down,--his elbow on the table,--his head on his hand.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY TONGS. BY ----.


During the very cold weather which ushered in our last spring, I was
one night sitting in my dormitory, before a blazing fire, luxuriating
in that most selfish of all pleasures, _vulgo_ a "brown study." There
was something so indescribably comfortable in my situation, that,
although I had half a dozen unprepared lectures for the next morning
staring me in the face, I found it a matter of utter impossibility to
open a text book, still less to direct my attention even for the
shortest time to its contents. Stretched in my capacious arm chair--my
feet toasting before the aforesaid blazing fire--I lay listening with
a dreamy sort of consciousness, to the continual, dull, unceasing hum
of the falling snow. Regardless and entirely independent of the cold
and storm without, my eyes fixed on the fanciful figures, changeable
as the images of the Kaleidescope, which the burning coals assumed--in
a word, settled in that position, a description of which has been so
often attempted--and which every man who has one particle of soul
about him has often and oftentimes enjoyed, I fell into a long train
of reflections as absorbing and delightful as they were false and
illusory. The future--the present--the past--castles in the air--my
far distant home--were the most prominent and strongly marked images
in the scenes which flitted across the magic mirror of my fancy.

  "I thought about myself and the whole earth,
   Of man the wonderful, and of the stars,
   And how the deuce they ever could have birth;
   And then I thought of earthquakes and of wars;
   How many miles the moon might have in girth;
   Of air balloons, and of the many bars
   To perfect knowledge--of the boundless skies."

I know not how long I had been in this situation, when my dreaming was
suddenly interrupted in a most singular manner. My tongs, which were
but little removed from the direct line of my vision, seemed suddenly
to become extremely uneasy. The simple, unoffending tongs, which,
except when used, had quietly occupied their allotted station in the
corner during the whole session, appeared to be seized with a strange
propensity for locomotion, and at the same time to be altering the
figure of their outward self in a manner singular, wonderful,
unaccountable. The general appearance--the "_tout ensemble_" was, it
is true, nearly the same, but still there seemed to have been effected
a certain change, which attracted my wandering attention rather more
immediately towards them. You may smile perhaps, and say that either I
was rather light headed, or that I was neither more nor less than
dreaming in reality. But there before my eyes, which were as wide
awake as they are at this moment, upon the round knob which I had so
often and so unceremoniously grasped, was as quaint and humorous a
face as ever came from the pencil of Hogarth. A slight glance now gave
me an insight into the whole figure. Imagine the long spindle legs
cased in a pair of rusty looking "shorts"--the body, what little there
was of it, surrounded by one of those comfortable old garments, which
have been, not inaptly denominated quaker coats--and the rest of the
clothing in strict keeping with a style which, all who can recollect,
or even have heard much of the good old days of our grandfathers, will
at once recognise. Just imagine, I say, this odd figure, thus
garmented up, and you will form a good idea of the general appearance
of my visiter--(For I cannot believe it was the same _boná fide_ pair
of tongs, which are now so peacefully reposing before me.) The first
glance was sufficient for an introduction. A slight start on my side,
and a familiar "at home" sort of nod on his--and all was settled. His
first motion was to seat himself on my fender, where he deliberately
crossed his legs--his first remark was on the subject that last
engaged my thoughts. A voice sweet and delightful as the first waking
notes of distant serenade, but perfectly full and distinct, stole over
my enraptured senses.

"You will doubtless be surprised to learn that I have been _listening
to your thoughts_ for the last half hour. But know" said he, a little
pompously I thought, "that if your breast had in it the imaginary
window of Momus, your slightest meditations would not be more plain
and open to inspection than they are to me now. They have been running
rather in a scattered and unconnected manner, but like those of most
young men, they are principally directed to your own future destiny
and the choice you are to make with regard to your pursuits and
efforts hereafter. In a word, as a matter of considerable importance
to yourself, you are weighing the comparative advantages of political
and literary fame. Both are sufficiently attractive, but to most young
men, and particularly to those of your country, the former is
especially enticing. Perhaps there are at times, doubts resting upon
the minds of all men, whether these attractions are not far greater in
anticipation than the reality would authorize. Even if these doubts
were well founded, I would not attempt to damp your bright and
delightful hopes, by pouring into your ears the dull, cold voice of a
desponding prophesy. But such is not the case. The pleasure of
possession is real, and though in our ignorance we sometimes decide,
that when a balance is struck between the bitter and sweet, in that
mixture called the enjoyment of honors, it is heavy in favor of the
former--though we hear the pursuit after worldly honors daily decried
as a chase after some gaudy and painted insect, which, when gained
with difficulty, when grasped with all the fervor and delight of
gratified success, vanishes from the sight and leaves nothing behind
but the pain and agony of its sting--though men who have never enjoyed
them, often condescend to pity their unhappy possessors--still do I
assure you that possession _is_ delightful--even as delightful perhaps
as your wildest dreams may have painted it. The very eagerness with
which all strive for it, who can do so with any probability of
success--the unconquerable perseverance with which they hold it when
obtained--are sufficient proofs that it _is_ worth the pursuit, and
well rewards the winner. But you have already decided on this point;
perhaps your only doubts are, upon which of the two principal (and in
the present peaceful days, I may almost say _only_,) roads to honor,
will a man find the best reward for the necessary exertions required
to obtain it.

"The Hill of Fame on which your attention is fixed, is divided into
two summits. To the one every step of the path is plain, and open to
your view. You are at once sensible of the enjoyments as well as the
difficulties, which are found in the various parts of the ascent,
while those who journey upward are seen by all from the moment they
start. You perceive along this path the most delightful pleasures
awaiting those who may be so happy as to reach them--and increasing in
number as they rise. But you see dangers and difficulties of every
kind interspersed among them and also increasing to the very top. The
flowers when plucked have often a poisonous insect enclosed in
them--the finest fruit grows upon precipices the most steep and
frightful--or when gathered 'turns to ashes in the mouth.' Yet in
spite of these dangers you see many rising free and uninjured, higher
and higher, till they attain even to the summit. But here, though
pleasures are more abundant, the dangers are likewise
increased--though the flowers are more beautiful and more numerous,
the fruit large, and more delicious--the poison is also more deadly,
the precipices are higher, and the fall from them more certainly
fatal. But still is that summit, bright and glorious as it is--the
brilliant object on which is fixed the ardent, anxious, devoted gaze
of all who toil up the sides of the mountain. This is the Hill of
Political Fame. Now let us turn to the other; it presents us quite a
different aspect; its sides and bottom are covered with a dim mist,
through which no objects are distinctly seen; we can only perceive
that the way, though extremely steep and laborious, is as free from
the precipices and dangers of the first, as it is deprived of its
pleasures and enticements. Those who are toiling on their way to its
summit, have nothing to cheer them in their dreary task but the
prospect of the bright vision above them--which like the beacon signal
to the worn mariner, holds out comfort and repose--cheering and
inspiring him with fortitude--nerving his limbs with new vigor, and
instilling renewed hope into his heart. Nor _do_ you see them assailed
by many imminent perils; yet many faint and sink on their tedious
way--and few, very few are so fortunate as to gain the bright summit
which rears its head above--free from the shades and mists which
envelope the skies--brilliant and glorious as its opposite neighbor,
and at the same time undisturbed by its dangers. Even of those who do
ultimately reach this rich goal of their hopes--this happy end of
their labors--how very few enjoy their hard earned rewards--many of
them supported alone by their hopes on their wearisome journey--fall
as soon as they reach the top, and gain only after death the glorious
distinction for which they spent--to which they devoted their lives.
This is the Hill of Literary Fame.

"And now examine each and decide for yourself, which you will choose
as the scene of your future efforts--choose, and pursue that choice
with determination. One road alone can you follow. Some, it is true,
have, when tired of the one, pursued the other for a time. _But no man
ever reached the top of both._ You are then to decide in favor of
_one_, and having decided, steadily to pursue it, or content yourself
with remaining unnoticed in the crowd which fills the plain beneath.
That you may form your decision more correctly, look into the history
of those who have sought and gained pre-eminence, in either kind of
fame. Let us then (laying aside our metaphors) judge from past
history, and by that let your future course be decided. In the
histories of those who have even stood highest as writers, poets, &c.
you often find much calculated to disgust you with the pursuit which
they followed--how little do you find to envy in the lot of the beggar
Homer--the blind and half starved Milton--the miserable Otway dying,
choked with the morsel of food which he had begged of a friend;
Goldsmith, Johnson, &c. It is true, that in contrast to these we may
name Newton, Bacon, Shakspeare, Byron, who succeeded in gaining during
(and some of them early in) their lives the fame they so eagerly
sought. But more numerous are the instances on record, where literary
merit has been unrewarded except by posthumous renown. Of genius the
most brilliant--of minds the most powerful, which have gained their
hard earned mede of praise--when their bodies were mouldering in the
grave--when the head which conceived, and the hand which penned their
bright aspirations, as well as the heart which so ardently beat for
glory and honor--have mingled with the dust, alike unmindful and
indifferent to praise or reproach, to fame or obloquy. When the bright
etherial spirit, which once so strongly throbbed for a 'name among
men,' has taken its flight to a truer home, where the glory of this
world is nothing--then is paid to the memory the honor which the man
deserved--which would have made him so completely happy. His life
perhaps was spent in grinding poverty, in misery and wretchedness,
imbittered by that chill cold neglect of the world, which so withers
the sensitive heart--for what? A name after death. Let us turn from
this dismal picture, to the other. Here at least, are some substantial
pleasures, however they may be alloyed by the attendant evils, dangers
and difficulties. Here at least, honor is nearly always rendered, if
bestowed at all, whilst it can be appreciated. And now let us see
whether the dangers and difficulties I have mentioned, may not be
really less than we were at first inclined to believe them, and
whether with care they may not be almost entirely avoided. It is true,
that he who once becomes a public servant, throws his character in the
hands of every man, and lays himself open to the attacks of every
scribbler. He is exposed to the malicious accusations of men, who are
neither able nor anxious to see his actions in their true light; his
slightest faults held up on high to become marks of scorn among
men--buts at which every vindictive slanderer may wing a poisoned
shaft--even his very virtues distorted and perverted till they become
in appearance vices. This I grant, _is_ the life which all public men
must lead; but let not this picture startle you. If really innocent,
he will rise above the abuse which is poured upon him. Confident in
the great decision of a candid _world_, he is superior to this sort of
scandal. And have we not reason to believe that here as in other
cases, custom renders one indifferent to that which at first would
make him miserable? And that the most sensitive mind may soon begin to
look on these as troublesome insects, which may at the time incommode,
but which should create no lasting disturbance. The best proof of
this, as I have before told you is, that men who have succeeded at all
in public life, will, however disagreeable it may appear, cling to it
as strongly as if in this, lay the very light of their existence. How
sweet it is to have one's name in the mouths of all--to be the theme
of admiration and wonder with the crowd--to have power. But there is
even a purer and better enjoyment. How perfect the pleasure which
animates the bosom of the statesman when he knows that to his
talents--to his efforts--millions are indebted for their greatest
comforts--that a whole nation looks up to him as their
benefactor--that through his means"----

My visiter had proceeded thus far, when a villainous log of wood
became suddenly discontented with its situation and rolled out upon
the hearth, scattering its sparks over me. Though deeply interested,
my first and most natural impulse was to grasp the tongs and set every
thing to rights. At the next instant my recollection returned and I
carefully replaced them. But it was too late. I saw nothing before me
but the cold and senseless instrument. The mild expression of the
features was gone--the quaint old figure had vanished, and the faint
sound of that sweet voice melted away on my ear, like the dying ring
of a harp, leaving me alone and disconsolate in my solitary room.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MRS. ----,

Whose husband was absent in the United States Navy. On seeing her in a
gay company.


  Canst thou forget, amidst the gay and heartless,
    One far away whom thou hast vowed to love?
  Thou'rt lovely, and thou seemest pure and artless,
    And innocent and gentle as the dove.
  Dost thou forget, or do thy blue eyes brighten
    Only with thoughts of his return to thee?
  Dost thou the pains of absence seek to lighten,
    In scenes like this of mirth and revelry?

  Ah, pause awhile, mid sounds of song and dancing,
    While thoughts of conscious beauty paint thy cheek,
  While eyes, admiring eyes, around thee glancing,
    Volumes of warmest admiration speak--
  Think, if 'tis well for one whose faith is plighted,
    To shine among the free unfettered gay--
  Think, should those lovely eyes with smiles be lighted
    At homage which no heart but one should pay?

  Oh keep those smiles, so full of light and gladness,
    To welcome one whom thou canst call thine own;
  And may no darkling shade of gloom or sadness
    Come o'er thy life, thou bright and peerless one!

E. A. S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.


  Eliza!--let thy generous heart
    From its present pathway part not:
  Being every thing which now thou art,
    Be nothing which thou art not.

  So with the world thy gentle ways--
    Thy unassuming beauty--
  And truth shall be a theme of praise
    Forever--and love a duty.

E. A. P.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

GENERAL WARREN.

STORIES ABOUT GENERAL WARREN--By a Lady of Boston, 1835, pp. 112,
12mo.


The sneers of those grown up readers,--who may choose to sneer at a
review of so very juvenile a book as this, we brave, for the sake of
bringing it, and its subject, somewhat into notice--pointing out some
phraseological errors--doing justice to its merits--and, above all,
freshening the memories, if not informing the minds, of the less
fastidious among our countrymen, as to a few of the incidents
preceding and attending the commencement of that great struggle, of
which the cherished remembrance conduces so much to preserve in
American bosoms a catholic, American, liberty-loving spirit. These
incidents will be found naturally to imbody themselves in a brief
account of the life of General Warren, drawn chiefly from the volume
above mentioned. Those who may incline to despise either so simple a
book, or a narrative of (to them) such trite facts, as these of which
we shall speak, are probably not aware how shallow and narrow is the
knowledge existing through the country, and even in some minds that
claim to be considered as _enlightened_, with regard to our own
history. "Mr. President!"--recently, at a public dinner in Virginia,
vociferated a young orator of the Milesian school--a lawyer, we took
him to be--"Mr. President! I give you, sir, the memory of the gallant
General Warren, who fell at the battle of LEXINGTON!" And but a few
months before, a friend as dear to us as ourselves, and whose age and
opportunities should certainly have made him know better, confounded
_Sir William Berkeley_, Governor of Virginia in the times of Charles I
and II, with Norborne Berkeley, Lord Botetourt, viceroy of George III,
in 1769 and 1770! It would not surprise us, to hear a lawyer or a
physician--still less a gentleman at large--talk of the burning of
Charles_ton_ as simultaneous with the battle of Sullivan's Island,
because Charles_town_ burned while the battle of Bunker Hill was
fighting--as "John Bull in America" passes in half an hour from
Boston, where the folk make wooden nutmegs, roast witches, and bake
pumpkin pies, into Charleston, where they gouge and stab, drink mint
juleps, eat young negroes, and feed old ones upon cotton seed.

The narrative before us is couched in a dialogue, between a mother and
her two children; and, being obviously designed for gentlemen and
ladies not much higher than mamma's rocking chair, has frequently an
infantine simplicity of style, that makes us marvel at our own moral
courage, in daring to serve up such a baby's mess. Convinced, however,
that _children's reading_ may afford both amusement and instruction to
grown people, (witness "Early Lessons," "Frank," "The Parent's
Assistant," "Sandford and Merton," and "Evenings at Home," _cum
pluribus aliis_;) believing, at any rate, that among the palates for
which it is our duty to cater, there are some youthful ones to which
this dish may be both pleasant and useful; hoping, too, that by having
her faults of composition noted, the authoress may be induced to cure,
or "others in like cases offending" be moved to shun them, we make the
venture. Indeed, not only the book's childishness of style, but many
offences far more atrocious in a critic's eyes--sins against grammar,
idiom, and good taste--are in great part redeemed by the good sense
and justness of its reflections, the interesting tenor of its
incidents, and the virtuous glow it is calculated to kindle. The sins
are very many. "_Lay_," used for "_lie_," is wholly
unwarranted--scarcely palliated--even by the example of Byron, in the
Fourth Canto itself: for he was compelled by duress of rhyme; a
coercion, which the most tuneful and the most dissonant are alike
powerless to resist. "Mr. Warren, the father of Joseph, while walking
round his orchard to see if every thing was in good order, as he was
looking over the trees, _he_ perceived," &c. Here is a nominative
without any verb. There is a four or five fold vice in the second
member of the following sentence, in which, as it stands, the writer
may be defied to show a meaning: "It often happens that a mother is
left with a family of young children, and is obliged to bring them up
without the controlling power of a father's care; it is therefore the
duty of every female so to _educate_ her own mind, and _that_ of her
daughters, as to _enable_ her, if she should be placed in this
responsible situation, _to be able_ to guide aright the minds of those
under her care." _Enable_ her _to be able!_ _Educate_ her own mind!
and _that_ of her daughters! Are they to be supposed to have but _one_
mind among them, as the Sirens had but one tooth? The use of _educate_
for _train_, is a match for the Frenchman's blunder, who, finding in
the Dictionary that to _press_ means to _squeeze_, politely begged
leave to _squeeze_ a lady to sing. "Enable HER." Enable whom? Why
_herself_ and _her daughters_: and she should have said so. Never,
surely, was prosing, _bona fide_, printed prosing, to so little
purpose. Again: "A mother should always possess ... _a firm principle_
of action." Does she need _but one_ firm principle of action? If so,
it is to be hoped the next edition will say what that one is; for it
must be valuable. A common blunder in the _times_ of the infinitive
mood, occurs repeatedly in this book: "How I should have admired _to
have gone_ to see her!" "It would have been a pity for us to _have
followed_ his example, and thus have _lessened_," &c.--"must have
ardently desired _to have been_ present"--"must have wished very much
_to have seen_," &c. We cannot see the propriety of using the word
"_admired_," as it is in one of these quotations. "Tell us if he did
get in, and how he contrived to?" We protest against this fashion
which our Yankee brethren are introducing, of making _to_, which is
but the _sign_ of the infinitive, stand for the infinitive itself.
This is one of the few cases, in which we are for _going the whole_.
"He began to _practice_"--"I know it was not _him_"--"he _whom_ I told
you was the first one"--"to respect, _was_ added admiration and
love"--"this tax bore very _heavy_"--"soldiers _which_"--"your country
has much to hope from you, both in _their_ counsels and in the field."
These errors, a very moderate skill in orthography and syntax would
have sufficed to avoid. Such a vulgarism as "_nowadays_," or such
provincialisms as "pay _one single copper_," and "walked _back and
forth_ the room," (meaning _to and fro_, or _backwards and forwards_
in the room) would not have occurred, if the author had remembered,
that the _simplicity_ which suits children's minds, is altogether
different from _vulgarity_. There is such a thing as _neat_ and
_graceful_ simplicity in writing, as well as in dress and manners.
"They had contemplated making some attack on the British, or at least
to endeavor to destroy their shipping." Contemplated _to_ destroy! We
will not further pursue this unwelcome task; pausing, short of the
middle of the book, and having already passed over several faults
without animadversion. Let the author be entreated to get the aid of
some friend who is master (if she is not mistress) of grammar and
taste enough, to reform these and the other errors of her little work,
and then give us a new edition, calling in all the copies of the
first, that are within her reach.--And now to our tale.

JOSEPH WARREN was born in 1741, in the village of Roxbury, one or two
miles south from Boston, Mass. His father, a rich farmer, inhabited a
house, the ruins of which are still visible; and was famous for
raising the best fruit in that neighborhood. He was killed by a fall
from one of his own apple trees, leaving a widow and four sons, of
whom Joseph, the eldest, was 16, and John, the youngest, was 4 years
old. This excellent woman appears to have much resembled the mother of
Washington, in the skill and care with which she infused generous
sentiments and virtuous principles into the bosoms of her children:
and she reaped almost as richly as Mrs. Washington, the fruits of her
labors. Her sons passed through life, all honored and loved, and more
than one of them distinguished. Her nature seems to have had more of
amiable softness than Mrs. Washington's; who, it must be confessed,
blended something of the sternness with the purity and nobleness of a
Spartan matron. Mrs. Warren's door was always open for deeds of
hospitality and neighborly kindness. It is not easy to imagine a
lovelier scene than one paragraph presents, of the evening of a well
spent life, still warmed and brightened by the benign spirit, which
had been the sun of that life's long day.

"In her old age, when her own children had left her fireside, it was
one of her dearest pleasures to gather a group of _their_ children, or
of the children of others around her. She did all in her power to
promote their enjoyment, and her benevolent smile was always ready to
encourage them. On Thanksgiving-day,[1] she depended on having all her
children and grand children with her; and _until she was 80 years of
age, she herself made the pies with which the table was loaded!_ Not
satisfied with feasting them to their heart's content while they were
with her, she always had some nice great pies ready for them to take
home with them."

[Footnote 1: _Thanksgiving-day_ is in New England, what Christmas is
in the Southern States and England. It is always in November, on a day
fixed by Proclamation of the Governor of each State, in each year.
Christmas, from the anti-Catholic zeal of the Puritan Pilgrims, is
almost entirely neglected; being, with all its train of quips, cranks,
gambols and mince-pies, thought to savor too strongly of popery.]

Joseph's education, till his fourteenth year, was at the public school
in Roxbury; one of those _common schools_, which, from the earliest
times of New England, have been planting and nurturing in her soil the
seeds and shoots of virtue and freedom. Even in boyhood, our hero was
manly, fearless and generous: always taking the part of his weaker
school-fellows against a strong oppressor--always the

  "village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,
   The little tyrant of his fields withstood."

At fourteen, he entered Harvard University. His talents, perseverance,
gentleness and courage, here gained him unrivalled popularity. That he
did not acquire or preserve the regard of his fellow students by any
base compliances with vice or disorder, the following incident shews.

Some of them had once resolved on some breach of the laws, which, from
the sturdiness of his principles, they knew that young Warren would
disapprove, and by his powerful influence probably prevent. They
therefore met in an upper room of the college, to arrange their plans
secretly; fastening the door against him. He found what they were
about; and seeing the window of their room open, crept out, through a
_scuttle door_, upon the roof--crawled to the eaves--and there,
seizing a water-spout nearly rotten with age, he swung and slid down
by it to the window, and unexpectedly sprang in amongst the
conspirators. The spout, at the instant of his quitting it, fell with
a crash to the ground, and was shivered to pieces. Only saying, in
answer to the exclamations of astonishment that burst from his
comrades, "it stayed up just long enough for my purpose," he commenced
an expostulation against their intended misdemeanor, and _succeeded in
diverting them from it_.

On leaving college, he studied medicine, and began to practise at the
age of 23, just previously to a visit of the small pox to Boston, with
those fearful ravages which usually attended its march, before the
virtues of vaccination were known. Dr. Warren's judgment, tenderness,
and skill, made him pre-eminently successful in treating the disease.
And it is said, that his gentle and courteous deportment completely
neutralized the usual tendency of such professional success, to
enkindle the jealousy of his brethren. His mild features and winning
smile, true indexes, for once, to the soul within, gained every heart;
his knowledge and talents added respect to love. Thus, by the same
qualities which had distinguished him at school and at college, did he
acquire among his fellow townsmen an influence which no other man of
his age and day possessed.

When the British Parliament and Crown began, in 1764, that course of
unconstitutional legislation, which was destined, after eleven years
of wordy war, to end in a war of blood, Dr. Warren was among the first
to stand forth for the rights of America--to assert, and to labor in
demonstrating to his countrymen, that the _power to tax them_
(claiming, as they did, all the liberties of Englishmen) could not
exist in a government of which no representatives of theirs formed a
part. Fostered by him, and by others like him, the spirit of
resistance to tyranny grew daily more strong. The inhabitants of the
whole country, and especially of Boston, gave token after token of
their fixed resolve, to spurn the chain which they saw preparing for
them. In 1768, Col. Dalrymple with two royal regiments, reinforced
afterwards by additional troops, entered that devoted town, with more
than the usual "pomp and circumstance" of military bravado; and there
remained in garrison, to repress what the king and ministry were
pleased to call "the seditious temper" of the people. Never was
attempt at restraint more impotent; nay, more suicidal. The curb,
feebly and capriciously or unskilfully plied, served but to infuriate
the noble animal it was meant to check and guide: and no wonder that
the rider was at length unseated, and stretched in the dust. The New
Englanders--we should rather say, the _Americans_--were too stubborn
to be driven, and too shrewd to be circumvented. Every measure of
tyranny, they met with an appropriate measure of resistance. Tea had
been brought from India, to be the vehicle of unconstitutional
taxation. They threw part of it into the sea; another part they
hindered from being landed; and the remainder they excluded from use,
by mutual pledges to "touch not, taste not" "the unclean thing."
Judges were sent over to judge them--creatures of the king--the
panders of ministerial oppression. The people would not suffer them to
mount the judgment seat--closed the court houses--referred all their
differences to arbitrators chosen by the parties--and even so far
tamed the spirit of litigation and disorder, as to make tribunals of
any sort in a great degree needless.[2] Between the British troops and
the Boston people, animosities soon ran high. The soldiers seized
every opportunity to exasperate the people: the people assembled in
mobs, to revenge themselves on the soldiers. Amidst these tumults, Dr.
Warren repeatedly exposed his life to soothe and restrain his
countrymen. His eloquent persuasions were generally successful. At
first, the more violent would endeavor to repel him, and would clamor
to drown his voice. "While they did this, he would stand calmly and
look at them. His intrepidity, his commanding and animated
countenance, and above all, their knowledge that he was on their side
so far as it was right to be, would soon make them as eager to hear as
he was to speak: and finally, they would disperse to their homes with
perfect confidence that they could not do better than to leave their
cause in such hands." Those who seek to restrain the excesses of
contending factions, may always expect rough usage from both sides.
Warren incurred the occasional displeasure of his own party; but he
did not escape insult and outrage from the British. They often called
him _rebel_, and threatened him with a rebel's doom. One day, on his
way to Roxbury, to see his mother, he passed near several British
officers, standing in the _Neck_, which joins the peninsula of Boston
to the main land. Not far before him stood a gallows. One of the
officers called out, "Go on, Warren, you will soon come to the
gallows:" and the whole party laughed aloud. Walking directly up to
them, he calmly asked, which of them had thus addressed him? Not one
was bold enough to avow the insolence, and he left them, crest-fallen
and ashamed.

[Footnote 2: We have grouped together here, the events of several
years, in the rapidity of our narrative. The dependence of the judges
for their salaries on the _Crown_, instead of on the Colonial
Legislatures, (whence we date their meriting to be called _creatures_
and _panders_,) began in 1772: and the tea was thrown into Boston
Harbor, Dec. 16th, 1773.]

Distinguished for his eloquence, our young physician was repeatedly
called on to address the people, upon the great and soul-stirring
topics of the times. Far the most interesting of these, was the
Massacre of the Fifth of March. Our authoress has passed too slightly
over this incident. Let us be a little more full.

Insults, recrimination, and outrage, between the soldiers and
citizens, were at length, on the 5th of March, 1770, consummated, by
the former's firing upon the latter in the streets of Boston, and
killing five men--with circumstances shocking to humanity. After one
of the slain (Mr. Gray,) had been shot through the body, and had
fallen on the ground, a bayonet was pushed through his skull, and his
brains fell out upon the pavement. This was the first bloodshed,
consequent on the long festering irritations of the period. The
officer (Capt. Preston) who gave the word "fire!" and six of the
soldiers who had so fatally obeyed it, were in the ensuing October
tried before a Boston jury: and, defended, in spite of obloquy,
popular clamor, and the remonstrances of timid or prudent friends, by
John Adams and Josiah Quincy, Jr., were even by that jury,
_acquitted_. It grieves us that we cannot pause here, to bestow a
merited tribute on the moral courage of the illustrious counsel who
dared defend, on the steady justice of the tribunal that could acquit,
and on the virtue and good sense of the multitude who, when the first
paroxysm of natural excitement was over, could applaud that defence
and approve that acquittal[3]--horrible as had been the
deed--maddening as had been the antecedent circumstances. But though
the killing happened not to be murder, (because the people had been
the assailants,) still, the violent destruction of five human lives by
an armed soldiery in the streets of a free and peaceful city, was too
impressive an example of what mischiefs may come of standing armies
and lawless government, to pass unimproved. It was determined to
solemnize each anniversary of that day, by a public exposition of
those mischiefs; by an oration, commemorative of the tragedy, and of
those great principles, the disregard of which had led to its
perpetration. Warren delivered two of these orations.[4] His first was
on the 5th of March, 1772. It is not contained in the little book now
before us, but we have seen it elsewhere: and on reading it, no one
need be surprised at its having well nigh urged the people, even at
that early day, to forcible measures. Its masterly argumentation is
equalled by its burning appeals to the passions. All the four first of
these orations had wrought so powerfully upon the public mind, that
the British officers declared there should be no more of them: and
that whoever undertook to deliver another, should do so at the peril
of life. This menace daunted others, but only roused Warren. Not
wailing to be _invited_, he _solicited the task_ of addressing the
people; and prepared himself accordingly for the fifth anniversary of
the massacre--1775. Meanwhile, the givings out of the officers, and
the rumors among the populace, imported mortal hazard to him if he
should persist. He persisted but the more resolutely. Early in the
day, the Old South Meeting House--which, as the scene of these
orations, deserves, better than Faneuil Hall, to be termed the cradle
of liberty--was crowded to its very porch. Many a devoted friend of
Warren's was there, determined to see him safely through, or to fall
in his defence. British officers and soldiers filled the aisles, the
pulpit steps, and even the pulpit. Thinking that if he pushed through
them to his place, a pretext might be seized for some disturbance,
which would take from him and his audience the desirable degree of
calmness, he procured a ladder to be placed outside, and by it,
climbed through the window into the pulpit, just as all were expecting
his entrance at the door. The officers quailed and receded, at his
sudden appearance and dauntless air: while he, far from sure that his
first word would not be answered by a bayonet-thrust or a pistol-shot,
addressed the silent, breathless multitude. His countenance was
lighted up with more than its usual glow of patriotic enthusiasm: but
every other face was pale; every auditor could distinctly hear the
throbbings of his own heart. The speech is given at length in the
appendix to the work under examination; from the original, as we may
conjecture, which, in the orator's own hand writing, is now in the
possession of his nephew, Dr. John C. Warren. The opening was brief
and simple: but in it we discern that curbed energy, that impassioned
moderation--_une force contenue, une rèserve animée_--so
characteristic of a great mind, concentrating its powers for some
gigantic effort: and as he passes on from the unaffected humility of
his exordium "to the height of his great argument," we have bodily
before our fancy's eye, a nobler personification of wisdom, courage,
eloquence and virtue, than Homer has displayed in the form of Ulysses.

"MY EVER HONORED FELLOW CITIZENS,

"It is not without the most humiliating conviction of my want of
ability, that I now appear before you; but the sense I have, of the
obligation I am under to obey the calls of my country at all times,
together with the animating recollection of your indulgence, exhibited
upon so many occasions, has induced me once more, undeserving as I am,
to throw myself upon that candor, which looks with kindness upon the
feeblest efforts of an honest mind.

"You will not now expect the elegance, the learning, the fire, the
enrapturing strains of eloquence, which captivated you when a Lovell,
a Church, or a Hancock spake: but you will permit me to say, that with
a sincerity equal to theirs, I mourn over my bleeding country: with
them I weep at her distress, and with them, deeply resent the many
injuries she has received from the hands of cruel and unreasonable
men."

[Footnote 3: Mr. Adams was, at the time, 35 years old; Mr. Quincy only
26. They were both threatened with loss of friends, of popularity, and
of all prospect of political preferment. The "Memoirs of Quincy" (by
his son Josiah, once a prominent federal leader in Congress, now
President of Harvard University,) contain a letter from his venerable
father, earnestly expostulating upon the step. The young barrister's
reply is also given--a triumphant vindication of the motives, and even
of the prudence of his resolution, to undertake the defence. In the
success of that defence, in the universal approbation which soon
followed it, and in the professional and political advancement of the
generous advocates, they found ample rewards for having breasted the
storm of popular feeling, in obedience to the call of duty.]

[Footnote 4: The oration of 1771 was delivered by James Lovell; that
of 1772 by Joseph Warren; of 1773, by Dr. Benjamin Church; of 1774, by
John Hancock; of 1775, by Joseph Warren. These, and eight others of
succeeding years, down to 1783, we have in Mr. H. Niles' inestimable
collection of "Revolutionary Acts and Speeches."]

Having laid down as axioms, the natural right of every man to personal
freedom and to the control of his property, the orator sketched, with
a master's hand, the history of English America: and, deducing the
right of the colonists to the soil from their treaties with the
Indians, and not from the grants of King James or King Charles, (whose
pretended claims of right they undoubtedly despised--whose patents
they probably accepted only "to silence the cavils of their enemies,"
and who "might with equal justice have made them a grant of the planet
Jupiter,") he proved by unanswerable reasoning the rights of America,
and painted in deep and living colors the usurpations and injustice of
England. He traced the progress of these wrongs: he depicted the
halcyon peace, the mutual benefactions, and the common happiness of
the two countries, marred by successive and heightening
aggressions--reaching, at length, that last aggravation short of civil
war--the quartering of an insolent, hireling soldiery upon the people,
to enforce submission to unjust and unconstitutional laws. The danger
of standing armies, always, to liberty--the incompatibility of martial
law with the government of a well regulated city--the certainty of
disputes between the soldier and the citizen, especially when they are
in each other's eyes, respectively, a rebel, and an instrument of
tyranny--all made it but just to fear the most disagreeable
consequences. "Our fears, we have seen," continued the orator, "were
but too well grounded."

"The many injuries offered to the town, I pass over in silence. I
cannot now mark out the path which led to that unequalled scene of
horror, the sad remembrance of which takes full possession of my soul.
The sanguinary theatre again opens itself to view. The baleful images
of terror crowd around me, and discontented ghosts, with hollow
groans, appear to solemnize the anniversary of the FIFTH OF MARCH.

"Approach we then the melancholy walk of death. Hither let me call the
gay companion; here let him drop a farewell tear upon that body, which
so late he saw vigorous and warm with social mirth; hither let me lead
the tender mother, to weep over her beloved son: come, widowed
mourner, here satiate thy grief! behold thy murdered husband gasping
on the ground; and, to complete the pompous show of wretchedness,
bring in each hand thy infant children to bewail their father's fate:
take heed, ye orphan babes, lest, while your streaming eyes are fixed
upon the ghastly corpse, _your feet slide on the stones bespattered
with your father's brains!_ Enough! this tragedy need not be
heightened by an infant weltering in the blood of him that gave it
birth. Nature, reluctant, shrinks already from the view; and the
chilled blood rolls slowly backward to its fountain. We wildly stare
about, and with amazement, ask, _who spread this ruin round us?_ Has
haughty France or cruel Spain, sent forth her myrmidons? Has the grim
savage rushed again from the distant wilderness? Or does some fiend,
fierce from the depth of hell, with all the rancorous malice which the
apostate damned can feel, twang her destructive bow, and hurl her
deadly arrows at our breast? No, none of these. It is the hand of
_Britain_ that inflicts the wound! The arms of George, our rightful
king, have been employed to shed that blood, when justice, or the
honor of his crown, had called his subjects to the field!

"But pity, grief, astonishment, with all the softer movements of the
soul, must now give way to stronger passions. Say, fellow citizens,
what dreadful thought now swells your heaving bosoms? You fly to
arms--sharp indignation flashes from each eye--revenge gnashes her
iron teeth--death grins an hideous smile, secure to drench his jaws in
human gore--whilst hovering furies darken all the air! But stop, my
bold, adventurous countrymen; stain not your weapons with the blood of
Britons! Attend to reason's voice. Humanity puts in her claim, and
sues to be again admitted to her wonted seat, the bosom of the brave.
Revenge is far beneath the noble mind. Many, perhaps, compelled to
rank among the vile assassins, do, from their inmost souls, detest the
barbarous action. The winged death, shot from your arms, may chance to
pierce some breast, that bleeds already for your injured country.

"The storm subsides: a solemn pause ensues: you spare, upon condition
they depart. They go; they quit your city: they no more shall give
offence. Thus closes the important drama.

"And could it have been conceived that we again should see a British
army in our land, sent to enforce obedience to acts of Parliament
destructive to our liberty?... Our streets are again filled with armed
men; our harbor is crowded with ships of war: but these cannot
intimidate us: our liberty must be preserved: it is far dearer than
_life_--we hold it even dear as our _allegiance_. We must defend it
against the attacks of _friends_, as well as _enemies_: we cannot
suffer even Britons to ravish it from us. No longer could we reflect,
with generous pride, on the heroic actions of our American
forefathers; no longer boast our origin from that far famed island,
whose warlike sons have so often drawn their well tried swords to save
her from the ravages of tyranny;--could we, but for a moment,
entertain the thought of giving up our liberty. The man who meanly
will submit to wear a shackle, contemns the noblest gift of Heaven;
and impiously affronts the God that made him free."

Highly wrought as these passages may appear, they accorded, perfectly,
with the minds to which they were addressed.

It may be doubted, if any scene of the kind ever possessed more of the
moral sublime, than that which our young countryman presented,--daring
thus, amidst armed and frowning enemies, to denounce them and their
masters, and to speak forth the startling truths of justice and
freedom, with the naked sword of tyranny suspended over his head. The
rising of Brutus, "refulgent from the stroke of Cæsar's fate," shaking
his crimsoned steel, and hailing Tully aloud as the "father of his
country"--Tully's own denunciations of Catiline, Verres and
Anthony--or the more illustrious Philippics of Demosthenes--all remote
from personal danger--the objects of their enmity and invective being
absent, defenceless, or prostrate--cannot be compared, for moral
sublimity, with the splendid boldness of Warren. And, whatever
classical anathemas await us for it, we are heretical enough to
venture the opinion, that for true _eloquence_, blendedly pathetic and
argumentative, _his_ oration outstrips any that we have read of
Cicero's, and _equals_ aught that we have seen of Demosthenes. To the
most effective effusions of the latter, indeed, it bears the closest
resemblance--rapid, condensed, inornate, impassioned: similar, too, in
its result, if we consider the difference of their auditories--the one
a mercurial mob, ever liable to be swayed by whim or convulsed by
passion; the other a grave, reflecting people, who subjected every
thing--feeling, imagination, and even the love of liberty--to REASON.
The oratory of Demosthenes made the Athenians cry out, "Let us march
against Philip!" When Warren ended, a glow of admiration and respect
pervaded even the hostile bosoms around him; but the people of Boston
were ready at once to abjure allegiance to Great Britain. For this,
however, affairs were not yet ripe.

The celebrated Josiah Quincy, Jr. was at this time in England, on a
mission of remonstrance and observation. His interesting letters, and
more interesting journal, (for parts of which we are indebted to the
"Memoirs" before referred to,) shewed his conviction that the pending
disputes must come to the arbitrament of arms. His countrymen, he
said, "must seal their cause with their blood." This, he was assured
by Warren, (one of his warmest and dearest friends) they were ready to
do. "It is the united voice of America" (Warren wrote him) "to
preserve their freedom, or lose their lives in its defence." Warren
was President of the Provincial Congress of Massachusetts. He writes
thus to Quincy concerning it: "Congress met at Concord at the time
appointed. About 260 members were present. You would have thought
yourself in an assembly of Spartans, or ancient Romans, had you seen
the ardor of those who spoke on the important business they were
transacting." Quincy remained but six months in England, and then
embarked for his home in an advanced stage of consumption: having, as
he told the seaman who attended his sick bed, but one desire--that he
might live long enough to have one more interview with Samuel Adams
and Joseph Warren. His prayer was not granted. He died on ship board,
just entering Cape Anne Harbor, on the 26th of April, 1775,[5] eight
days after the battle of Lexington; where, unknown to him, his
countrymen had already "sealed their cause with their blood."

[Footnote 5: Love for his country and her liberties, may be safely
considered the ruling passion of this man's pure and splendid and too
short life. He displayed it also "strong in death." His last reported
words were in a letter to his family, dictated to his sailor nurse; in
which he breathes a dying wish for his country. And his Will contains
the following clause: "I give to my son, when he shall arrive to the
age of 15 years, Algernon Sidney's Works, John Locke's Works--Lord
Bacon's Works--Gordon's Tacitus, and Cato's Letters. May the spirit of
Liberty rest upon him."]

Warren (now a brigadier general of the Massachusetts militia) was not
unconcerned in that battle. Scouts of his had notified him on the 18th
of April, that a detachment of troops was to march that night towards
Concord: and then, remaining himself upon the watch, he saw Colonel
Smith and 8 or 900 men embark for Charlestown. Knowing the stores and
ammunition at Concord to be their object, he instantly sent messengers
over the surrounding country, to give the alarm; and himself rode all
night--passing so near the enemy, as to be more than once in great
danger of capture. His messenger to Lexington was Col. Revere; who, on
suddenly turning a corner as he passed through Charlestown, found
himself close to a party of the British. In a moment he put his horse
at full speed, dashed through them, and before they could well
ascertain him to be a foe, was beyond the reach of the balls which
they fired after him. It was his summons, that called forth the
company of Lexington militia, upon whom, about sunrise on the 19th,
was begun that bloody drama, of which the progress was to shake two
continents, and the catastrophe to dissever an empire. Warren,
sleepless and in motion throughout the night, hurried to the scene of
action: and, when the enemy were retreating from Concord, he was among
the foremost in hanging upon their rear, and assailing their flanks.
By pressing them too closely, he once narrowly escaped death. A musket
ball took off a lock of hair, which curled close to his head, in the
fashion of that time.

When his mother first saw him after the battle, and heard of this
escape, she entreated him with tears not again to risk a life so
precious. "Where danger is, dear mother," he answered, "there must
your son be. _Now_ is no time for any of America's children to shrink
from any hazard. I will see her free, or die."

An exchange of prisoners was soon afterwards agreed on, to be carried
into effect at Charlestown. Generals Warren and Putnam with two select
companies of Massachusetts troops, repaired thither for the purpose.
Here was a touching scene. The British and American officers, on
meeting once more as friends after the recent strife had so rudely
sundered their long subsisting ties of hospitality and mutual
kindness, melted with tenderness, and rushed into each other's arms.
The soldiers caught the infection: and mingled tears, and hands
cordially shaken, softened for awhile the rugged front of war. Putnam
and Warren entertained the British as guests, as sumptuously as the
occasion allowed.

A few days afterwards, Warren was appointed Major General of the
Massachusetts forces: but still retained his post as President of the
Provincial Congress. He seems to have combined, with rare felicity,
the qualities of a civil and a military leader. Cool yet brave, gentle
yet decided and firm, he was precisely fitted to teach and enforce
order and discipline. Mingling in the ranks, and talking with
individual soldiers as with brothers, he gained their love, and
infused into them his own ardor and sanguine confidence. He acted with
equal talent in civil council. He spent a part of each day in sharing
the deliberations of the Congress, which sat now at Watertown, ten
miles northwest from Boston. His labors ended there, he would gallop
to the camp at Cambridge. When the American commanders deliberated
upon the seizure and fortification of Dorchester Heights and Bunker
Hill, with a view to strike at the enemy's shipping, or to anticipate
them in a similar movement,--Warren opposed it. Our raw troops, he
thought, were not yet ready to cope with the trained veterans of
England. Putnam, then commander-in-chief at Cambridge, thought
differently. Warren renewed his opposition before the committee of
safety and the council of war: but when these bodies successively
resolved upon the measure, he promptly gave his whole heart to promote
its success; repeating his determination, to be, himself, ever at the
post of greatest danger. On the 16th of June, when Col. Prescott
received his orders, and marched with his thousand men to fortify
Bunker's Hill, the session at Watertown was so protracted, that Warren
could not leave it until late at night. So soon as he could, he
prepared to join Prescott--despite the dissuasion of his friends. To
their assurances, that most of the detachment, and especially
he--daring and conspicuous as he was--would in all probability be cut
off; and that he could not be spared so soon from the cause; he
replied, "I cannot help it: I must share the fate of my countrymen. I
cannot hear the cannon and remain inactive." Among the most intimate
of these friends, was the afterwards distinguished Elbridge Gerry;
with whom he lodged regularly in the same room, and, on that last
night, in the same bed. To him;--when they parted after midnight,
Warren uttered the sentiment--so truly Roman, and in this instance so
prophetic--"_dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori_." By day-break, he
was at the camp in Cambridge; where, finding that the British had not
shewn themselves, and sick with an aching head, from mental and bodily
toil, he lay down, to snatch a little repose. But he was soon roused
by tidings, that the enemy were in motion: and instantly rising, he
exclaimed, "my headache is gone." Others doubted what the object of
the enemy's threatened movement was. He at once saw it to be, the
unfinished fortification upon Bunker Hill. The committee of safety
(which sat in the house where he was) having resolved immediately to
despatch a reinforcement thither, Warren mounted his horse, and with
sword and musket, hastened to the scene of strife. He arrived just as
the fight began, and seeking out General Putnam, (who was already
there) desired to be posted where the service was to be most arduous.
Putnam expressed his sorrow at seeing him, in a place so full of
peril: "but since you have come," added he, "I will obey your orders
with pleasure." Warren replied, that he came as a volunteer--to obey
and fight; not to command. Putnam then requested him to take his stand
in the redoubt, where Prescott commanded, and which was considerably
in advance of the slighter defence, behind which Putnam and his men
were stationed. On his entering the redoubt, he was greeted with loud
huzzas: and Prescott, like Putnam, offered him the command. He again
refused it; saying, that he was a mere volunteer, and should be happy
to learn service from so experienced a soldier. We cannot, thrilling
as they are to our recollections, undertake to narrate the well known
particulars of that great day. But we commend the story, as told by
the authoress before us, to the attention of our readers. Our business
is with General Warren. He was constantly active; going through the
ranks, cheering on his comrades, sharing their perils, and plying his
musket against the advancing enemy. When the British had twice been
driven from the height, with a thousand slain; when the exhaustion of
powder and ball, leaving the Americans no means of resistance but
clubbed guns, against fixed bayonets and fourfold numbers, necessarily
made the third onset successful--Warren was the last to leave his
station. The slowest in that slow and reluctant retreat, he struggled
for every foot of ground; disdaining to quicken his steps, though
bullets whizzed and blood streamed all around him. Major Small, of the
British army, recognized him; and eager to save his life, called upon
him for God's sake to stop, and be protected from destruction. Warren
turned and looked towards him: but sickening at the sight and the
thought of his slaughtered countrymen and of the lost battle, again
moved slowly off as before. Major Small then ordered his men not to
fire at the American General: but it was too late. Just as the order
was given, a ball passed through his head; he fell, and expired.

His body lay on the field all the next night. When one who knew his
person, told General Howe the next morning that Warren was among the
slain, he would not believe it; declaring it _impossible_ that the
President of the Congress should have been suffered to expose himself
so hazardously. An English surgeon, however, who had also known
Warren, identified his corpse; and, to prove the daring of which he
was capable, added, that but five days before, he had ventured alone
into Boston in a small canoe, to learn the plans of the British; and
had urged the surgeon to enter into the American service. General Howe
declared, that the death of one such adversary balanced the loss of
500 of his own men. Warren's body was buried with many others, English
and American, near the spot where he fell; whence, sometime
afterwards, it was removed to the Tremont burying ground, and finally
to the family vault under St. Paul's Church, in Boston. His brothers,
at the first disinterment, knew his remains by an artificial tooth, by
a nail wanting on one of his fingers, and by his clothes, in which he
was buried just as he fell. His youngest brother, Dr. John Warren, at
first sight of the body, fainted away, and lay for many minutes
insensible on the ground. We draw a veil over the grief of his mother,
when, after a torturing suspense of three days, the dreadful truth was
disclosed to her. In General Warren's pocket, an English soldier found
a prayer book, with the owner's name written in it. The soldier
carried it to England, and sold it for a high price to a kind-hearted
clergyman, who benevolently transmitted it to a minister in Roxbury,
with a request that he would restore it to the general's nearest
relation. It was accordingly given to his youngest brother, whose son,
Dr. John C. Warren, still retains it. It was printed in 1559, in a
character remarkably distinct, and is strongly and handsomely bound.

If our due space had not already been exceeded, we would include in
this sketch several other interesting particulars, connected with its
illustrious subject: but we must forbear.

There were ample contemporaneous testimonials to the merits of General
Warren. Amongst others, was a vote of the general Congress, that a
monument should be erected to his memory, "as an acknowledgment of his
virtues and distinguished services;" and that his children should be
supported at the public charge. Like the prayers of Homer's heroes,
this vote was half dispersed in empty air: the other half took effect,
so far as the annual payment of a moderate sum went, towards the
maintenance and education of the children. It is not until she has
mentioned this fact, that our authoress bethinks her of saying, that
General Warren was married to an excellent and amiable woman, who died
three years before him; and that he left four orphan children. So
important an event in human life might surely have been earlier told,
and more regardfully dwelt upon. We would fain have had something said
of _his_ domestic life, who filled so large a space in his country's
eye; something to exemplify what we hold as an everlasting truth--that
a good son and a true patriot is sure to make a true husband and a
good father. Situated as she is, our authoress cannot fail, by
reasonable diligence of inquiry, to learn many things, worthy of the
improved edition which we hope to see, of her interesting and
valuable, though so faulty production.

We, as one of the posterity whose gratitude and admiration General
Warren so richly earned, can read in his destiny more than a
fulfilment of the augury contained in the official account of the
Battle of Bunker Hill, drawn up by the Provincial Congress. It speaks
of him as "a man, whose memory will be endeared to his countrymen, and
to the worthy in every part and age of the world, so long as VALOUR
shall be esteemed among mankind." To VALOUR, we would add the lovelier
and nobler names of COURTESY, GENEROSITY, and INTEGRITY.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO CHRISTIANA.


  Sister, while life and joy are young,
  While the sweet lyre of hope is strung,
  Ere thou hast known a crowd of cares,
  Earth's vain regrets and burning tears--
  Ere the sick heart of grief is thine,
  Or rapture's thrilling pulse decline--
  Ere wounded pride and love shall tell
  That thou hast served the world too well,
  Turn thou to worship at the shrine
  Of faith and holy love divine!
  Bring all thy strength of feeling there;
  Wait not to waste affection where
  No harvest ever can repay
  For all thou losest by delay.
  Seek the bright path the saints have trod;
  At his own altar worship God;
  And find that peace whilst kneeling there
  The world can neither give nor share.
  Mourn thou with hope--with fear rejoice;
  List to that small but awful voice,
  Which tells us all things fade and die
  To bloom no more beneath the sky.
  Earth's brightest dreams soon melt away,
  Her forms of loveliness decay--
  And disappointment's chilling gloom
  Blights all her flowers of fairest bloom;
  But oh, remember, there is bliss
  In a far better land than this:
  Look thou beyond this world of care,
  And hope a fadeless crown to wear.
  Then may distress and sorrow come,
  _Thy_ soul can ever find a home!

E. A. S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE FRIENDS OF MAN.


    The young babe sat on its mother's knee,
    Shaking its coral and bells with glee,
    When Hope drew near with a seraph smile,
    And kiss'd the lips that had spoke no guile,
        Nor breath'd the words of sorrow.
      Its little sister brought a flower,
        And Hope still lingering nigh,
      With sunny tress and sparkling eye,
      Whisper'd of buds in a brighter bower
        It might cull for itself to-morrow.

    The boy came in from the wintry snow,
      And mus'd by the parlor fire,--
    But ere the evening lamps did glow
    A stranger came with a thoughtful brow;
    "What is that in your hand?" she said;
    "My new-year's gift, with its covers red."
    "Bring hither the book, my boy, and see
        The magic spell of Memory;--
    That page hath gold, and a way I'll find
    To lock it safe in your docile mind:
    For books have honey, the sages say,
  That is sweet to the taste, when the hair is grey."

    The youth at midnight sought his bed,
      But ere he closed his eyes
    Two forms drew near with a gentle tread,
      In meek and saintly guise;
    One struck a lyre of wondrous power,
      With thrilling music fraught,
    That chain'd the flying summer hour,
      And charm'd the listener's thought--
    For still would its tuneful cadence be,
        "Follow me! Follow me!
    And every morn a smile shall bring
    As sweet as the merry lay I sing."

      But when she ceas'd, with serious air
        The other made reply,
      "Shall he not also be my care?
      May not I his pleasures share?
        Sister! Sister! tell me why?
    Need Memory e'er with Hope contend?
  Doth not the virtuous soul still find in both a friend?"

        The youth beheld the strife,
          And earnestly replied,
      "Come, each shall be my guide--
        Both gild the path of life:"
    So he gave to each a trusting kiss,
  And laid him down, and his dream was bliss.

      The man came forth to run his race,
        And ever when the morning light
      Rous'd him from the trance of night,
        When singing from her nest
      The lark went up with a dewy breast,
    Hope by his pillow stood with angel grace--
        And as a mother cheers her son,
        She girded his daily harness on.
    And when the star of eve from weary care
        Bade him to his home repair;
  When by the hearth-stone where his joys were born,
        The cricket wound its tiny horn,
        Sober Memory spread her board,
        With knowledge richly stor'd,
  And supp'd with _him_, and like a guardian blest
          His nightly rest.

      The old man sat in his elbow-chair,
        His locks were thin and grey--
      Memory, that faithful friend was there,
        And he in a querulous tone did say,
      "Hast thou not lost with careless key
    Something that I have entrusted to thee?"
        Her pausing answer was sad and low,
        "It may be so! It may be so!
      The lock of my casket is worn and weak,
    And Time with a plunderer's eye doth seek:
      Something I miss, but I cannot say
      What it is he hath stolen away--
    For it seems that tinsel and trifles spread
      Over the alter'd path we tread:
  But the gems thou didst give me when life was new,
    Look! here they are, all told and true,
    Diamonds and rubies of changeless hue."

        Thus, while in grave debate,
      Mournful and ill at ease they sate,
        Finding treasures disarranged,
  Blaming the fickle world, when they themselves were chang'd,
      Hope, on a brilliant wing did soar,
    Which folded neath her robe she long had wore,
    And spread its rainbow plumes with new delight,
  And hazarded its strength in a bold heavenward flight.

        The dying lay on his couch of pain,
      And his soul went forth to the angel train--
    Yet when heaven's gate its golden bars undrew,
        Memory walked that portal through,
      And spread her tablet to the Judge's eye,
  Heightening with clear response the welcome of the sky.
        But at that threshold high,
      Hope faltered with a drooping eye,
        And as the expiring rose
    Doth in its last adieu its sweetest breath disclose,
          Laid down to die.

      As a spent harp its symphony doth roll,
          Faintly her parting sigh
    Greeted a glorious form that stood serenely by:
          "Earth's pilgrim I resign;
  I cheered him to his grave--I lov'd him--he was mine;
        Christ hath redeemed his soul--
          Immortal Joy! 'tis thine."

L. H. S.

_Hartford, Con. Sept. 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THOUGHTS.


  Oh Britain! on thy far, far distant shores,
    Mid scenes of grandeur, scenes with beauty fraught,
  Oft do I wish to stray, when fancy pours
    Her rainbow colors in the urn of thought.

  Each crumbling tower, and each enchanted wood,
    And every haunted glen by Poets sung--
  Each mountain, forest, valley, field, or flood,
    O'er which romance her magic veil has hung;

  Thy "stately homes," the beautiful, the grand--
    Each "breezy lawn," and each embowering tree,
  In Albion clothed by nature's partial hand
    In bloom and verdure--all I seem to see.

  I picture to myself thy regal halls,
    Where pomp and splendor hold an equal sway;
  Thy palaces, within whose time-stained walls
    Kings have been born, have lived, and passed away;

  That ancient pile,[1] where gloom and silence keep
    Their vigils o'er the great and honored dead--
  Where princes proud, and gifted poets sleep,
    Each laid forever in his narrow bed;

  The spots that hallowed in thy history stand,
    The graves of those whose mem'ries cannot die,
  With living gems that still adorn thy land,
    All, all appear to fancy's ardent eye.

  Parent thou art of many a cherished son,
    And many a daughter crowned with wreaths of fame,
  Whose talents high, or virtues rare have won
    An ever glorious, ever honored name.

  A Milton's genius awfully sublime,
    A Shakspeare's wit in nature's garments drest,
  A Scott whose fame can only end with time,
    Sprung from thy soil, and sleep within its breast.

  A Campbell's pure and chastened flow of thought,
    A Hemans' skill poetic flowers to twine,
  A Bulwer's matchless page with interest fraught,
    A Landon's love-tuned lyre, all--all are thine!

  But oh, between my own blest land and thee
    Old Ocean's wide and restless waters spread;
  Thy gifted great I may not hope to see,
    And on thy shores I know I ne'er shall tread.

  Yet the free spirit roves where I would go,
    To other climes, the beautiful and bright,
  Through fields of air, o'er ocean's trackless flow,
    Eager, unchecked and chainless in its flight!

E. A. S.

[Footnote 1: Westminster Abbey.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

KING PEST THE FIRST.

A TALE CONTAINING AN ALLEGORY--BY ----.

  The Gods do bear and well allow in kings
  The things which they abhor in rascal routes.
        _Buckhurst's Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex_.


About twelve o'clock, one sultry night, in the month of August, and
during the chivalrous reign of the third Edward, two seamen belonging
to the crew of the "Free and Easy," a trading schooner plying between
Sluys and the Thames, and then at anchor in that river, were much
astonished to find themselves seated in the tap-room of an ale-house
in the parish of St. Andrews, London--which ale-house bore for sign
the portraiture of a "Jolly Tar."

The room, it is needless to say, although ill-contrived,
smoke-blackened, low-pitched, and in every other respect agreeing with
the general character of such places at the period--was, nevertheless,
in the opinion of the grotesque groups scattered here and there within
it, sufficiently well adapted for its purpose.

Of these groups our two seamen formed, I think, the most interesting,
if not the most conspicuous.

The one who appeared to be the elder, and whom his companion addressed
by the characteristic appellation of "Legs," was also much the most
ill-favored, and, at the same time, much the taller of the two. He
might have measured six feet nine inches, and an habitual stoop in the
shoulders seemed to have been the necessary consequence of an altitude
so enormous.

Superfluities in height were, however, more than accounted for by
deficiencies in other respects. He was exceedingly, wofully, awfully
thin; and might, as his associates asserted, have answered, when
sober, for a pennant at the mast-head, or, when stiff with liquor,
have served for a jib-boom. But these jests, and others of a similar
nature, had evidently produced, at no time, any effect upon the leaden
muscles of the tar. With high cheek-bones, a large hawk-nose,
retreating chin, fallen under-jaw, and huge protruding white eyes, the
expression of his countenance, although tinged with a species of
dogged indifference to matters and things in general, was not the less
utterly solemn and serious beyond all attempts at imitation or
description.

The younger seaman was in all outward appearance, the antipodes of his
companion. His stature could not have exceeded four feet. A pair of
stumpy bow-legs supported his squat, unwieldy figure, while his
unusually short and thick arms, with no ordinary fists at their
extremities, swung off, dangling from his sides like the fins of a
sea-turtle. Small eyes, of no particular color, twinkled far back in
his head. His nose remained buried in the mass of flesh which
enveloped his round, full, and purple face; and his thick upper-lip
rested upon the still thicker one beneath with an air of complacent
self-satisfaction, much heightened by the owner's habit of licking
them at intervals. He evidently regarded his tall ship-mate with a
feeling half-wondrous, half-quizzical; and stared up occasionally in
his face as the red setting sun stares up at the crags of Ben Nevis.

Various and eventful, however, had been the peregrinations of the
worthy couple in and about the different tap-houses of the
neighborhood during the earlier hours of the night. Funds even the
most ample, are not always everlasting: and it was with empty pockets
our friends had ventured upon the present hostelrie.

At the precise period then, when this history properly commences,
Legs, and his fellow Hugh Tarpaulin, sat, each with both elbows
resting upon the large oaken table in the middle of the floor, and
with a hand upon either cheek. They were eyeing, from behind a huge
flagon of unpaid-for "humming-stuff," the portentous words "No Chalk,"
which to their indignation and astonishment were scored over the
door-way by means of that very identical mineral whose presence they
purported to deny. Not that the gift of decyphering written
characters--a gift among the commonalty of that day considered little
less cabalistical than the art of inditing--could, in strict justice,
have been laid to the charge of either disciple of the sea; but there
was, to say the truth, a certain twist in the formation of the
letters--an indescribable lee-lurch about the whole--which foreboded,
in the opinion of both seamen, a long run of dirty weather; and
determined them at once, in the pithy words of Legs himself, to "pump
ship, clew up all sail, and scud before the wind."

Having accordingly drank up what remained of the ale, and looped up
the points of their short doublets, they finally made a bolt for the
street. Although Tarpaulin rolled twice into the fire-place, mistaking
it for the door, yet their escape was at length happily effected--and
half after twelve o'clock found our heroes ripe for mischief, and
running for life down a dark alley in the direction of St. Andrew's
Stair, hotly pursued by the landlord and landlady of the "Jolly Tar."

       *       *       *       *       *

At the epoch of this eventful tale, and periodically, for many years
before and after, all England, but more especially the metropolis,
resounded with the fearful cry of "Pest! Pest! Pest!" The city was in
a great measure depopulated--and in those horrible regions, in the
vicinity of the Thames, where amid the dark, narrow, and filthy lanes
and alleys, the Demon of Disease was supposed to have had his
nativity, awe, terror, and superstition were alone to be found
stalking abroad.

By authority of the king such districts were placed _under ban_, and
all persons forbidden, under pain of death, to intrude upon their
dismal solitude. Yet neither the mandate of the monarch, nor the huge
barriers erected at the entrances of the streets, nor the prospect of
that loathsome death which, with almost absolute certainty,
overwhelmed the wretch whom no peril could deter from the adventure,
prevented the unfurnished and untenanted dwellings from being
stripped, by the hand of nightly rapine, of every article such as
iron, brass, or lead-work, which could in any manner be turned to a
profitable account.

Above all, it was usually found, upon the annual winter opening of the
barriers, that locks, bolts, and secret cellars had proved but slender
protection to those rich stores of wines and liquors which, in
consideration of the risk and trouble of removal, many of the numerous
dealers having shops in the neighborhood had consented to trust,
during the period of exile, to so insufficient a security.

But there were very few of the terror-stricken people who attributed
these doings to the agency of human hands. Pest-Spirits,
Plague-Goblins, and Fever-Demons were the popular imps of mischief;
and tales so blood-chilling were hourly told, that the whole mass of
forbidden buildings was, at length, enveloped in terror as in a
shroud, and the plunderer himself was often scared away by the horrors
his own depredations had created; leaving the entire vast circuit of
prohibited district to gloom, silence, pestilence, and death.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was by one of these terrific barriers already mentioned, and which
indicated the region beyond to be under the Pest-Ban, that, in
scrambling down an alley, Legs and the worthy Hugh Tarpaulin found
their progress suddenly impeded. To return was out of the question,
and no time was to be lost, as their pursuers were close upon their
heels. With thorough-bred seamen to clamber up the roughly fashioned
plank work was a trifle; and, maddened with the twofold excitement of
exercise and liquor, they leaped unhesitatingly down within the
enclosure, and holding on their drunken course with shouts and
yellings, were soon bewildered in its noisome and intricate recesses.

Had they not, indeed, been intoxicated beyond all sense of human
feelings, their reeling footsteps must have been palsied by the
horrors of their situation. The air was damp, cold and misty. The
paving stones loosened from their beds, lay in wild disorder amid the
tall, rank grass, which sprang up hideously around the feet and
ancles. Rubbish of fallen houses choked up the streets. The most fetid
and poisonous smells every where prevailed--and by the occasional aid
of that ghastly and uncertain light which, even at midnight, never
fails to emanate from a vapory and pestilential atmosphere, might be
discerned lying in the bypaths and alleys, or rotting in the
windowless habitations, the carcass of many a nocturnal plunderer
arrested by the hand of the plague in the very perpetration of his
robbery.

But it lay not in the power of images, or sensations, or impediments
like these, to stay the course of men who, naturally brave, and at
that time especially, brimful of courage and of "humming-stuff," would
have reeled, as straight as their condition might have permitted,
undauntedly into the very jaws of the Archangel Death. Onward--still
onward stalked the gigantic Legs, making the desolate solemnity echo
and re-echo with yells like the terrific warwhoop of the Indian: and
onward--still onward rolled the dumpy Tarpaulin, hanging on to the
doublet of his more active companion, and far surpassing the latter's
most strenuous exertions in the way of vocal music by bull-roarings
_in basso_, from the profundity of his Stentorian lungs.

They had now evidently reached the strong hold of the pestilence.
Their way at every step or plunge grew more noisome and more
horrible--the paths more narrow and more intricate. Huge stones and
beams falling momentarily from the decaying roofs above them, gave
evidence, by their sullen and heavy descent, of the vast height of the
surrounding buildings, while actual exertion became necessary to force
a passage through frequent heaps of putrid human corpses.

Suddenly, as the seamen stumbled against the entrance of a gigantic
and ghastly-looking building, a yell more than usually shrill from the
throat of the excited Legs, was replied to from within in a rapid
succession of wild, laughter-like, and fiendish shrieks.

Nothing daunted at sounds which, of such a nature, at such a time, and
in such a place, might have curdled the very blood in hearts less
irrecoverably on fire, the drunken couple burst open the pannels of
the door, and staggered into the midst of things with a volley of
curses. It is not to be supposed however, that the scene which here
presented itself to the eyes of the gallant Legs and worthy Tarpaulin,
produced at first sight any other effect upon their illuminated
faculties than an overwhelming sensation of stupid astonishment.

The room within which they found themselves, proved to be the shop of
an undertaker--but an open trap-door in a corner of the floor near the
entrance, looked down upon a long range of wine-cellars, whose depths
the occasional sounds of bursting bottles proclaimed to be well stored
with their appropriate contents. In the middle of the room stood a
table--in the centre of which again arose a huge tub of what appeared
to be punch. Bottles of various wines and cordials, together with
grotesque jugs, pitchers, and flagons of every shape and quality, were
scattered profusely upon the board. Around it, upon coffin-tressels,
was seated a company of six--this company I will endeavor to delineate
one by one.

Fronting the entrance, and elevated a little above his companions, sat
a personage who appeared to be the president of the table. His stature
was gaunt and tall, and Legs was confounded to behold in him a figure
more emaciated than himself. His face was yellower than the yellowest
saffron--but no feature of his visage, excepting one alone, was
sufficiently marked to merit a particular description. This one
consisted in a forehead so unusually and hideously lofty, as to have
the appearance of a bonnet or crown of flesh superseded upon the
natural head. His mouth was puckered and dimpled into a singular
expression of ghastly affability, and his eyes, as indeed the eyes of
all at table, were glazed over with the fumes of intoxication.

This gentleman was clothed from head to foot in a richly embroidered
black silk-velvet pall wrapped negligently around his form after the
fashion of a Spanish cloak. His head was stuck all full of tall, sable
hearse-plumes, which he nodded to and fro with a jaunty and knowing
air, and, in his right hand, he held a huge human thigh-bone, with
which he appeared to have been just knocking down some member of the
company for a song.

Opposite him, and with her back to the door, was a lady of no whit the
less extraordinary character. Although quite as tall as the person who
has just been described, she had no right to complain of his unnatural
emaciation. She was evidently in the last stage of a dropsy; and her
figure resembled nearly in outline the shapeless proportions of the
huge puncheon of October beer which stood, with the head driven in,
close by her side, in a corner of the chamber. Her face was
exceedingly round, red, and full--and the same peculiarity, or rather
want of peculiarity, attached itself to her countenance, which I
before mentioned in the case of the president--that is to say, only
one feature of her face was sufficiently distinguished to need a
separate characterization: indeed, the acute Tarpaulin immediately
observed that the same remark might have applied to each individual
person of the party; every one of whom seemed to possess a monopoly of
some particular portion of physiognomy. With the lady in question this
portion proved to be the mouth. Commencing at the right ear, it swept
with a terrific chasm to the left--the short pendants which she wore
in either auricle continually bobbing into the aperture. She made,
however, every exertion to keep her jaws closed and look dignified, in
a dress consisting of a newly starched and ironed shroud coming up
close under her chin, with a crimped ruffle of cambric muslin.

At her right hand sat a diminutive young lady whom she appeared to
patronize. This delicate little creature, in the trembling of her
wasted fingers, in the livid hue of her lips, and in the slight hectic
spot which tinged her otherwise leaden complexion, gave evident
indications of a galloping consumption.

An air of extreme _haut ton_, however, pervaded her whole
appearance--she wore in a graceful and _degagé_ manner, a large and
beautiful winding-sheet of the finest India lawn--her hair hung in
ringlets over her neck--a soft smile played about her mouth--but her
nose, extremely long, thin, sinuous, flexible, and pimpled, hung down
far below her under lip, and, in spite of the delicate manner in which
she now and then moved it to one side or the other with her tongue,
gave an expression rather doubtful to her countenance.

Over against her, and upon the left of the dropsical lady, was seated
a little puffy, wheezing, and gouty old man, whose cheeks hung down
upon the shoulders of their owner, like two huge bladders of Oporto
wine. With his arms folded, and with one bandaged leg cocked up
against the table, he seemed to think himself entitled to some
consideration.

He evidently prided himself much upon every inch of his personal
appearance, but took more especial delight in calling attention to his
gaudy colored surcoat. This, to say the truth, must have cost no
little money, and was made to fit him exceedingly well--being
fashioned from one of the curiously embroidered silken covers
appertaining to those glorious escutcheons which, in England and
elsewhere, are customarily hung up in some conspicuous place upon the
dwellings of departed aristocracy.

Next to him, and at the right hand of the president, was a gentleman
in long white hose and cotton drawers. His frame shook in a ludicrous
manner, with a fit of what Tarpaulin called "the horrors." His jaws,
which had been newly shaved, were tightly tied up by a bandage of
muslin; and his arms being fastened in a similar way at the wrists,
prevented him from helping himself too freely to the liquors upon the
table; a precaution rendered necessary, in the opinion of Legs, by the
peculiarly sottish and wine-bibbing cast of his visage. A pair of
prodigious ears, nevertheless, which it was no doubt found impossible
to confine, towered away into the atmosphere of the apartment, and
were occasionally pricked up, or depressed, as the sounds of bursting
bottles increased, or died away, in the cellars underneath.

Fronting him, sixthly and lastly, was situated a singularly
stiff-looking personage, who, being afflicted with paralysis, must, to
speak seriously, have felt very ill at ease in his unaccommodating
habiliments. He was habited, somewhat uniquely, in a new and handsome
mahogany coffin.

The top or head-piece of the coffin pressed upon the scull of the
wearer, and extended over it in the fashion of a hood, giving to the
entire face an air of indescribable interest. Arm-holes had been cut
in the sides, for the sake not more of elegance than of
convenience--but the dress, nevertheless, prevented its proprietor
from sitting as erect as his associates; and as he lay reclining
against his tressel, at an angle of forty-five degrees, a pair of huge
goggle eyes rolled up their awful whites towards the ceiling in
absolute amazement at their own enormity.

Before each of the party lay a portion of a scull which was used as a
drinking cup. Overhead was suspended an enormous human skeleton, by
means of a rope tied round one of the legs and fastened to a ring in
the ceiling. The other limb, confined by no such fetter, stuck off
from the body at right angles, causing the whole loose and rattling
frame to dangle and twirl about in a singular manner, at the caprice
of every occasional puff of wind which found its way into the
apartment. In the cranium of this hideous thing lay a quantity of
ignited and glowing charcoal, which threw a fitful but vivid light
over the entire scene; while coffins, and other wares appertaining to
the shop of an undertaker, were piled high up around the room, and
against the windows, preventing any straggling ray from escaping into
the street.

It has been before hinted that at sight of this extraordinary
assembly, and of their still more extraordinary paraphernalia, our two
seamen did not conduct themselves with that proper degree of decorum
which might have been expected. Legs, having leant himself back
against the wall, near which he happened to be standing, dropped his
lower jaw still lower than usual, and spread open his eyes to their
fullest extent: while Hugh Tarpaulin, stooping down so as to bring his
nose upon a level with the table, and spreading out a palm upon either
knee, burst into a long, loud, and obstreperous roar of very ill-timed
and immoderate laughter.

Without, however, taking offence at behavior so excessively rude, the
tall president smiled very graciously upon the intruders--nodded to
them in a dignified manner with his head of sable plumes--and,
arising, took each by an arm, and led him to a seat which some others
of the company had placed in the meantime for his accommodation. Legs
to all this offered not the slightest resistance, but sat down as he
was directed--while the gallant Hugh removing his coffin-tressel from
its station near the head of the table, to the vicinity of the little
consumptive lady in the winding-sheet, plumped down by her side in
high glee, and, pouring out a scull of red wine, drank it off to their
better acquaintance. But at this presumption the stiff gentleman in
the coffin seemed exceedingly nettled, and serious consequences might
have ensued, had not the president, rapping upon the table with his
truncheon, diverted the attention of all present to the following
speech:

"It becomes our duty upon the present happy occasion"----

"Avast there!"--interrupted Legs looking very serious--"avast there a
bit, I say, and tell us who the devil ye all are, and what business ye
have here rigged off like the foul fiends, and swilling the snug 'blue
ruin' stowed away for the winter by my honest shipmate Will Wimble the
undertaker!"

At this unpardonable piece of ill-breeding, all the original company
half started to their feet, and uttered the same rapid succession of
wild fiendish shrieks which had before caught the attention of the
seamen. The president, however, was the first to recover his
composure, and at length, turning to Legs with great dignity,
recommenced.

"Most willingly will we gratify any reasonable curiosity on the part
of guests so illustrious, unbidden though they be. Know then that in
these dominions I am monarch, and here rule with undivided empire
under the title of 'King Pest the First.'

"This apartment which you no doubt profanely suppose to be the shop of
Will Wimble the undertaker--a man whom we know not, and whose plebeian
appellation has never before this night thwarted our royal ears--this
apartment, I say, is the Dais-Chamber of our Palace, devoted to the
councils of our kingdom, and to other sacred and lofty purposes.

"The noble lady who sits opposite is Queen Pest, and our Serene
Consort. The other exalted personages whom you behold are all of our
family, and wear the insignia of the blood royal under the respective
titles of 'His Grace the Arch Duke Pest-Iferous'--'His Grace the Duke
Pest-Ilential'--'His Grace the Duke Tem-Pest'--and 'Her Serene
Highness the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.'

"As regards"--continued he--"your demand of the business upon which we
sit here in council, we might be pardoned for replying that it
concerns and concerns _alone_ our own private and regal interest, and
is in no manner important to any other than ourself. But in
consideration of those rights to which as guests and strangers you may
feel yourselves entitled, we will furthermore explain that we are here
this night, prepared by deep research and accurate investigation, to
examine, analyze, and thoroughly determine the indefinable spirit--the
incomprehensible qualities and nare of those inestimable treasures of
the palate, the wines, ales, and liqueurs of this goodly Metropolis:
by so doing to advance not more our own designs than the true welfare
of that unearthly sovereign whose reign is over us all--whose
dominions are unlimited--and whose name is 'Death.'"

"Whose name is Davy Jones!"--ejaculated Tarpaulin, helping the lady by
his side to a scull of liqueur, and pouring out a second for himself.

"Profane varlet!"--said the president, now turning his attention to
the worthy Hugh--"profane and execrable wretch!--we have said, that in
consideration of those rights which, even in thy filthy person, we
feel no inclination to violate, we have condescended to make reply to
your rude and unseasonable inquiries. We, nevertheless, for your
unhallowed intrusion upon our councils, believe it our duty to mulct
you and your companion in each a gallon of Black Strap--having drank
which to the prosperity of our kingdom--at a single draught--and upon
your bended knees--you shall be forthwith free either to proceed upon
your way, or remain and be admitted to the privileges of our table
according to your respective and individual pleasures."

"It would be a matter of utter impossibility"--replied Legs, whom the
assumptions and dignity of King Pest the First had evidently inspired
with some feelings of respect, and who arose and studied himself by
the table as he spoke--"it would, please your majesty, be a matter of
utter impossibility to stow away in my hold even one-fourth of that
same liquor which your majesty has just mentioned. To say nothing of
the stuffs placed on board in the forenoon by way of ballast, and not
to mention the various ales and liqueurs shipped this evening at
different sea-ports, I am, at present, full up to the throat of
'humming-stuff' taken in and duly paid for at the sign of the 'Jolly
Tar.' You will, therefore, please your majesty, be so good as take the
will for the deed--for by no manner of means either can I or will I
swallow another drop--least of all a drop of that villainous
bilge-water that answers to the hail of 'Black Strap.'"

"Belay that!"--interrupted Tarpaulin, astonished not more at the
length of his companion's speech than at the nature of his
refusal--"Belay that you lubber!--and I say, Legs, none of your
palaver! _My_ hull is still light, although I confess you yourself
seem to be a little top-heavy; and as for the matter of your share of
the cargo, why rather than raise a squall I would find stowage-room
for it myself, but"----

"This proceeding"--interposed the president--"is by no means in
accordance with the terms of the mulct or sentence which is in its
nature Median, and not to be altered or recalled. The conditions we
have imposed must be fulfilled to the letter, and that without a
moment's hesitation--in failure of which fulfilment we decree that you
do here be tied neck and heels together, and duly drowned as rebels in
yon hogshead of October beer!"

"A sentence!--a sentence!--a righteous and just sentence!--a glorious
decree!--a most worthy and upright, and holy condemnation!"--shouted
the Pest Family altogether. The king elevated his forehead into
innumerable wrinkles--the gouty little old man puffed like a pair of
bellows--the lady of the winding sheet waved her nose to and fro--the
gentleman in the cotton drawers pricked up his ears--she of the shroud
gasped like a dying fish--and he of the coffin looked stiff and rolled
up his eyes.

"Ugh!--ugh!--ugh!"--chuckled Tarpaulin without heeding the general
excitation--"ugh!--ugh!--ugh!--ugh!--ugh!--ugh!--ugh!--ugh!--ugh!" "I
was saying," said he,--"I was saying when Mr. King Pest poked in his
marling-spike, that as for the matter of two or three gallons more or
less Black Strap, it was a trifle to a tight sea-boat like myself not
overstowed--but when it comes to drinking the health of the
Devil--whom God assoilzie--and going down upon my marrow bones to his
ill-favored majesty there, whom I know, as well as I know myself to be
a sinner, to be nobody in the whole world but Tim Hurlygurly, the
organ-grinder--why! its quite another guess sort of a thing, and
utterly and altogether past my comprehension."

He was not allowed to finish this speech in tranquillity. At the name
of Tim Hurlygurly the whole Junto leaped from their seats.

"Treason!"--shouted his Serenity King Pest the First.

"Treason!"--said the little man with the gout.

"Treason!"--screamed the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.

"Treason!"--muttered the gentleman with his jaws tied up.

"Treason!"--growled he of the coffin.

"Treason! treason!"--shrieked her majesty of the mouth; and, seizing
by the hinder part of his breeches the unfortunate Tarpaulin, who had
just commenced pouring out for himself a scull of liqueur, she lifted
him high up into the air, and dropped him without ceremony into the
huge open puncheon of his beloved ale. Bobbing up and down, for a few
seconds, like an apple in a bowl of toddy, he, at length, finally
disappeared amid the whirlpool of foam which, in the already
effervescent liquor, his struggles easily succeeded in creating.

Not tamely however did the tall seaman behold the discomfiture of his
companion. Jostling King Pest through the open trap, the valiant Legs
slammed the door down upon him with an oath, and strode towards the
centre of the room. Here tearing down the huge skeleton which swung
over the table, he laid it about him with so much energy and good
will, that, as the last glimpses of light died away within the
apartment, he succeeded in knocking out the brains of the little
gentleman with the gout. Rushing then with all his force against the
fatal hogshead full of October ale and Hugh Tarpaulin, he rolled it
over and over in an instant. Out burst a deluge of liquor so
fierce--so impetuous--so overwhelming--that the room was flooded from
wall to wall--the loaded table was overturned--the tressels were
thrown upon their backs--the tub of punch into the fire place--and the
ladies into hysterics. Jugs, pitchers, and carboys mingled
promiscuously in the _melée_, and wicker flagons encountered
desperately with bottles of junk. Piles of death-furniture floundered
about. Sculls floated _en masse_--hearse-plumes nodded to
escutcheons--the man with the horrors was drowned upon the spot--the
little stiff gentleman sailed off in his coffin--and the victorious
Legs, seizing by the waist the fat lady in the shroud, scudded out
into the street followed under easy sail, by the redoubted Hugh
Tarpaulin, who, having sneezed three or four times, panted and puffed
after him with the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EARLY ADVENTURES.

  Dissolve frigus--lignum super focus large reponens.--_Horace_.


Towards the end of a raw and blustering day in October, I was
comfortably seated in my easy chair before a blazing fire, which
diffused a cheerful light and a genial warmth through the apartment.
My feet, cased in morocco slippers, rested on a footstool, whilst I
carelessly sipped a glass of Madeira, supplied from a decanter which
reared its rosy form on a table hard by. To an eye-witness I must have
seemed the picture of comfort and happiness. On turning to help myself
to another glass of the nectar-like fluid that glistened so temptingly
by the ruddy light, my eye caught the gold edge of a note which lay on
the table, half concealed by a book, and which, upon perusal, I
discovered to contain a polite invitation from a wealthy and
fashionable acquaintance to spend the next evening at her house. The
emphatic N. B. "_Mrs. M. would be glad to see her friends in fancy
dresses,_" soon brought to my experienced mind the nature of the
_fête_ to which I had the honor of an invitation. I arose to consult
my prints and books to discover the most appropriate costume wherein
to conceal my noble self. But not being able to suit exactly my
somewhat fastidious taste, I resolved to consult the accomplished,
beautiful, talented, and "last but not least," the wealthy Miss ----,
who performed on the piano like another Handel, and tripped it on the
light fantastic toe, with almost as much ease and grace as the fairy
Taglioni. I had long looked on Miss ---- with affection--or perhaps
love: and I had the vanity to suppose my feelings were reciprocated.
But of the latter surmise I could only judge by "circumstantial
evidence"--for the Cerberus-like vigilance of the matron under whose
protection she lived, (and who had married my father's brother,)
prevented me from forming any correct judgment of the extent of her
affection for me--or if she possessed any, from taking advantage of
it. The old lady (my aunt) who had found the yoke of Hymen not so
easily borne, and who knew by experience the hazard that was to be
encountered in forming matrimonial connexions, zealously opposed the
various attempts I made to win the heart of the mistress of my
adoration. Seeing all my designs frustrated, and my schemes overthrown
by the superior knowledge and oversight of my feminine antagonist, I
resolved, like a prudent general, to "beat a retreat," while it was in
my power to effect one without loss of force or reputation.
Nevertheless, I deemed it not imprudent to make one vigorous effort to
obtain the five thousand dollars a year, along with the person of Miss
----, before I retired from the contest. Fraught with this intention,
I resolved to visit Miss ---- immediately, to consult her about
_something_ beside the _fancy dress_. Having exchanged the gown in
which I had been so luxuriously enveloped, for a dress coat, cut by
the inimitable hands of Nugee, and attired the rest of my person in
the most approved style, I sallied forth to the residence of my
charmer.

The wind had gradually subsided during the last half hour, until it
had nearly died away. The fresh air, with the exercise of walking,
produced that racy and dancing stir of the blood, which all action,
whether evil or noble in its nature, raises in our veins. The full
moon now rose in all the splendor of its matchless beauty, and bathed
in silvery light the gorgeous piles of snow-white clouds that calmly
reposed on the surface of the dark blue sky. The walk was too pleasant
to be of long duration, and before it seemed a moment had elapsed, I
found myself on the marble steps of the house to which I had been
directing my course. At my aristocratic pull of the door-bell, a
servant immediately made his appearance, and to my inquiry if Mrs.
D---- was at home, he answered in the negative. "Did Miss ----
accompany her, or did she remain?" said I in a hesitating tone of
voice. "_She_ is within," said the servant, and he forthwith ushered
me in. In a few moments Miss ---- entered the room, looking as fresh
and beautiful as Aurora "when first she leaves her rosy bed." It is
useless to trespass upon the patience of the reader by giving a prolix
account of a scene he has read of in every novel, romance, or tale,
that has been written since the time of Clovis. Be it sufficient to
say, that with "accents sweet" I poured forth the impassioned tale of
my love--and with all that eloquence which love (and the hope of the
five thousand per annum only) could have inspired. My suit was
accepted; and to escape the vigilance of my aunt, it was agreed that
she should attend the fancy ball the next evening, habited in the
costume of a "Novice," at which place I should meet her as Young
Norval. Soon as the clock should toll the hour of twelve we should
leave the "festive scene," while all would be too busy to notice our
departure. Immediately we were to repair to the residence of my aunt,
when, after changing our dresses for some more suitable, we should
hasten to a country seat about twenty miles distant, possessed by a
near relative of mine, where we should be united in the holy band of
matrimony.

This arrangement being made, with a heart buoyant with hope, and an
elastic tread, I soon regained my apartment. And

  "Now the latter watch of wasting night
   And setting stars to sweet repose invite;"

but the high excitement under which I had been, banished

  "Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep,"

from my pillow.

       *       *       *       *       *

Conformably to the plan arranged between Miss ---- and myself, I drove
to Mrs. M ----'s at the usual hour, and halted some distance from the
house, in the rear of about a hundred carriages. The rooms were
already full when I entered--and after being announced in character
and introduced to the lady of the house, I mingled with the motley
crowd.

For the first hour the scene was grotesque in the extreme. The guests
paraded the rooms with all the gravity of well-bred persons of the
sixteenth century, looking stiff and very uncomfortable in their
ill-adjusted habiliments. At the announcement of supper the prospect
for pleasure brightened, and the guests felt themselves more at home.
The gaudy figures moving about in the full blaze of the numberless
chandeliers, produced a brilliant effect; and the various characters
mingling together, made a splendid show of the burlesque. Here a "Red
Man" from the "Far West," with his beautifully variegated moccasins,
and a glass of "golden Sherry" in his hand, was descanting on the
beauties of the latest tie with a superb "Spanish Cavalier," who
haughtily fingered his jet black moustache, and sipped his Sherbet.
Next him stood a "Knight of Malta," with his magnificent stars and
diamonds, in close converse with a "Peasant Girl." The "Arch Bishop"
set the whole table in a roar by his jokes; and "His Holiness" the
Pope, giggled with "Anne Boleyn" over an ice-cream. The Jew was
detected with ham-sandwich; while "King Lear" forgot the ingratitude
of his daughters over champagne.

I finding the assignated time approaching, detached myself from the
brilliant crowd around the supper table, and took a seat on a sofa in
the next _room_. I had not been seated many minutes before I perceived
"The Novice" approaching, and at that instant a clock near me tolled
the midnight hour. I dashed up to the object of my search, and
observing it was now time to go, she immediately took my arm, and we
marched out. At the door I handed her into a carriage, and ordered the
coachman to drive as rapidly as possible to ---- street. In a few
moments we arrived at the house, and seeing her rather slow, I
requested her to unveil, as we had no time to lose. Slowly she raised
her hand, and removing the dark veil from her face, disclosed the
features of--_my aunt_. Overwhelmed with rage and disappointment I
rushed from the house, and meeting one of the servants, learned that
Miss ---- had suddenly heard of the death of a relative to whom she
was much attached, and had been unable to attend the ball. It appears
she had written to me, but the note, by some unpardonable negligence
of the domestic to whom it was entrusted, had never been delivered.
Learning these particulars I hurried down the street, and seeing a
stage-coach standing before a hotel door, I leaped into it, and drove
off. The motion of the carriage produced a dull, heavy sensation on my
frame, and at length I fell asleep. I was aroused from my slumber by
the sounds of laughter, and soon discovered that it arose from my
fellow-passengers, who were diverting themselves at the oddity of my
appearance and dress. Some took me for a madman. But one old gentlemen
in pepper and salt dress, and with a red nose, assured the company
that I was some theatrical character who had eloped from his
creditors. Never was he of the "Grampian Hills" worse treated. At
length I arrived at an inn, where I procured a suit of clothes, and
resolved either to commit suicide, or drown my cares in a bottle of
_Champagne_.

J. C.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SHADOW. A FABLE--BY ----.


Ye who read are still among the living, but I who write shall have
long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange
things shall happen, and many secret things be known, and many
centuries shall pass away ere these memorials be seen of men. And when
seen there will be some to disbelieve, and some to doubt, and yet a
few who will find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven
with a stylus of iron.

The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense than
terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies
and signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the
black wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those,
nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the
Heavens wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among
others it was evident, that now had arrived the alternation of that
seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at the entrance of Aries,
the planet Jupiter is conjoined with the red ring of the terrible
Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies, if I mistake not, greatly
made itself manifest, not only in the physical orb of the earth, but
in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of mankind.

Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble
hall, in a dim city by the melancholy sea, we sat, at night, a company
of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty
door of brass: and the door was fashioned by the artizan Corinnos, and
being of rare workmanship was fastened from within. Black draperies,
likewise, in the gloomy room shut out from our view the moon, the
lurid stars, and the peopleless streets--but the boding and the memory
of Evil, they would not be so excluded. There were things around us
and about of which I can render no distinct account--things material
and spiritual. Heaviness in the atmosphere--a sense of
suffocation--anxiety--and above all, that terrible state of existence
which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly living and
awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant. A dead weight
hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs--upon the household
furniture--upon the goblets from which we drank; and all things were
depressed, and borne down thereby--all things save only the flames of
the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel. Uprearing themselves
in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained burning all pallid
and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon the
round table of ebony at which we sat, each of us there assembled
beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet glare in the
downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our
proper way--which was hysterical; and sang the songs of
Anacreon--which are madness; and drank deeply--although the purple
wine reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our
chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead, and at full length he
lay, enshrouded--the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore
no portion in our mirth, save that his countenance distorted with the
plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half extinguished the fire
of the pestilence, seemed to take such interest in our merriment as
the dead may take in the merriment of those who are to die. But
although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me,
still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their
expression, and, gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony
mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of
Teios. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes rolling
afar off among the sable draperies of the chamber became weak, and
indistinguishable, and so fainted away. And lo! from among those sable
draperies where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a
dark and undefined shadow--a shadow such as the moon when low in
Heaven might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow
neither of man, nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering
awhile among the draperies of the room, it at length rested in full
view upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague,
and formless, and indefinitive, and was the shadow neither of man nor
God--neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldæa, nor any Egyptian God.
And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of
the entablature of the door, and moved not, nor spoke any word, but
there became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the
shadow rested was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the
young Zoilus enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having
seen the shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared not
steadily behold it, but cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into
the depths of the mirror of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking
some low words, demanded of the shadow its dwelling and its
appellation. And the shadow answered, "I am SHADOW, and my dwelling is
near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of
Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian canal." And then did we,
the seven, start from our seats in horror, and stand trembling, and
shuddering, and aghast: for the tones in the voice of the shadow were
not the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and,
varying in their cadences from syllable to syllable, fell duskily upon
our ears in the well remembered and familiar accents of a thousand
departed friends.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CURSE OF THE "BETRAYED ONE."

A FRAGMENT--BY HUGH BLAIR.


  They moved her couch, that the whispering breath
    Of evening might come with its balmy sigh,
  And fan her brow, e'er the film of death
    Spread over her dark and beautiful eye.

  But she heeded not the whispering wind,
    For her burning thoughts afar were roaming;
  Madness had seized on her wretched mind,
    And her high brow throb'd, and her lips were foaming!

  And the beautiful curls of her sable hair
    Streamed wildly over her fevered pillow--
  And her bosom heaved in its whiteness there,
    As the breeze heaves up the snowy billow--

  And her teeth with convulsive grasp were set,
    And her eye burned bright as a beam of day--
  She twined her hand in her locks of jet,
    And tore their glittering curls away!

  And she screamed with a wild, convulsive shriek,
    Then uttered a low protracted groan--
  As ye've heard the wind thro' your lattice break,
    And die away with a hollow moan.

  But at length, through the evening's gathering gloom,
    Her voice came forth from the riven chords
  Of her broken heart, as from a tomb!
    And she utter'd these wild and fearful words:

    "I've loved thee, man, with an ardent love;
  I've sworn it by each orb above--
  By the glorious Sun when he sank to rest,
  And lit with his beams the glowing west--
  By the pallid Moon, when her silver beam
  Danced gladly o'er yon murmuring stream,
  Upon whose verdant banks with you
  I've stood that holy orb to view--
  And by every lamp which the dusk of even
  Hung out in the glittering arch of heaven.
  I cannot _now_ deny the flame
  Which has wasted thus my wretched frame--
  For I've told it thee by many a word
    Which came from the core of my bleeding heart,
  As you touched each thrilling, aching chord,
    By that hellish power, thy fiendish art.
  I've told it thee by many a sigh,
  By many a tear in my weary eye,
  By many a sob, and many a groan,
  Which burst from the lips of thy '_lovely one_'--
  And I've told it thee by the burning streak
  Which so often lit my fevered cheek,
  As you played with each glittering curl of jet
  That waved on the neck of '_Thy Martinette!_'
  Come hither thou fiend and gaze upon me;
    Behold the wreck of thy hellish power--
  Come hither, I have a _blessing_ for thee,
    Which thou shalt hear in my dying hour.

    "That maiden, she of the lovely face,
  Who holds in thy heart _my_ wretched place,
  Shall become thy bride, and her first born son
  Be a monster, hideous to gaze upon!
  And the sight of the thing shall drive her mad!
    And while she's screaming in accents wild,
  She shall call upon thee in tones most sad,
    Thyself to murder her hideous child!
  Oh, she shall shriek in her wild despair,
  And her phrensied eye, with a fearful glare,
  Full on thy faithless face shall gleam--
    And with lips of foam and teeth close set,
  Her voice full in thy ear shall scream,
    'Remember the curse of _thy Martinette!_'
  And with fingers of blood she shall rend her cheek--
    And those lips which now in their freshness part,
  Shall utter as wild and terrific a shriek
    As ever yet burst from my broken heart;
  And her every shriek and her every groan
  Shall wither thy heart, thou faithless one!
  And thus she shall die, ere reason's dawn
  The veil from her wildered soul hath drawn.
  But her blasted babe, that hideous thing,
  Shall live--and its frightful presence shall bring
  Galling thoughts, which shall have the power
  To blast thy every peaceful hour!
  By its blasted form thou shalt never forget
  The dying curse of _thy Martinette!_"

  She spoke, and sunk back on her dying bed,
    And the blood gushed forth from her lips of foam!
  They raised her again--but the spirit had fled
    Away, away to its secret home!




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MRS. B. G. S.


      When Summer sheds her soft perfume
          The bowers among--
      When all the earth is rich in bloom,
          The sky in song--
  When evening's golden clouds like shadows flee,
  Turn for an instant then your thoughts on me.

      When Winter in her frozen zone
          Robs earth of green--
      When only Friendship can atone
          For what has been--
  When round the hearth your other friends you see,
  It is the hour I love--think then of me.

      In days of bliss when hope is nigh,
          And life is dear,
      Your heart with joy elate beats high,
          And friends are near--
  Forget not there is one will ever be
  Glad of thy gladness; cast a thought on me.

      And when the darksome days
          Of age or ill
      The bright and cheering rays
          Of hope shall chill,
  Think there is one whose love can never be
  Changed with Time's changes--oh remember me.

E. A. S.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SEA BIRD'S REVEL.

BY GILES McQUIGGIN.


  Look out upon the ocean wave--
    Look from the lonely shore;
  See how the mountain billows rave,
    Hark how the waters roar!

  Darkly hangs the tempest cloud,
    From windward to the lee;
  The thunder mutters hoarse and loud
    Above the foaming sea.

  'Tis nature in her revel hour--
    She sweeps a stormy wing;
  Old Ocean trembles at her power,
    As wild his surges fling.

  The sea bird rides upon her wrath,
    Rocks on the tempest's ire--
  Surveys the lurid lightning's path,
    And shouts amid its fire.

  The proud bird breasts the storm alone,
    Mounts through its misty height--
  The summit is his lofty throne,
    The thunder his delight.

  While gazing on the horrors round,
    His burning eye-balls glare;
  King of the storm, with lightnings crown'd,
    He fears no terrors there.

  When he for very gladness shrieks,
    It deafens ocean's roar--
  O'er nature in her wildest freaks
    The proud storm king may soar.

  Ride on aerial charioteer,
    The tempest hails thy form;
  Thou lov'st a sky forever clear,
    Go seek it through the storm.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

I MET THEE BY MOONLIGHT ALONE.

BY M. S. LOVETT.

  _Air_--"Oh! meet me by moonlight alone."


  I met thee by moonlight alone,
    The blue sky was cloudless above;
  And dew-gems around us were thrown,
    To gladden our meeting of love.

  I met thee by moonlight alone,
    My heart trusting wholly to thee:
  Was it prudent? Alas! I will own
    That I asked not, for _thou_ wast with me.

  How buoyant my heart, and how sweet
    The zephyrs that waved through my hair!
  Low murmured the stream at my feet,
    Its tale to the summer-night air.

  But ah! did the sky cease to smile?
    The Moon--were her silver rays gone?
  Did _each_ beauty but tarry the while
    We met--love, by moonlight alone?

  Oh no, for the sky is still bright,
    The dew-drops still nightly have shone:
  On _me_ fell the darkness and blight:
    I met thee by moonlight alone!

  And the pale Moon while wand'ring above,
    Oft hears its sad votaries own,
  That too often the Altar of Love
    Is lighted by moonlight alone.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER TWENTY-FIRST.

Places of Protestant Worship in Paris--History of Mr. Lewis Way an
English Divine.


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane_:

Here is an interesting narrative to amuse you, which I have just heard
related. In the _Champs Elysées_, there stands a beautiful protestant
chapel, where we attend divine service almost every Sabbath; if we do
not go there, we repair to the oratorio, a protestant church in the
Rue St. Honoré, or to the English Ambassador's, where there is public
worship every Sunday, or to another temple consecrated to our form of
worship, (the Church of the Visitation,) in the Rue Saint Antoine.
Bishop Luscombe officiates at the oratorio, and Mr. Wilkes, a
Presbyterian clergyman, assembles his congregation in an upper
apartment adjoining the church. The history in question is that of the
Rev. Mr. Lewis Way, who owns the chapel in the Champs Elysées and
preaches there; he is extremely eloquent and energetic, and speaks
plain truths to his flock without hesitation, when necessary. It is
said that when a youth he had an ardent desire to be educated for the
church, but his parents being extremely poor, and not having any
relatives to assist him, he became a student of law at the temple, and
was one morning proceeding to his labors, when he observed his own
name inscribed on the door plate of a handsome dwelling. He
immediately ascended the steps and requested to speak with the master
of the house, and on his appearance, after apologizing for the liberty
he was taking, told his story, represented his forlorn situation, and
begged to be informed if there was any relationship between them. On
comparing notes he found there was _not_ and was taking leave, but the
gentleman, who was an odd old bachelor, insisted on his prolonging his
visit, and in the interim, sent a trusty servant to inquire his
character of the lawyer under whom he studied, and who happened to be
the one whom he (Mr. Way, _Senior_,) usually employed. The lawyer's
answer was highly creditable to his pupil, and from that moment the
old gentleman adopted him, enabled him to take orders, and dying soon
afterwards, bequeathed him a fortune of 300,000 pounds sterling. The
sudden accession of such wealth affected his brain, and he was crazy
for several years. Now, _I_ think he must have been so, when he
introduced himself so strangely to his benefactor; but be that as it
may, on regaining his senses, he resolved to make Paris his future
home, and to devote his time to the protestants in that city. He
accordingly came over here, purchased the hotel Marboeuf his present
abode, and converted a portion of it into the tasteful little chapel,
where he addresses and edifies a numerous congregation on all holy
days. The seats of the chapel are covered with cerulean velvet, the
windows ornamented with paintings, and there is a good organ, upon
which one of his daughters (for he has married and has several
children,) always performs. A shady and pleasant garden adds to the
beauty and comfort of the place. And thus ends my story, for the truth
of which remember I do not vouch. But as I have had it told to me,--so
I have detailed it unto thee; and with this flourishing rhyme
conclude.

Yours,

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER TWENTY-SECOND.

Excursion to Lagrange--Count de Tracy and Madame La Fayette--Theatre
of Monsieur Compte--Chinese Baths.


PARIS, ----.

I thank you beloved sister! for your affectionate letter of the ----
instant, and shall not delay answering it, for I am impatient to
inform you of our recent agreeable excursion to Lagrange. On Friday,
we availed ourselves of the kind General's invitation, and rising very
early, commenced our journey to his castle. We partook of coffee,
eggs, and bread and butter, at a village some leagues hence, and
having rested the horses, went on so rapidly as to reach Lagrange in
time for dinner; met with a cordial reception from all the family, and
were introduced to several distinguished guests. Among these, were the
venerable Count de Tracy and the celebrated Monsieur Constant. The
former is the father of Madame G. Lafayette, and a charming old
gentleman he is. The latter, the intimate friend of Madame de Stael
and the leader of the liberal party in the Chamber of Deputies, I have
described to you in a previous letter. Madame George Lafayette is the
presiding hostess of Lagrange, and has uncommonly affable and
affectionate manners; indeed the whole family (as I have already
remarked) are extremely amiable, and so charitable, that many poor
persons in their neighborhood are supported by their bounty. Madame
Lafayette Senior, you know, died of a malady contracted by her, in the
damp and noxious dungeon of Olmutz, while she shared her husband's
captivity. Her memory is deservedly venerated by him, and I am told
that he cannot speak of her, without shedding tears of sorrow and
gratitude, at the recollection of her sufferings and self-sacrifice
for his sake. He shewed us a miniature of their jailor, which was
taken by his eldest daughter, Madame de Maubourg, during their
imprisonment, in the following singular manner. She drew it first on
her thumb nail with a _pin_, not being allowed a pencil or paper;
however, having found means to obtain a piece of crayon and a blank
leaf from a book, she copied the head sketched on her nail, and as the
resemblance was striking, her father has since had it painted in oil
colors, by an artist, who has enlarged the design; by portraying the
old Cerberus with a huge bunch of keys, and in the act of unlocking
the prison door. It is quite an interesting little picture.

I will now describe the farm, for we examined all parts of it. Order
and neatness reign throughout the domain, and the General himself sees
that nothing is neglected. He has a numerous flock of merino sheep,
well guarded by a shepherd and two faithful dogs. Their sagacity and
vigilance are remarkable; if one of the flock separated itself from
the others only a few feet, these dogs would observe it in an instant,
and hasten to drive back the wanderer to its place, which they always
did with evident tenderness. The horses, cows and swine were in a
thriving condition, looking contented, fat and sleek. The poultry yard
contains foreign as well as domestic fowls; they are accommodated
according to their habits, and form an amusing spectacle. The
regulations of the kitchen, the dairy, the ice-house, stables and
pig-styes, are admirable, and you may tell Albert that I advise him to
come over and take a lesson in such useful arrangements, though I will
answer for it, _you_ entertain so exalted an opinion of his knowledge
on all subjects, that you deem more acquirements or improvements
unnecessary. "Mais revenons au Chateau." It is a stone building
enclosing three sides of a square court. There are five towers, one at
each corner, and the fifth in the centre of the left side of the
castle, as you enter through a large arch which leads into the square
court; it is surrounded by a thickly spreading ivy, which was planted
by our great statesman, Charles James Fox, more than twenty years ago,
while on a visit to Lagrange. You approach the arch by a bridge,
thrown over a moat, bounding two sides of the castle, and terminating
in a small lake. Here may sometimes be seen floating an American boat,
that in 1824 beat an English one, in a race on the water at New York,
and was afterwards presented to the good General. He is adored by the
Americans and quite devoted to them and their interests. His drawing
room is decorated with the portraits of their Presidents, and in an
adjoining room may be seen in golden frames, their declaration of
independence and the farewell address of Washington; also, the colors
of the "Brandywine," the ship they sent out with him when he returned
from an excursion to their country four years ago. These colors were
presented to him by the officers of that vessel, and the midshipmen
gave him as a testimony of their respect, a handsome silver urn, with
an appropriate inscription. The library and a cabinet of curiosities,
are likewise supplied with American productions. In the first, are
beautiful engravings of various parts of the United States, some
American works and the cane of Washington; and in the second, divers
odd articles of Indian manufacture. On Saturday we took leave of La
Grange and its inmates; their kindness and attention to us, and the
pleasure we derived from our visit to them, we can never forget; they
will be associated with our most agreeable reminiscences of France.
Last night we went to the theatre of Monsieur Compte, where all the
performers are children; the little creatures acted remarkably well
and with great spirit, and we were highly diverted. Monsieur Compte is
considered the best ventriloquist in Europe. Edgar and Sigismund have
been taking lessons in swimming; there are several excellent schools
here for teaching the art, and one for _ladies_; and Marcella, Leonora
and myself had serious thoughts of entering as pupils, but finally
concluded we had enough of _water works_ at the delightful "Chinese
Baths," on Wednesdays and Saturdays, our regular bathing days, when we
usually rise extremely early, so as to accomplish our purpose, and get
back in time for breakfast. The "Chinese Baths" are so called, because
the building containing them, is in the Chinese style; in front is a
parterre of flowers, and beyond this masses of artificial rocks, with
a couple of Chinese figures among them; the whole arrangement is
singular and picturesque. The H----'s have returned to town for a few
weeks, and we are engaged to pass this evening with them. I do not
covet going however, for their parties are said to be very stiff.

With our usual affectionate greetings to aunt Margaret, Albert, and
yourself, I conclude.

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER TWENTY-THIRD.

A sociable evening at the ex-Minister's of the Marine--Museum of
Artillery--Bay Market--Corn Market--St. Germain l'Auxerrois.


PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane_:

Our stay here is drawing to a close and consequently during the last
ten days, we have been so occupied in shopping, visiting and
_sight-seeing_, that I have found it impossible to write; but here is
a rainy day and I take advantage of it to resume our correspondence.
We called yesterday to take leave of Monsieur and Madame de N----, and
they looked happier, I assure you, in their own residence in the
Faubourg du Roule, than they did when inhabiting the sumptuous edifice
of the "Admiralty," on the place "_Louis Quinze_." I suppose you have
learnt from the newspapers that Monsieur de N---- thought it prudent
to resign his office, and has been succeeded by Monsieur ----.

We found him and Madame de N---- surrounded by friends, who had
accidentally dropped in as well as ourselves, and the evening being
sultry, the company were regaled with delicious _sorbets_ and iced
creams. _Ecarté_ was soon introduced among the elder gentry, and
several of Mr. de Neuville's young nieces being there, our brothers
and two other youthful beaux, the girls and myself joined them in
playing "Tierce" and Blindman's-buff in the saloon. We enjoyed
ourselves thus, till quite a late hour. One of the most curious and
interesting places that has recently attracted our attention, is the
"Museum of Artillery," in the street of the University. It is the
depôt of a great variety of antique armor, ordnance and implements of
war, and among the first we beheld the coat of mail of many a famous
champion and that of Joan of Arc, which we thought uncommonly large to
fit a woman. Every article is kept beautifully neat and bright, and a
number of the things are labelled, which saves the trouble of a guide
to explain their names and use. Another most singular place we have
seen is the "_Marché du Vieux Linge_," or "rag fair." This is an
enormous building divided into four halls, containing 800 stalls or
petty shops. And oh! the queer articles that are in these
shops!--tawdry second hand hats and dresses--old shoes, old gloves,
old ribbons, old trunks, old carpets, bedding, chairs, and other
furniture. These castaways are vamped up for sale, and wo betide the
unfortunate wight whose path lies through or near the market; he is
sure to be assailed and deafened with loud importunities from every
quarter, to "come and buy," and may think himself lucky if he be not
seized and absolutely forced into some of the stalls, to behold their
wonders. _We_ went out of mere curiosity and were glad to hurry out as
quickly as our feet could carry us, the people were so rude and
presuming. The "Halle au Blé," or "corn market," well merits
examination. It is a large circular edifice of stone, enclosing one
immense hall with a vaulted roof of sheet iron supported on an immense
framing of cast iron; from a window in the centre of which the light
descends. The bags of corn are heaped in enormous masses at regular
distances, and through the myriad of narrow passages formed by these
you thread your way. To-day we visited the venerable church of St.
Germain l'Auxerrois, the bell of which tolled the signal for the
Catholics to commence their direful murders on the eve of St.
Bartholomew, in 1572. It was once rich in pictures and statues; at
present, it is remarkable only for its antiquity and the curious
carving around its portal. Its founder was the cruel and superstitious
Childebert, and two statues of stone, near the entrance, are said to
represent him and his wife. On the _fête de_ Dieu, the royal family
walk there in procession from the palace of the Tuilleries, to hear
mass. They are magnificently arrayed and attended by a concourse of
priests and soldiers, and by a band of females clad in white, who
strew roses in their path. From St. Germain, we hastened to the palace
of the fine arts on the quay Conti. For an account of it, you must
wait till my next letter reaches you; this, you perceive, is almost
full, so while I have room, I had better insert the name of your
attached

LEONTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

LETTER TWENTY-FOURTH.

Packers--The Muette de Portici--The Whale--Place Louis
Quinze--Manufacture of Chocolate--Iced Creams--Champs de
Mars--Racing--Palace of the Fine Arts and Royal Academy or Institute.


PARIS, ----.

"What! again at your pen Leontine?" inquires Marcella, "assuredly you
are a most indefatigable scribe or an exceedingly devoted sister!"
"Leave out the _or_," I answer, "for I am _both_." You, dearest Jane,
can bear witness to the truth of my assertion, and I hope it will ever
be my pride to merit the second appellation. Indeed it would be
shameful if I did not endeavor to deserve it, as you continually set
me the example. This will be my last letter from Paris, for the
signals of our departure are resounding through the saloon, from the
hammers of the packers there busily engaged. Here, for five francs,
you may have your fine dresses and hats, &c. &c. safely and neatly
arranged for travelling, by men who thus gain their living, and it is
surprising with what adroitness and fitness they adjust each article,
depositing more in _one_ box or trunk than we could in _two_, and
fixing every thing so securely that it cannot get injured, no matter
how violent the motion of the carriage may be. On Wednesday, we shall
set out for the borders of the Rhine. Papa has determined to proceed
to Strasbourg and thence descend the river as far as Nimueguen, where
we shall abandon the steamboat for the stage and commence our tour
through Holland. How I shall regret to part with the Danvilles! Poor
Edgar, it will cost him a severe pang to bid farewell to Marcella,
though I verily believe she has refused him, judging from certain
indescribable, but very _expressive_ symptoms in their recent
behaviour towards each other. Alas! we shall probably never see her
again. Mr. Danville has promised to rejoin us at Morven Lodge, about
the period of your marriage. Papa without assigning the reason of his
request has urged him to be with us there by the 10th of April, but I
have been so loquacious as to explain all to Leonora, and we have
decided on acting as bride's maids, which you must own is extremely
kind. Pray don't scold me in your next, for tattling, and don't tell
Albert of my volubility; you know, he always insists that the stale
and foolish saying, "a woman cannot keep a secret," is correct, and he
would be sure to crow over my frailty. This evening we are going to
see the opera of the "_Muette de Portici_," in which there is a
representation of Mount Vesuvius in a state of eruption, and the
imitation is considered excellent and wonderful. Our party will be
large, but I suspect not gay, for the reflection, that in two days we
shall be far separated, will doubtless cast a gloom over the mind of
each. As for me, I cannot bear to dwell upon the subject in thought or
word, so will hasten to another. Who should drop in upon us yesterday
evening, while we were at tea, but Ernestus Blanford, and he rendered
himself doubly welcome by delivering your despatches. Thank you for my
share of them and for the beautiful embroidered reticule. Mamma is
much pleased with her's. Really, you are cunningly skilled in
producing, _Love in a Mist_, _Heart's Ease and Bachelor's Buttons_;
may you be as successful in creating the first and second in the
hymeneal state; for the third, there will then be no demand. Our
father and brothers desire their acknowledgments for the watch guards
you wove them, and Sigismund bids me say, that if the chains with
which you have encircled Albert are as soft and silken as those just
received, he is no longer amazed at his tame submission to thraldom.
We took a farewell drive through the city this morning, and visited
the whale now exhibiting on the place "Louis Quinze," in a neat
edifice erected for its reception; and what do you think of their
having converted the poor dead monster into a reading room. It is a
fact, that the interior of the carcass is decorated and furnished for
that purpose, and is the resort of the newsmonger as well as the
curious! It was on the place "Louis Quinze," (from the centre of
which, the view of palaces, avenues, colonnades and bridges, is
superb) that the royal martyrs and thousands of other victims of the
reign of terror, met their fate, at the foot of a statue of Liberty,
erected during that bloody period on the ruins of an equestrian statue
of Louis XV. This was overthrown by the remorseless revolutionists,
although it was universally regarded as an exquisite piece of
sculpture, (especially the horse) and was the chéf d'oeuvre of
Bouchardon. Issuing like Jonah from the whale, but probably with less
_velocity_, we went to the Bazaar to purchase some rolls of sweet
chocolate, which we are advised to carry with us, as being agreeable
and wholesome to eat early in the morning, when travelling a long
distance to breakfast. While the woman who sold it was tying up the
package, we questioned her about the conflagration of the old Bazaar,
that happened several years ago, and among other things she told us
that two Anacondas, confined in a room of the building, perished in
the flames, and during their torments shrieked like human creatures.
It is quite amusing to remark the variety of forms into which
chocolate is cast here. Tiny boots and shoes, pots and kettles, bugs
and nuts, little men and little women, and numerous other objects are
represented by the ingenious manufacturer of that luxury. As for the
bugs with their wire legs, and the divers sorts of nuts, you can
distinguish them from real ones, only by the touch or taste. While on
the subject of eatables, let me mention the peculiar manner in which
iced creams are served at balls and parties. Each kind is moulded into
the shape of the fruit with which it is flavored, and frequently a
peach or apple dexterously tinged with red, to render the semblance of
nature more complete. The plates containing them are usually in the
form of a golden grape leaf; the stem turned up constitutes a handle,
and golden spoons accord with the burnished leaf. When an
entertainment is given, it is only necessary for the master or
mistress to send a mandate for the requisite number of ices, to
Tortoni, Hardi, or any other adept in the _freezing_ art, and at the
appointed hour they arrive, disposed in the tasteful order just
described.

We have lately witnessed a race on the "Field of Mars," the spot
appropriated to such sports and to military parades. It is a vast
plain, in front of the military school, and is capable of admitting
the evolutions of 10,000 soldiers within its boundaries. These consist
of rows of trees and a verdant bank, or a wide wall of turfed earth,
which affords a safe and convenient station for the spectators of the
scene below. The race road is immediately beneath the bank, and
separated from the area of the plain by stone pillars connected with
iron chains--beyond these the carriages and horsemen are ranged. We
observed several ladies dashing about on horseback at a fearless rate,
and among them the pretty Mrs. W. the Yankee wife of a rich banker. On
one side there was a pavillion wherein we procured seats, and the
royal family occupied another near it, which had been prepared for
them. The little duke of Bordeaux and his youthful sister, were in
extacies whenever the horses ran by. The chief contention was between
a courser of Monsieur Casimir Perier and one belonging to Lord
Seymour. The French steed gained the victory much to the delight of
the populace. But some Englishmen surmised that if Purdy had been
there, matters would have ended differently. I asked Mr. Danville who
they meant by Purdy, and he informed me that he is a countryman of
ours, who once distinguished himself in America, (at the city of New
York, I think he said,) by mounting a famous horse, _ycleped Eclipse_,
and wresting the palm from Henry, a celebrated racer of the South. At
present I must fulfil my promise of describing to you the "palace of
the arts," anciently termed the college of the four nations, because
it was designed by its founder Cardinal Mazarin, for the reception of
pupils from among the four nations subdued by Louis the great. It is a
handsome structure, extending for many yards along the borders of the
Seine. Its designation has been changed and it is now used by the
"Royal Academy or Institute," for their private meetings and general
assemblies. This corps of Savans was established in the reign of
Louis, and is composed of the élite of the philosophers, artists and
literary men of the kingdom. They correspond with the literati of all
countries, and have done much in the cause of literature and the arts
and sciences. They have ranged themselves into four classes; the first
is devoted to the improvement of natural philosophy, chemistry and
mathematics, and is denominated the "Academy of Sciences;" the second
makes the language and literature of France its care, and is called
the "French Academy;" the third applies itself to history and ancient
learning, and bears the title of the "Academy of Inscriptions and
Belles Lettres," and the fourth, the "Academy of the Fine Arts," is
employed on music, painting, sculpture and architecture. The classes
meet separately once a week, and hold each general annual association,
in the months of March, April, July and October; at which times prizes
are awarded by the Academy of the Fine Arts, to such as deserve them;
who are afterwards permitted to repair to Rome and remain there some
years to improve themselves in their vocations, the government paying
their expenses. The hall in which the general meetings are held, was
formerly a chapel; beneath it Cardinal Mazarin lies buried. The
members wear a costume of black and green, and the successful
candidates are sometimes crowned with wreaths of laurel. The hall and
several apartments leading to it, are decorated with statues of
various distinguished characters,--as Bossuet, Fenelon, Sully, Pascal,
Descartes, Rollin, Molière, and others, whose names are venerated by
the learned and good. The post hour has arrived, so farewell to my
"bonny Jean"--we shall soon be still farther from you, but any where
and every where I shall still be your devoted sister

LEONTINE.




The following specimen of a translation of Homer's Iliad, by the late
William Munford, is now ushered before the public for the first time.
We have been permitted to make this extract from the work, and will
continue to present our readers with other specimens in our succeeding
numbers. It is needless to say to our Virginia readers who the author
was, for he was known to the state at large, not only as one of the
best of men, but as a most laborious public servant, and as a scholar
of deep research and profound learning. His fame as a poet depends
upon the reception which this translation may meet with. Of the work,
the author himself has expressed the hope, that "the _lovers_ of HOMER
will not be unwilling to behold their favorite author arrayed in such
various suits of apparel, as may be furnished by artists of different
tastes. Pope has equipped him in the fashionable style of a modern
fine gentleman;--Cowper displays him (like his own Ulysses) 'in rags
unseemly,' or in the uncouth garb of a savage. Surely, then, there is
room for an effort to introduce him to the acquaintance of my
countrymen, in the simple, yet graceful and venerable costume of his
own heroic times. The design, at least, will be admitted to be good,
however imperfect the execution."


  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SCENE BETWEEN HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

BOOK VI.


    This said, the chief of heroes, Hector, thence
  Departing, soon his splendid palace reach'd
  And courts commodious:--but he found not there
  His white-arm'd princess, fair Andromache;--
  For, with her child and maid of graceful garb,
  She stood in Ilion's tower, moaning sad,
  Weeping and sighing.--Finding not within
  His blameless wife, he on his threshold stood,
  And of his servants, thus inquiry made.
  Be quick, and tell me truly; whither went
  My lovely consort, fair Andromache?--
  To any of my sisters, did she go;--
  Or brother's wives;--or to Minerva's fane,
  Where other Trojan dames with flowing hair,
  The dreadful Goddess by their prayers appease?
  His household's faithful governess replied;--
  Oh Hector, (since thou bidst me tell thee true,)
  To none of all thy sisters did she go,
  Or brother's wives;--nor to Minerva's fane,
  Where other Trojan dames with flowing hair,
  The dreadful Goddess by their prayers appease:--
  But she is gone to Ilion's lofty tower,
  Urg'd by the direful news, that in the field
  The Trojans suffer much, and Greeks prevail.
  Alarm'd and seeming frantic, to the wall
  She hurried, and the nurse her infant bore.
  So spake the prudent dame.--Impetuous, thence
  Great Hector rush'd, retracing (through the streets
  With beauteous buildings grac'd,) his former way.
  But, through the spacious city, when he reach'd
  The Scoean portals, whence into the field
  He meant to hasten, there his faithful wife
  Andromache, to meet her Hector ran;--
  His wife with wealthy dowry, daughter fair
  Of fam'd Eëtion,--chief magnanimous,
  Who dwelt, in Hypoplacus' sylvan land,
  At Hypoplacian Thebes,--Cilicia's king;--
  His daughter wedded Hector great in arms,
  And now to meet him sprang:--with her the nurse,
  Who, in her bosom, bore the tender babe,
  Their only son, and joy of Hector's heart,--
  Who, bright in youthful beauty, like a star
  Resplendent shone.--Scamandrius was the name
  That Hector gave him;--others call'd the boy
  Astyanax, in honor of his sire,
  Sole guard and bulwark of the suff'ring town.
  He smil'd in silence, gazing on his son!--
  But sad Andromache beside him stood,
  With anxious fondness shedding tender tears:
  She, sorrowing, clasp'd his hand, and thus she spake:
  Ah, rashly brave! thy courage will thyself
  Destroy:--nor dost thou pity this thy son
  In helpless infancy, and me thy wife,
  Unhappy, doom'd a widow soon to be;
  For soon the Greeks will slay thee,--all combined
  Assailing:--but for me, of thee bereft,
  Better it were to sink beneath the ground;--
  For no relief or solace will be mine
  When thou art dead; but unremitting grief.--
  No more have I a father;--now no more
  My honor'd mother lives.--Achilles slew
  My father, and laid waste Cilician Thebes,
  His town, well-peopled, grac'd with lofty gates.
  He slew Eëtion;--yet, with rev'rence touch'd,
  Despoil'd him not, but burn'd the breathless corse
  With all it's splendid armor, and, above
  It's ashes, heap'd a monument of earth.
  The mountain nymphs, of Ægis-bearing Jove
  Immortal daughters, planted round the tomb
  A grove of elms, in honor of the dead.--
  My brethren, too,--seven gallant heroes,--all
  In one sad day, to Pluto's dark abode
  Went down together; for the swift and strong
  Achilles slew them all, among their herds
  And fleecy flocks.--My mother, who had reigned
  The queen of Hypoplacus' sylvan land,
  Was hither brought, with other spoils of war,
  And, for a ransom infinite, releas'd;--
  But, home return'd, within her father's halls,
  Diana's arrow pierc'd her mournful heart.--
  Yet, Hector, thou alone, art all to me;--
  Father, and honor'd mother, brother too;--
  My husband dear, and partner of my youth.
  Oh then, have pity now, and here remain
  Upon this tower; lest thy hapless son
  An orphan, and thy wife a widow be.--
  The people, station at the fig-tree, where
  The town is most accessible, and wall
  May be ascended:--there, a fierce assault,
  The bravest of our foes have thrice essayed;--
  The two Ajaces, fam'd Idomeneus,
  Th' Atridæ also, and the mighty son
  Of Tydeus;--whether by some soothsay'r mov'd
  In heavenly tokens skill'd, or their own minds
  Impelling them with animating hope.
  To her the mighty Hector made reply:--
  All thou hast said, employs my thoughtful mind.
  But, from the Trojans, much I dread reproach,
  And Trojan dames whose garments sweep the ground,
  If, like a coward, I should shun the war:--
  Nor does my soul to such disgrace incline;
  Since, to be always bravest, I have learn'd,
  And with the first of Troy to lead the fight;--
  Asserting so, my father's lofty claim
  To glory, and my own renown in arms:--
  For well I know, in heart and mind convinc'd,
  A day will come, when sacred Troy must fall,
  And Priam, and the people of renown'd
  Spear-practis'd Priam!--Yet, for this to me
  Not such concern arises;--not the woes
  Of all the Trojans;--not my mother's griefs;--
  Not royal Priam's, nor my brethren's death,
  Many and brave, (who, slain by cruel foes,
  Will be laid low in dust,)--so wring my heart,
  As thy distress, when some one of the Greeks
  In brazen armor clad, will drive thee hence,
  Thy days of freedom gone, a weeping slave!--
  Perhaps, at Argos, thou may'st ply the loom
  For some proud mistress, or may'st water bring
  From Messa's or Hyperia's fountain;--sad,
  And much reluctant, stooping to the weight
  Of hard necessity; and some one, then,
  Seeing thee weep, will say--"behold the wife
  Of Hector, who was first in martial might
  Of all the warlike Trojans, when they fought
  Around the walls of Ilion!"--So will speak
  Some heedless passer by, and grief renew'd
  Excite in thee, for such an husband lost,
  Whose arm could slavery's evil day avert.
  But me, may then an heap of earth conceal
  Within the silent tomb, before I hear
  Thy shrieks of terror and captivity.
  This said, illustrious Hector stretched his arms
  To take his child; but, to the nurse's breast
  The babe clung crying, hiding in her robe
  His little face;--affrighted to behold
  His father's awful aspect;--fearing too,
  The brazen helm, and crest with horse-hair crown'd,
  Which, nodding dreadful from its lofty cone,
  Alarm'd him!--Sweetly, then, the father smil'd,
  And sweetly smil'd the mother!--Soon the chief
  Remov'd the threat'ning helmet from his head,
  And plac'd it on the ground, all-beaming bright.
  Then, having fondly kiss'd his son belov'd,
  And toss'd him playfully, he thus, to Jove
  And all th' immortals, pray'd:--Oh grant me, Jove,
  And other powers divine, that this my son
  May be, (as I am,) of the Trojan race
  In glory chief!--So let him be renown'd
  For warlike prowess, and commanding sway,
  With power and wisdom join'd; of Ilion king!
  And may his people say, "This chief excels
  His father, greatly;" when, from fields of fame
  Triumphant he returns, bearing aloft
  The bloody spoils, (some hostile hero slain,)
  And his fond mother's heart expands with joy.
  He said, and plac'd his child within the arms
  Of his beloved spouse:--she him receiv'd,
  And softly on her fragrant bosom laid,
  Smiling with tearful eyes.--To pity mov'd,
  Her husband saw:--with kind consoling hand
  He wip'd the tears away, and thus he spake.
  My dearest love! grieve not thy mind for me
  Excessively!--no man can send me hence
  To Pluto's hall, before th' appointed time;--
  And surely, none, of all the human race,
  (Base, or e'en brave,) has ever shunn'd his fate;
  His fate fore-doom'd when first he saw the light.
  But now, (returning home,) thy works attend,
  The loom and distaff, and command thy maids
  To household duties;--while the war shall be
  Of _men_ the care;--of all indeed,--but most
  The care of _me_, of all in Ilion born.
  So saying, Hector glorious chieftain took
  His crested helm again.--His wife belov'd
  Homeward return'd; but often turned her head,
  With retrospective eye, and tears profuse.
  At length she reach'd the palace of her lord,--
  The stately palace with commodious rooms,
  Of Hector terror of his foes, and found
  Her numerous maids within; among them all,
  Exciting sorrow!--They, with doleful cries,
  Hector (tho' living still) as dead, bewailed,
  In his own house;--expecting never more
  To see the chief, returning from the war,
  Escap'd the strength and valor of the Greeks.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE DOOR-LATCH.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A MARRIED MAN.


"Go back and shut that door!" roared I in a voice of thunder.

"How can you, my dear," said Julia, with a supplicating glance, "speak
so _very_ loud, when I have just told you that my head is bursting
with pain."

"Because," said I, "I can bear it no longer. It is now ten years since
we moved into this room, and ten times every day have I been compelled
to get up and shut that door after one and another. I have talked--and
talked--but it is all of no use: the door still stands wide open, and
I cannot bear it--No! and I _wont_ bear it any longer--I'll sell the
house sooner than endure it another week."

Her tiny white hand was pressed against her throbbing forehead, as I
finished the sentence with a glance at her of undissembled sternness,
and the mild look of patient suffering and imploring submission with
which she returned my angry frown--it cut me to the heart! I could
read my own death warrant at this very hour with less of pain than I
felt at that moment, as she raised her blue eyes glistening with
suppressed tears, and with all the innocence and affection of an
expiring saint, begged me in the silent eloquence of nature to spare
her whom I had promised to "cherish and to love."

"I have never seen you troubled," said she, (uncomplaining spirit!
there was no emphasis--no! not the _least_, on the word _troubled_!)
"I have never seen you troubled at any thing except that door--and
gladly would I remedy it, but you know that I cannot. Were a very
little filed from the inside of the catch it would shut without
difficulty--I should never think of it," added she after a pause, "on
my own account, but it causes you so much vexation."

It was true as she had said, that I had felt more anger in consequence
of that unfortunate door than all the other untoward events which I
had experienced from the time of my marriage. A _heavy_ loss--a _sore_
disappointment--a _great_ calamity, I could endure with composure. The
trial required philosophy for its support, and the exercise of
philosophy was a gratification to pride. But a door-latch! What
occasion could that give for philosophy? None, and therefore I let it
gall me _to the quick_!!! It was, as I observed, so easy to shut it,
with a little care--such a _little_ thing, if only attended to.
"True!" whispered Philosophy in my ear, "but such a 'little thing' to
get angry about! such a 'little thing' to make you miserable for an
hour every day! for shame, Mr. Plowman!" To tell the truth I did begin
to feel a little ashamed when I recollected how much unhappiness it
had caused not only myself--but _through_ me my dearer wife.

"I declare, my dear!" said I, "that if that door-latch had only been
filed ten years ago, it would have saved each of us one year of pain
before this time!"

Thomas had brought in a file before my speech was finished, and in a
few moments the door shut as easily and firmly as ever door did. I
swung it a few times on the hinges with an air of triumph, and I
verily believe that the work of that single moment conferred more
happiness on Julia as well as myself, than all his blood-bought
triumphs ever yielded to the conqueror.

"The root of bitterness," said I, "is removed at last, and I can only
wonder at my own stupidity in not thinking of the simple remedy
before--but Heaven forgive me! I had entirely forgotten your headache:
the sound of that file must have been _torture_ to you!"

She smiled sweetly as she leaned her head on my shoulder,
declaring--although her forehead burnt my hand, and the blood was
_raging_ through her veins, that it was "quite cured, _since the door
shut so easily_!!" Uncomplaining, devoted, self-sacrificing treasure
of my heart! How could I do less than clasp her to my bosom and swear
to cherish her with tenfold care, and pray--while I kissed away the
tear from her eye--that my own cruel thoughtlessness might never fill
its place with another.

Such pleasure was too rare and valuable to be interrupted at the
moment of its birth--so I look my arm chair from the corner, and
sitting down at the side of Julia, who, while she held my hand, looked
me in the face with very much of that expression of innocent delight,
which so rarely survives childhood. I pursued my cogitations somewhat
in the following order. "Life is made up of moments. Our happiness or
unhappiness during any one of these moments depends almost invariably
upon the merest _trifles_. If these momentary trifles are in the scale
of happiness, life is happy. Take care then of trifles, and _great_
events will take care of themselves. (Somewhere about here I began to
think _aloud_!) I lost a grandfather--an amiable, excellent, and most
affectionate grandfather--and my grief was _great_. Nevertheless, I do
believe that if the _hard bottomed_ chair, [N. B. It was of white
oak.] in which I have sat for the last eight--yes! nine years--if this
chair had but been well covered with a good, soft sheepskin--that
sheepskin--purchased at the cost of ninepence,--would have saved me
from a greater grief than the death of my grandfather!"

"It is a mortifying reflection," said Julia, interrupting my
soliloquy, "and one which at first thought would seem to speak little
for your heart--yet a true one perhaps; and not more true with you
than with many others."

"And still," said I, "I am without the sheepskin. Why? Because the
pain endured in a single moment is so trifling that if we do not take
the trouble to add all the moments together and look at the pain _in
the aggregate_, one would hardly turn his hand upside down to be freed
from it."

"But why not purchase the sheepskin, now that you _have_ added the
moments together?" said she.

"After all my reflection I should never have thought of that but for
you. But a sheepskin! It will never do! A green velvet cushion may
answer instead; and as the old one in your rocking chair seems to be
somewhat worn I must even buy another for you."

"Oh! _green_ velvet by all means!" said she. "It will correspond so
well with the carpet and the new hearth rug which you promised me a
month since. That was to have _green_ for its border, you know."

I could not withstand the hint, and brought in the rug with the
cushions that evening--and, to one who has ever _seen_ my wife, I need
not say that the smile that lit up her face and beamed from her eye
was worth the price of a thousand.

G.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DESART GRIEF.

BY LUCY T. JOHNSON.


  There are no dews in desart lands--
    No showers refresh their skies;
  But oft the winds sweep o'er their sands,
    And breathe their voiceless sighs
  Thro' depths profound, where naught hath been
  To glad the ever wearied scene.

  So weeps the soul in ripened years,
    Mid life's turmoil and grief;
  When the last fount of balmy tears
    Hath lent its last relief,--
  And when the lips oft pour their sighs
  O'er blighted hopes and broken ties.

  O! in this world so full of tears,
    There is not one for me--
  The fountain of my early years,
    Of heavenly drops so free,
  Hath ceased to pour its natal tide
  When cares oppress, or ills abide.

  Where is the balm to Israel blest,
    That Gilead gave of yore?
  Can it not sooth the heart to rest
    As it hath done before?
  Methinks I hear a voice doth say--
  Pray thou, in fervent meekness pray.

  Tis done--that prayer was not in vain;
    Its incense reached to heaven;
  And sweet's the joy that springs again
    In chaste emotion given.
  Flow on, flow on, ye balmy tears,
  As ye have flow'd in other years.

  So falls the dew on desart sands,
    And showers refresh their skies,
  When from the founts of distant lands
    Some grateful mist may rise,
  And pour its fresh'ning breath at last
  On all the melancholy waste.

_Elfin Moor, Va. September 1835_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONG OF THE PIRATE'S WIFE,

ON HER PASSAGE FROM CORUNNA TO NEW YORK.

Air--"Meeting of the Waters."

"The wife of the Spanish Pirate, Bernardo de Soto, hearing in Corunna,
in Spain, of the trial and condemnation of her husband in Boston,
immediately freighted a small schooner, and leaving her three
children, sailed for Boston. She visited Washington to intercede for
her husband, returned to New York, and hastened to Boston to afford
him the solace of her presence."


  Adieu to the shores of my dear native clime,
  The land of the olive and pale-tinted lime!
  Your bright orange tree, and your clustering vine,
  No pleasure can yield to this sad soul of mine.

  I go from the land of my dear cottage-home--
  My babes, they are there--from my babes I must roam;
  A mother's fond heart, it hath bid them adieu,
  And fatherless children left motherless too.

  That cheek, from my own I have torn it away,
  Unlock'd the dear arms that would force me to stay;
  All eloquent, vainly, the big tears did flow,
  The heart of the wife bade the mother to go.

  Blow breezes! blow breezes! fill kindly the sail--
  My panting heart leaps at the voice of the gale;
  Swift onward! swift onward! his doom may be seal'd,
  Unheard my petition, my love unreveal'd.

  They're gone, the bright shores of my dear native clime,
  The land of the olive and pale-tinted lime--
  All tearless, bright shores, I can see you depart,
  For stronger than death is the love of my heart.

  The stain of his hands, though the crimson of blood,
  That may not be blanch'd with the deep ocean-flood--
  The sin of his soul against mercy and truth
  Cannot wean from the pirate the wife of his youth.

  For mercy! for mercy!--to offer my plea,
  Nor ocean nor land can have terrors for me;
  From country and home I can heedlessly part--
  The cell of the pirate is home to my heart.

  There's pardon! there's pardon! and long shall his life,
  Unsullied by crime, be the bliss of his wife--
  And blessed, thenceforward, most blessed shall be
  The home of Senora, beneath the lime tree.

ELIZA.

_Maine_.




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ANOTHER VISIT TO THE VIRGINIA SPRINGS

OR THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY HUMBUG, ESQ.

_A new version of an old story_.

  Too much rest is rust,
    There's ever cheer in changing;
  We tyne by too much trust,
    So we'll be up and ranging.
                           _Old Song_.


In order to recommend myself and the article, which, to use the
fashionable phraseology, is now being prepared for the Messenger, to
the favorable consideration of its readers, I beg leave to premise
that I am a gentleman of good education and respectable talents--that
I am in circumstances of ease and leisure, and what is a still
stronger recommendation at the present alarming crisis, I am both from
conviction and expediency, a decided anti-abolitionist. You must know,
Mr. Editor, that besides having been afflicted all my life with that
rabid propensity, which in classical dialect is called _cacoethes
scribendi_, I have been troubled with another inconvenient and rather
expensive malady, which I shall call the _cacoethes perigrinantis_, by
which I mean, that about the time of the dog-days I am generally beset
by an unconquerable desire for locomotion, an irresistible propensity
to change my place of abode and all its multiform incidents and
relations, and to launch forth as it were into a new creation--to look
abroad upon Nature and Nature's works, and to contemplate my
fellow-worms in some of their new antics and attitudes.

Accordingly, during the late summer, attracted by the fame of the
Virginia Springs and the salubrious region in which they lie, I
deposited my frame (none of the smallest) in one of those republican
vehicles called a mail coach, a true and happy invention by the way,
for bringing discordant spirits into close communion with one
another--an admirable machine for levelling all artificial
distinctions--a kind of itinerant temple where Patrician and Plebeian,
both masculine and feminine, where mountebank and statesman, puritan
and profligate, and all the moods and genders of character may nestle
together and worship at the same altar of democracy. But for certain
drawbacks and inconveniences which will readily suggest themselves to
the reader--such as the dangers of dislocation and fracture, and
sundry annoyances too tedious to mention--a man of observation like
myself would find it as agreeable to spend his summers in a stage
coach as any where else. It is a kind of moral Kaleidescope, where at
every turn some new combination or some curious variety in human
character is presented to the eye. It above all imparts a refreshing
hilarity to the spirits, which are too apt to stagnate when chained
down to one solitary spot on the earth's surface. But this is a
digression. Having deposited myself in the vehicle as before
mentioned, I shall not entertain the reader as is the custom with some
of the more learned fraternity of tourists, by long and elaborate
details of the several points of arrival and departure--by curious and
profound dissertations upon the philosophy of a coach wheel revolving
upon its axis--nor by beautiful and extatic bursts about the blue
skies and verdant meadows and lofty forests. Suffice it to say, that I
found myself on the evening of an August day, on the summit of the
Warm Spring Mountain which overlooks the first thermal fountain in the
Pilgrim's path to Hygeia. Here I commence my adventures. This is the
starting point of my story, and it is henceforth of course that I
shall expect my gentle reader to sharpen his attentive faculty--and as
Mark Anthony said to his countrymen at Cæsar's funeral, "lend me his
ears." Gently and by slow degrees had we surmounted the ascent of this
celebrated mountain, (celebrated at least in the Old Dominion and by
all travellers to the Springs,) and now we were about to pass down
into the valley of the warm waters. Kind reader, if your steps have
never led you thither, I must inform you that the descent on the
western side is most exceedingly and _unaccommodatingly_ abrupt. The
pilot, however, _alias_ driver, who in this instance at least
entertained some regard for his living freight, used the precaution of
_locking_, to speak technically, or rather of _shoeing_ one of his
hinder wheels--but no sooner had the yet untired steeds commenced
their downward course, (the coach with its ton weight at least of
flesh and bone rapidly following,) than spang went the lock chain
asunder! and away flew the mettlesome animals as fast as their heels
would carry them. _Now_, we plunged onward as if driving through the
mountain forest,--then, suddenly turning, rolled at some distance on
the margin of a frightful precipice, each moment expecting to be
dashed headlong down its angry side. Here gliding as swiftly as an
arrow over a tolerably smooth surface, and there jolting and rattling
over some rocky gutter, which communicated its jarring vibration to
each sensitive nerve--and then what confusion and consternation
within! There was my unlucky self, for example, tossed to and fro, in
a manner which reminded me of poor Sancho in the memorable blanket
scene. First thrown in one direction, I found one of my elbows
actually goring the side of a stout nullifier from the Palmetto
State--then hurled to the opposite point of the compass by another
pitch of the coach, I found myself in the act of suffocating a little
New Yorker, whom I took to be an abolitionist. Next, by another cross
movement, I detected myself almost in the lap of a fat middle aged
lady, who weighed at least thirty pounds more than myself, and
presently I came almost in contact with the lips of a rosy cheeked
damsel of seventeen, who was about to make her _debut_ at the White
Sulphur. And then what a crowding and jostling of knees, and what a
thumping and bruising of shins! The ladies screamed--the nullifier
roared and threatened, and the little Manhattaner protested that in
case of any serious accident to the party, the coroner's inquest would
be murder in the first degree against both the driver and proprietor.
As for me, I confess that my thoughts were multitudinous and not very
delightful. First I thought of Capt. John Gilpin, and wished most
heartily that I might come off as well as that renowned officer of the
London militia--then I thought of that silly old fellow Phoebus, who
from paternal weakness alone committed the reins of his golden chariot
to a foolish boy, and lastly I was harrowed in imagination at the
terrible idea of Ixion revolving forever on his infernal wheel.
Neither did I forget that classical sentence which flashed across my
memory, and which I fear is too true in more senses than that in which
the poet used it--

  _Facilis descensus Averni_, &c.

Fortunately, however, the genius of terror passed over us without
exacting any of the usual sacrifices of broken bones and dislocated
limbs, and in a short time our Palinurus (who to do him the justice
performed his part handsomely) landed us in front of the spacious
portico of the Warm Spring Hotel.

Every person in the world (I mean that portion of the world which goes
to the Virginia Springs,) who knows any thing of the great hotel at
which we stopped--knows that it is kept by Col. Fry--one of the most
polite, accommodating and facetious landlords that ever lived from the
time of "Mine Host of the Garter" down to the present day. He will not
only give you the best which his ample house affords, but he is always
ready to say a good thing with a good grace, in order, I suppose, to
put his guests in the most comfortable humor imaginable. The visitors
to the Springs however never remain long at the Colonel's Caravansera
at the commencement of the season. Those who come from the north and
east generally give "mine host" a passing salutation attended by a
stout promise to devour his substance as they return from their merry
circuit. He on the other hand is not backward in hastening their
return somewhat after the following manner. "After being well charged,
gentlemen, with Calwell's sulphur--well _salted_ by Erskine and
Caruthers--your pulsations equalized--and your expectations realized
by Burke--your palates feasted and _sweetened_ at the bubbling
fountain of friend Rogers--and your carcases _boiled_ and sweated by
Dr. Goode--you may then safely return and be _fried_ under my special
direction." All this terrible process it seems I was destined to
undergo, and accordingly I gave my valedictory blessing to the
Colonel, who take him for all in all is "a fellow of infinite jest and
most excellent humor." Being again reconciled to my mail coach,
notwithstanding recent alarms, I soon found myself alighted in the
spacious lawn of the far-famed _White Sulphur Springs_. All who visit
the mineral region are bound by a law more absolute than that of
gravitation to wend to this favorite spot. It is the great magnet
which alike attracts the way worn valetudinarian and the votary of
fashion. Imagination depicts it as the very elysium of hope and the
paradise of enjoyment! It is the _Almacks_ of watering places, where
all the dignitaries of the land--the learned and unlearned--the young,
the gay and the beautiful, submit to humiliation and sacrifice, in
order to gain admission. The multitudes who thronged the porches of
the pool of Bethseda, looked not with more anxiety for the coming of
the angel who troubled the waters, than do the hundreds who crowd
around King Calwell's throne, await the approving smile (the
_Introito_) of his principal Secretary of State. Woe be unto the
luckless wight who is found at a crisis of pressure, in a public
conveyance,--who does not bring along with him a flaming equipage and
attendants; he is laid on the shelf, or to use the customary phrase,
is _turned off_ with the same _sang froid_ with which a Netherlander
smokes his pipe, or a Westerner shoots his rifle. To me, however, the
stars were propitious, and when the little Grand Vizier tipt me the
nod of assent, I followed the guide to my dormitory with as light a
heart and elastic a step as if I had been appointed an ambassador with
full powers. What became of my stage companions I did not stop to
inquire. I was indeed so much elated with my own good fortune that for
once I forgot my usual benevolence, and it was not until the next
morning that I learned that a due proportion of them were sentenced to
perform quarantine in the neighborhood. Here then, said I to myself,
have I at last reached the goal of my desires! This is the spot where
so many thousands are sighing to come without being gratified--where
so many love sick city nymphs and whiskered beaux are panting to try
their luck in the wheel of life's lottery. What a lucky dog am I to
have gained admittance into this region of delight!

I continued to soliloquize in this rapturous strain, until Blackamore
(it was night fall on my arrival) conducted me to my chamber,--where,
being somewhat fatigued, I proposed to retire at an early hour and to
rise with the morning sun, renovated and refreshed for all the
countless enjoyments of the next day. The serene current of my
thoughts was, to be sure, somewhat ruffled, when on reaching my
apartment I found it to be a quadrangle of about eight feet
dimensions, with a cot and mattress on each side of the door arranged
for two lodgers. A couple of chairs, a wash stand, and a fractured
mirror about the size of the Jack of Spades, constituted the sum total
of the furniture. "My worthy descendant of Ethiop!" I exclaimed, "here
is some mistake! Do you take a gentleman of my size and respectability
into a room not larger than a closet? No fire either to warm my limbs
in the chilly night air of these mountains? I will forthwith complain
to the Prime Minister!"

"Lod masser," answered Syphax, or Juba or Jugurtha, (I forget his
name) "complaining will do no more good than saying nothing at all.
Take a nigger's advice and keep quiet--for you ought to remember, sir,
that mass Calwell _don't charge not a cent for board nor lodging_."

"Thou son of old Sycorax!" I replied fiercely, "do you take me for a
strolling mendicant? I will teach you and your master too, and his
Grand Vizier to boot, that I expect to pay for my accommodations, and
must therefore have them to my taste."

"You're a high larned gentleman," said old Cato, (I think Cato was the
name) "but nigger speaks the truth for all that. Mass Calwell not
charge a four pence ha'-penny for eating and sleeping, but he charge
_eight dollars a week for use of de water_."

Notwithstanding that I was upon the verge of permitting the organ of
my destructiveness to preponderate over that of my benevolence, I
could not forbear smiling at the old negro's logic. "Eight dollars a
week for water!" exclaimed I--"A fellow might drink his pint a day of
the very best London particular for one half of that sum--Well, sir,
we will try this precious elixir to-morrow morning. In the meantime,
thou worthy descendant of Ham, I shall be inexpressibly obliged to you
if you will lead me down to the drawing room, in order that I may warm
these wearied and rheumatic limbs before retiring to rest."

"Drawing room, sir," said old Cato, "I believe there is no such thing
in the whole establishment. If folks want _warming_ here they must go
to mass Plumb's bar room, which is way down in the cellar."

"Bar room, sir!--Bar room!" I retorted, "can it be possible that men,
rational men, can abandon the Spring--nature's own sweet medicinal
compound, for those deleterious mixtures--those pernicious products of
the corrupt art of distillation?" I forgot however that Cato had not
entered into all the elaborate views and recondite reasonings of the
Temperance Society--and I forthwith checked the rein of my
imagination. I found that the best that I could do under all
circumstances, was to betake myself to rest, and although I must
confess that I had descended some few rounds on that golden ladder,
which like Jacob's of old, I verily believed had led to the seventh
heaven,--I consoled myself with the hope that _to-morrow_--delightful
to-morrow--would spread a new and brighter coloring over my prospects.
Cato being dismissed, I retired and slept soundly for the space of two
hours at least; at the expiration of which time, I was suddenly
startled by a noise immediately underneath me, which to my classical
fancy seemed to resemble the shrieks of the ancient Bacchæ, the
Priestesses of the Vine-loving God. Let that however pass! There was a
mixture of music in it, or of something intended for music, which kept
me in a tolerable humor and smoothed over those porcupine points which
began to shoot forth at the unpleasant disturbance to my repose. The
mystery was soon solved. Cato by direction of the Prime Minister, had
placed me directly over the ball room--a most confounded location to
be sure for a man fond of sleep--but still I thought that every one
was bound to make some sacrifice in order to promote the enjoyments of
others. "Tired nature's sweet restorer," lulled me once more into
oblivion as soon as the clamor and screeching (for music it was not)
had somewhat subsided. Again had the leaden God touched me with his
wand, and again were my slumbers invaded by the arrival of my fellow
lodger at midnight. _I began to descend a few more rounds on my golden
ladder._ I thought of Sancho's exclamation, "Blessed is the man who
first invented sleep!"--but what, thought I, is the invention worth if
a man cannot use it even in this free country.

Morning at last dawned--but oh! what a morning? The rain fell in
torrents--and the wind came whistling down the mountain hollows as if
old Æolus had resolved that his voice should be distinctly heard and
his strength clearly understood. What was I to do? To walk abroad was
impossible--so I even resolved to lay quietly ensconced in my cot,
_hard_ as it was, until my fellow lodger, who was one of the Saturnine
breed, should take his departure, and the merry bell should invite me
to breakfast. My naturally sweet temper had become a little soured at
my various discomforts--but my appetite was keen, and I thought with
the immortal dramatist, that "when the veins are unfilled, we are
neither apt to give nor forgive." When the hour arrived, I hastened
with the aid of umbrella and cloak to the banquetting hall. The crowd
had assembled in the long portico awaiting the signal of admission. A
few only of the fairer part of creation were interspersed, and
they--were any thing but fair. I presumed that the more delicate and
fragile of the sex would not encounter "the peltings of the pitiless
storm." The doors being opened, the multitude rushed in. What a
resistless force thought I, is caused by the concurrent movement of
400 human appetites about to engage at the breakfast table. It was a
new discovery in mechanical philosophy, and I felt confident that the
_momentum_ was at least equal to a hundred horse power. "Body of
Bacchus!" as the Italians say, what a furious set-on there was! I sat
at one end of the table in silent consternation! At length I ventured
to ask one waiter for a hot cup of coffee--of another I civilly
requested a chop--and a third I respectfully solicited to hand me a
roll. I might as well have addressed my language to the door post. The
menials rushed by me like a whirlwind. It seems, as I afterwards
learned, that every mother's son of them had been bribed to wait on
particular gentlemen; and if I had screamed at them loud enough to
rupture a blood vessel, the knaves would have been as deaf as adders.
At length I addressed myself to a juvenile looking man who was sitting
not far to my right, and who though young in years was evidently a
veteran in that sublime science called _Number One_; for I perceived
that by a good understanding with the members of the Kitchen Cabinet
and the black Alguazils of the breakfasting room, he had gathered
around him as many tit-bits as would have feasted a London Alderman.
"Pray sir," said I, "will you be so kind as to help me to one of those
extra dishes in your vicinity!" The youngster looked at me with
perfect amazement. I might as well have asked him for one of his
wisdom teeth! By the by, I am not certain that he had cut either of
them,--at all events I was confident of one thing, and that was, that
the youth had never graduated in good manners. So I let him pass. But
why relate my melancholy and fruitless efforts and my innumerable
rebuffs at the table. There I had to sit a full three quarters of an
hour at least, before my longing appetite was appeased. _Regaled_ it
was not,--unless a cold mutton chop which retained the flavor of the
wool, and a cup of decoction compounded by the rule of three grains of
coffee to a gallon of water--can be said to constitute the highest
felicity of eating.

I arose from the table and _descended a few more rounds on my gilded
ladder of hope_. What was I to do? The rain continued to fall in such
torrents that Neptune himself could not have surpassed them, had he
held his throne in the clouds. Cato had informed me the over night
that there was no drawing room--and I was cold--my limbs were
shivering. I resolved to visit the subterranean regions of the bar
room and post office. There, to my unutterable grief, I found groups
of individuals gathered together in such motley disorder, and withal
forming so complete a blockade to every avenue approaching the
fire--that I stood like a statue of despair. A cluster on my right
were discoursing in grandiloquent style on the recent discoveries in
the moon--another on my left were discussing the attempted
assassination of the King of the French--a third were denouncing the
whole army of abolitionists and lamenting that Tappan and Thompson did
not find it convenient to visit the White Sulphur Springs--a fourth
were denouncing the vengeance of Judge Lynch against the _Chevaliers
D'Industrie_--anglicè black legs,--a fifth were pouring a volley of
exterminating epithets upon the head of Amos Kendall and the Little
Magician; and a sixth, did not even spare his majesty King Calwell
himself and his minister of the home department, for putting them in
_Fly Row_ to be devoured by those _cantackerous_[1] vermin, the fleas.
I forgot that there was a seventh circle standing near Mr. Plumb's
cabinet--who were very intently engaged at the early hour of ten--not
in discussing domestic or foreign politics--lunar discoveries or
abolition--but with all the ardor which distinguished the disputants
on those several topics, were trying experiments upon a quart glass of
genuine ice-crowned mint julep; and judging from the rapid fall of the
fluid in the vessel which contained it, I thought that their
experiments were likely to prove very successful. Unhappy me, that I
was unable to participate in any of these conversational or bibaceous
enjoyments! "I will not despair," thought I to myself, as between the
hours of eleven and twelve the elements had ceased their strife, and a
few spots of azure were already visible in the clouded vault.
Presently the monarch of day himself peeped out from behind the black
curtain which had hidden his shining countenance. I looked out and saw
multitudes hastening to the Spring. This, said I, is the grand
climacteric of my happiness!--now will I revel in the joys of that
ambrosial fount which will console me for the sorrows of
disappointment. The statue of the Nymph Hygeia[2] which surmounted the
dome of the Spring house, looked more white and beautiful, as
refreshed by the morning's shower bath she reflected the beams of her
venerable grandsire.[3] Down I went to the Spring--and whilst the
throng which preceded me were eagerly quaffing the delicious beverage,
I had leisure to survey their countenances and to gather materials for
reflection. It was evident that upon the pallid cheeks of some,
wasting consumption had fixed her fatal seal. Others bore the
jaundiced and cadaverous marks of obstructed bile. A few were the
hobbling victims of hereditary or acquired gout, and were either
suffering for the sour grapes which their fathers devoured, or paying
the penalties of their own luxurious indulgence. By far the greater
portion however had the ruddy complexions and smiling countenances of
health. "Wonderful elixir!" said I to myself--"incomparable panacea!
which not only cures all diseases, but is even beneficial to health
itself." I hastened to dip my glass in the flowing nectar, and realize
my fond anticipations. Alas! alas! the saying of the wise man of
Greece rushed upon my memory--"_Desire nothing too much!_" My dream of
bliss was suddenly dispelled! Instead of nectar, I smelt and tasted a
mixture of brimstone and eggs in a state of putrescency! What an
extinguisher to my air-built hopes and delusive fancies! And is it for
this, I exclaimed within myself, that hundreds and thousands toil up
craggy precipices and swelter under August suns? _Is it worth eight
dollars per week to partake of this "villainous compound?"_ Must we
sacrifice home and comfort, and real enjoyment, in order to
_sacrifice_ also to this heathen block[4] which sits upon the top of
the dome? Reason, prudence and common sense forbid it! I left the
Spring with a degree of disappointment bordering upon despair! In the
fulness of time the dinner bell tolled. It was indeed the knell of
sorrow rather than the merry peal which invites to innocent enjoyment.
Shall I describe that dinner?--no, not for a thousand dinners, "with
all their appliances and means to boot;"

  "I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
   Whom you all know are _honorable_ men."

Neither will I describe what occurred "about the sixth hour when men
sit down to that nourishment they call supper." I went to my
apartment, all desolate and fireless as it was, to prepare for the
_Ball_.

[Footnote 1: See Mr. Forsyth's Speech in the United States Senate.]

[Footnote 2: The gift of Mr. Henderson, a wealthy gentleman of New
Orleans.]

[Footnote 3: Hygeia was the daughter of Æsculapius, and was
granddaughter of Apollo or the Sun.]

[Footnote 4: Mr. Henderson's White Lady was no doubt a liberal
donation; but alas! it is nothing but a block of painted wood.]

       *       *       *       *       *

(_To be continued_.)




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

JOSEPHINE.

Suggested by a Scene in the Memoirs of the Empress Josephine.


  In sorrow's stern and settled gloom,
  The father sat--the silent tomb
  Enclosed his earthly joy and pride;
  His son, his only son had died.
  His bosom heaved no natural sighs--
  No tears relieved his burning eyes;
  Alive to love's sweet voice no more,
  The look of dark despair he wore:
  Unmoved and hopeless, heeding not
  Soft words of comfort, he forgot
  That yet a source of joy remained--
  That earth a blessing still contained.

  Fair Buonaparte the mourner sought,
  By pure maternal feelings taught--
  Saw with an angel's pitying eye
  His deep and hopeless agony.
  She led, in all her beauty's pride,
  His blooming daughter to his side;
  To her kind heart his babe she press'd,
  And kneeling thus before Decrest,
  Seemed a bright spirit from above
  Sent on some embassy of love.
  Surprised and startled at the view,
  Across his brow his hand he drew,
  While tears, the balmy dew of grief,
  Gave to his bursting heart relief--
  And conscious, once again he blessed,
  And clasped his children to his breast.

  Yes, Josephine-'twas thine to feel
  The joys of sympathy--to heal
  The wounded heart,--while he whose fate
  Heaven linked with thine, was _called_ the great,
  Thine was true greatness of the soul,
  Swayed by pure virtue's soft control:
  Patient in sorrow--meek in power--
  Beloved e'en to thy latest hour--
  Thou hadst a bliss he could not know,--
  Thou ne'er hadst caused a tear to flow.[1]
  While victory's wreath his temples bound,
  Thou wast with brighter honors crowned;
  For by the poor thy name was blessed,
  And thy sweet influence confessed
  By him whose proud, ambitious mind,
  Scarce earth's vast empire had confined.
  Thou wast his solacer in care,
  His triumphs thou didst fondly share--
  And even when exiled from his throne,
  Thy faithful heart was all his own.
  A happier lot than his was thine!
  Brighter thy name on Mem'ry's shrine!--
  Whilst blood-stained laurels o'er him wave,
  _Love_ placed the marble on thy grave![2]

E. A. S.

[Footnote 1: In her last hours she said, that "she had never caused a
single tear to flow."]

[Footnote 2: Her tomb was erected by her children.]




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO CLAUDIA.


  Oh! dost thou remember that gladsome hour,
    When I bowed the knee to thee,
  And feigned the love of thy captive knight,
    In playful mimicry?--
  When the chiding word, on thy trembling lip,
    Died, faintly murmuring, there,
  And the ill-feigned smile, on thy blushing cheek,
    Was drown'd in a bursting tear?

  Ah! little thou think'st of the years of pain
    I've paid for that giddy hour,
  And the anxious thoughts that have ever lain
    In its memory's magic power:
  Yet, with all its sorrow, and all its care--
    Its dreary and hopeless woe--
  I'd not, its luxury of despair,
    For the wide world's hopes forego.

  'Tis my bosom's dearest and purest shrine,
    And fountain of holiest thought,
  Where all that is sacred or divine,
    Is in deep devotion brought.
  That smile and tear are the relics there--
    Embalmed in tears of mine--
  And the image that claims each fervent prayer,
    Is that bright, fair form of thine.

  Thou wast then just op'ning to life's gay bloom,
    Like springtide's sweetest gleam;
  And I played with thee, without thought of gloom,
    Or of startling "Love's young dream."
  'Twas the last glad hour of my mirthful youth--
    My parting hour with thee--
  And of thy sweet smile of light and truth,
    'Twas the last I'll ever see.

  Since, many a care-cloud of dark'ning blight
    Hath shaded my youthful brow;
  And many a sorrow of deadly weight,
    Lies cold on my bosom now.
  I've tested the falsehood of life's whole scope,
    And heed not the clouds that lower;
  But, mid all the wrecks of my early hope,
    I cling to that parting hour.

  Oft, from the dance, and its wild delight,
    The world, and its hollow glee,
  I've fled to the silence of moonlit night,
    To live o'er that hour with thee.
  'Tis the one bright spot in this wide, wide waste,
    That blooms in its beauty yet;
  And to that I'll turn, while life shall last,
    From the world's whole love and hate.

_Augusta, Ga._




  For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CANTILENA AMATORIA.

BY GILES McQUIGGIN.


  Not love thee, Lelia! ask the rocks
    That gird the mountain stream;
  Whereon I've knelt and notch'd thy name,
    By Cynthia's borrowed beam.
  Not love thee! ask the moss that spreads
    From Wye-head to the tide,
  How oft I've roved at midnight's noon,
    And thought of thee and sigh'd.

  The ravine winding through the wood,
    The terrace walk, the grove,
  Are all the faithful witnesses
    Of my enduring love.
  Night's latest star can tell the times
    I've watch'd it as it rose,
  When none but it, lone wanderer,
    Was watcher of my woes.

  Pale Cynthia! how I've gaz'd on thee,
    And thought of her whose frown
  To sorrow's deepest ecstasy
    Had borne my spirit down.
  Her doubt is worse than death to one
    Whose all of earthly bliss
  Is in the smile that gives her love
    In sweet return for his.

  Not love thee, Lelia! witness Heaven,
    How oft before thy throne,
  I've bent in humble attitude,
    To worship thee alone;
  And her dear image intervened
    Between my thoughts and thee:
  Forgive the sin, her sacred form
    Seemed dear as _thou_ to me.

  Not love thee! when the life-blood chills
    That warms my system now--
  And to the monster's mandate all
    My body's powers must bow,--
  Then Lelia thou shalt just begin
    A holier love to share;
  And if there are blest homes on high,
    We'll meet and feel it there.




CRITICAL NOTICES.


_Mephistopheles in England, or the Confessions of a Prime Minister, 2
vols. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard._ In a long poetical
dedication this book is inscribed "to the immortal spirit of the
illustrious Goethe"--and the design, title, and _machinery_ are
borrowed from the Faust of that writer. The author, whoever he may be,
is a man of talent, of fine poetical taste, and much general
erudition. But nothing less than the vitiated state of public feeling
in England could have induced him to lavish those great powers upon a
work of this nature. It abounds with the coarsest and most malignant
satire, at the same time evincing less of the power than of the _will_
for causticity--and being frequently most feeble when it attempts to
be the most severe. In this point it resembles the English Bards and
Scotch Reviewers. The most glaring defect, however, in the structure
of the book is its utter want of _keeping_. It appears, moreover, to
have no just object or end--unless indeed we choose to consider _that_
its object which is the object of the _hero proper_ himself--"the
hell-doomed son of Sin and Death Mephistopheles"--to cherish and
foster the malice, the heart-burnings, and all evil propensities of
our nature. The work must, therefore, as a whole be condemned,
notwithstanding the rare qualities which have been brought to its
composition. To prove that these qualities exist in a very high degree
in the writer of Mephistopheles, it would only be necessary to spread
before our readers the scene of the Incantation in the Hartz. It is
replete with imagination of the most etherial kind--is written with a
glow and melody of language altogether inimitable--and bears upon
every sentence the impress of genius. It will be found a seasonable
relief from the mingled coxcombry, pedantry, and gall which make up
the body of the book. But we will confine ourselves at present to an
extract of a far different nature, as affording a better
exemplification of what we have previously said.

"Between the acts the curtain rose for a _divertisement_, in which the
incomparable Taglioni made her appearance. She was greeted with the
loudest demonstrations of popularity from her numerous patrons, which
she acknowledged by several graceful courtesies. 'Behold!' said
Mephistopheles, directing my attention to the evolutions of the
dancer, 'the progress of civilization. If all this were not so
graceful it would be indecent, and that such an exhibition has a moral
tendency is more than doubtful. Look at that young girl in the pit.
She has seen sufficient to crimson her face, neck, and shoulders with
a blush of shame, and she hides her head from a sight which has
shocked her sense of decency. There is no affectation there. She is an
innocent girl fresh from the country who never saw a ballet in her
life. Yet all the rest, man, woman and child, gaze on delighted. Every
glass is raised the more closely to watch the motions of the
figurante. Look!--she makes a succession of vaults, and her scanty
drapery flying above her hips discloses to her enraptured admirers the
beauty of her limbs. A thousand hands beat each other in approbation.
Now she pirouettes, and observe the tumult of applause which follows.
She stands on her left foot, on the point of her great toe nail,
extending her right leg until the top of her foot is in a parallel
line with the crown of her head. In this position she bends with an
appearance of the greatest ease, till her body nearly touches the
ground, and then gradually rises with the same infinite grace amid
enthusiastic bravos and ecstatic applause. Now on her tip-toe, her
right leg still extended, she moves slowly round, liberally extending
to all her patrons within sight the most favorable opportunity of
scrutinizing the graces of her figure, while the whole house testify
their infinite gratification at the sight by every species of
applause. Again she comes from the back of the stage, turning round
and round with the speed of a tetotum but with an indescribable and
fascinating grace that seems to turn the head of every young man in
the theatre. During the storm of approbation which ensues she stands
near the footlights, smiling, courtseying, and looking as modest as an
angel. Then comes Perrot, who is as much the idol of the ladies as
Taglioni is the goddess of the gentlemen. He leaps about as if his
feet were made of India rubber, and spins around as if he intended to
bore a hole with his toe in the floor of the stage. Then a little
pantomime love business takes place between the danseur and the
danseuse, and they twirl away, and glide along, and hold eloquent
discourse with their pliant limbs; and the affair ends by the
gentleman clasping the lady round the waist, while he, bending his
body in the most graceful attitude, so that his head shall come under
her left arm, looks up in apparent ecstacy into her smiling face as
the lady raised high above him on the extreme point of her left foot,
extends her right hand at right angles with her body, and looks down
admiringly upon her companion. Thus grouped the curtain drops, and
every one cries _bravo!_ thumps the floor with his stick, or beats his
palms together till such a din is raised as is absolutely deafening.'

"'She is a charming dancer,' I observed.

"'Yes'--replied he--'she understands the philosophy of her art better
than any of her contemporaries; it is to throw around sensuality such
a coloring of refinement as will divest it of its grossness. For this
she is paid a hundred pounds a night, and is allowed two benefits in
the season which generally average a thousand pounds each. While you
are thus liberal to a dancer, some of the worthiest of your ministers
of religion receive about fifty pounds per annum for wearing out their
lives for the good of your souls; and many of your most exalted men of
genius are left to starve. Such is the consistency of human nature.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

_The District School, or National Education, by J. Orville Taylor.
Third Edition. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard._ This work has
met with universal approbation, and is worthy of it. The book was
first published only a short time ago, and the third impression will
speedily be exhausted, as parents have a direct personal concern in
the matter, and in the important truths, duties, and responsibilities,
herein pointed out. Mr. Taylor is entitled to the gratitude of his
countrymen for that beneficial impulse which his work has been, and
will be the means of giving to the great cause of General Education.
"If a parent," says Mr. Taylor, "does not educate his child--the world
will." We sincerely hope so. As the _District School_ now appears it
has been entirely re-written, and such alterations and additions made
as the experience of the author suggested. We heartily wish it all the
success it so eminently deserves.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The New England Magazine for September_ is unusually rich. Among its
numerous and very excellent articles we would particularly notice a
paper called "My Journal"--and more especially Scraps of Philosophy
and Criticism from a recent work of Victor Hugo's. One of these Scraps
_on Style_, we are sure we shall be pardoned for extracting.

"If the name here inscribed were a name of note--if the voice which
speaks here were a voice of power--we would entreat the young and
brilliant talents on which depends the future lot of a literature for
three ages so magnificent to reflect how important is their mission,
and to preserve in their _manner_ of writing the most worthy and
severe habitudes. The Future--let them think well of it--belongs only
to the masters of _style_. Without referring to the admirable works of
antiquity, and confining ourselves to our National Literature, try to
take from the _thought_ of our great writers the expression which is
peculiar to it. Take from Moliere his lively, ardent, frank, and
amusing verse, so well made, so well turned, so well finished--take
from Lafontaine the simple and honest perfection of detail--take from
the phrase of Corneille the vigorous muscle, the strong cords, the
beautiful forms of exaggerated vigor, which would have made of the old
poet half Roman, half Spanish, the Michael Angelo of our tragedy if
the elements of genius had mingled as much fancy as thought--take from
Racine that touch in his style which resembles Raphael, a touch
chaste, harmonious, and repressed like that of Raphael, although of an
inferior power--quite as pure but less grand, as perfect though less
sublime--take from Fenelon, the man of his age who had the best
sentiment of antiquity, that prose as melodious and severe as the
verse of Racine of which it is the sister--take from Bossuet the
magnificent bearing of his periods--take from Boileau his grave and
sober manner at times so admirably colored--take from Pascal that
original and mathematical style with so much appropriateness in the
choice of words, and so much logic in every metaphor--take from
Voltaire that clear, solid, and indestructible prose, that crystal
prose of Candide, and the Philosophical Dictionary--take from all
these great writers that simple attraction--_style_: and of Voltaire,
of Pascal, of Boileau, of Bossuet, of Fenelon, of Racine, of
Corneille, of Lafontaine, of Moliere--of all these masters what will
remain? It is _style_ which insures duration to the work, and fame to
the poet. Beauty of expression embellishes beauty of thought, and
preserves it. It is at the same time an ornament and an armor. _Style_
to the idea is like enamel to the tooth."

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Western Journal of the Medical and Physical Sciences, edited by
Daniel Drake, M.D. Professor of the Theory and Practice of Medicine in
Cincinnati College, and formerly Professor of the same in Transylvania
University, and the Jefferson Medical College. Doctors C. R. Cooper
and S. Reed, Assistant Editors and Proprietors. Vol. IX, No. 33._ We
have received this Journal with the greatest pleasure, and avail
ourselves of the present opportunity to express our opinion concerning
it. It is an invaluable addition to our Medical and Scientific
Literature, and at the same time one of the very cheapest publications
in the country, each number containing 168 pages of closely printed
matter, and the subscription price being only $3 per annum. The work
is issued on the first day of July, October, January, and April, and
has lately been incorporated with the Western Medical Gazette. We
sincerely wish the publication every possible success--for it is well
worthy of it. Its typographical and mechanical execution altogether
are highly creditable to Cincinnati, and the able and well known
collaborators, a list of whose names is upon the opening page of each
number, and whose editorial offices are engaged in the service of the
Journal, will not fail to impart a sterling character and value to the
Medical, as well as purely Literary portions of the work. We take the
liberty of extracting from page 79, of the present number, (that for
July) an interesting account of a cure of partial spontaneous
combustion, occurring in the person of Professor H. of the University
of Nashville. The portion extracted is contained in a Review of _An
Essay on Spontaneous Combustion, read before the Medical Society in
the State of Tennessee, at their annual meeting in May 1835. By James
Overton, M.D._

"Prof. H., of the University of Nashville, is a gentleman 35 years
old, of middle size, light hair, hazle eyes, and sanguinolymphatic
temperament; he has been extremely temperate as to alcoholic
stimulation of every kind; led a sedentary and studious life; and been
subject to a great variety of dyspeptic affections. On the 5th of
January, 1835, he left his recitation room at 11 o'clock, A. M., and
walked briskly, with his surtout buttoned round him, to his residence,
three quarters of a mile. The thermometer was at 8°, and the barometer
at 29.248--the sky clear and calm. On reaching home he engaged in
meteorological observations, and in 30 minutes, while in the open air
about to record the direction of the winds--

"'He felt a pain as if produced by the pulling of a hair, on the left
leg, and which amounted in degree to a strong sensation. Upon applying
his hand to the spot pained, the sensation suddenly increased, till it
amounted in intensity to a feeling resembling the continued sting of a
wasp or hornet. He then began to slap the part by repeated strokes
with the open hand, during which time the pain continued to increase
in intensity, so that he was forced to cry out from the severity of
his suffering. Directing his eyes at this moment to the suffering
part, he distinctly saw a light flame of the extent, at its base, of a
ten cent piece of coin, and having a complexion which nearest
resembles that of pure quicksilver. Of the accuracy in this latter
feature in the appearance of the flame, Mr. H. is very confident,
notwithstanding the unfavorable circumstances amidst which the
observation must have been made. As soon as he perceived the flame, he
applied over it both his hands open, united at their edges, and
closely impacted upon and around the burning surface. These means were
employed by Mr. H. for the purpose of extinguishing the flame by the
exclusion of the contact of the atmosphere, which he knew was
necessary to the continuance of every combustion. The result was in
conformity with the design, for the flame immediately went out. As
soon as the flame was extinguished, the pain began to abate in
intensity, but still continued, and gave the sensation usually the
effect of a slight application of heat or fire to the body, which
induced him to seize his pantaloons with one of his hands and to pinch
them up into a conical form over the injured part of the leg, thereby
to remove them from any contact with the skin below. This operation
was continued for a minute or two, with a design of extinguishing any
combustion which might be present in the substance of his apparel, but
which was not visible at the time. At the beginning of the accident,
the sensation of injury was confined to a spot of small diameter, and
in its progress the pain was still restricted to this spot, increasing
in intensity and depth to a considerable extent, but without much if
any enlargement of the surface which it occupied at the beginning. A
warmth was felt to a considerable distance around the spot primarily
affected, but the sensation did not by any means amount in degree to
the feeling of _pain_. This latter sensation was almost, if not
entirely confined to the narrow limits which bounded the seat of the
first attack, and this sensation was no otherwise modified during the
progress of the accident, than by its increasing intensity and deeper
penetration into the muscles of the limb, which at its greatest degree
seemed to sink an inch or more into the substance of the leg.

"'Believing the combustion to have been extinguished by the means just
noticed, and the pain having greatly subsided, leaving only the
feeling usually the effect of a slight burn, he untied and pulled up
his pantaloons and drawers, for the purpose of ascertaining the
condition of the part which had been the seat of his suffering. He
found a surface on the outer and upper part of the left leg, reaching
from the femoral end of the fibula in an oblique direction, towards
the upper portion of the grastrochnemi muscles, about three-fourths of
an inch in width, and three inches in length, denuded of the
scarfskin, and this membrane gathered into a roll at the lower edge of
the abraded surface. The injury resembled very exactly in appearance
an abrasion of the skin of like extent and depth, often the effect of
slight mechanical violence, except that the surface of it was
extremely _dry_, and had a complexion more livid than that of wounds
of a similar extent produced by the action of mechanical causes.' pp.
25-26.

"His drawers, composed of silk and wool, immediately over the abraded
skin, were burnt entirely through, but the scorching had not extended
in the slightest degree beyond. The pantaloons, made of broadcloth,
were uninjured; but over the affected spot, the extremities of the
wool were tinged with a kind of dark, yellowish matter, which could be
easily scraped off with a knife.

"'Considering the injury not to be of a serious character, Mr. H.
bestowed upon its treatment no particular care or attention, but
pursued his usual avocations within doors and in the open air, which
was very cold, until the evening of the succeeding day. At this time
the wound became inflamed and painful, and was dressed with a salve,
into the composition of which the rosin of turpentine entered in
considerable proportion. This treatment was continued for four or five
days, during which time the wound presented the usual aspect of a burn
from ordinary causes, except in its greater depth and more tardy
progress towards cicatrization, which did not take place till after
thirty-two days from the date of the infliction of the injury. The
part of the ulcer which healed last was the point of inception and
intensity of the pain at the time of attack, and which point was
evidently the seat of deeper injury than any other portion of the
wounded surface. About the fifth day after the accident, a physician
was requested to take charge of the treatment, and the remedies
employed were such chiefly, as are usual in the treatment of burns
from other causes, except that twice a week the surface of the ulcer
was sprinkled over with calomel, and a dressing of simple cerate
applied above it. In the space between the wound and the groin there
was a considerable soreness of the integuments to the touch, which
continued during the greatest violence of the effects of the accident,
and then gradually subsided. The cicatrix is at this time, March 24th,
entire; but the surface is unusually scabrous, and has a much more
livid aspect than that of similar scars left after the infliction of
burns from common causes. The dermis seemed to have been less
perfectly regenerated than is usual from burns produced by ordinary
means, and the circulation through the part is manifestly impeded,
apparently in consequence of atony of its vessels, to an extent far
beyond any thing of a similar nature to be observed after common
burns.'" pp. 27-28.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Classical Family Library. Numbers XV, XVI, and XVII. Euripides
translated by the Reverend R. Potter, Prebendary of Norwich. Harper &
Brothers, New York._ These three volumes embrace the whole of
Euripides--Æschylus and Sophocles having already been published in the
Library. A hasty glance at the work will not enable us to speak
positively in regard to the value of these translations. The name of
Potter, however, is one of high authority, and we have no reason to
suspect that he has not executed his task as well as any man living
could have done it. But that these, or that any poetic versions can
convey to the mind of the merely general reader the most remote
conception of either the manner, the spirit, or the meaning of the
Greek dramatists, is what Mr. Potter does not intend us to believe,
and what we certainly should not believe if he did. At all events, it
must be a subject of general congratulation, that in the present day,
for a sum little exceeding three dollars, any lover of the classics
may possess himself of complete versions of the three greatest among
the ancient Greek writers of tragedy.

Ardent admirers of Hellenic Literature, we have still no passion for
Euripides. Truly great when compared with many of the moderns, he
falls immeasurably below his immediate predecessors. "He is
admirable," says a German critic, "where the object calls chiefly for
emotion, and requires the display of no higher qualities; and he is
still more so where pathos and moral beauty are united. Few of his
pieces are without particular passages of the most overpowering
beauty. It is by no means my intention to deny him the possession of
the most astonishing talents: I have only stated that these talents
were not united with a mind in which the austerity of moral principle,
and the sanctity of religious feelings were held in the highest
honor."

The life, essence, and characteristic qualities of the ancient Greek
drama may be found in three things. First, in the ruling idea of
Destiny or Fate. Secondly, in the Chorus. Thirdly, in Ideality. But in
Euripides we behold only the decline and fall of that drama, and the
three prevailing features we have mentioned are in him barely
distinguishable, or to be seen only in their perversion. What, for
example is, with Sophocles, and still more especially with Æschylus,
the obscure and terrible spirit of predestination, sometimes mellowed
down towards the catastrophe of their dramas into the unseen, yet not
unfelt hand of a kind Providence, or overruling God, becomes in the
handling of Euripides the mere blindness of accident, or the
capriciousness of chance. He thus loses innumerable
opportunities--opportunities which his great rivals have used to so
good an effect--of giving a preternatural and ideal elevation to moral
fortitude in the person of his heroes, by means of opposing them in a
perpetual warfare with the arbitrations and terrors of Destiny.

Again; the Chorus, which appears never to have been thoroughly
understood by the moderns--the Chorus of Euripides is not, alas! the
Chorus of his predecessors. That this singular, or at least apparently
singular feature, in the Greek drama, was intended for the mere
purpose of preventing the stage from being, at any moment entirely
empty, has been an opinion very generally, and very unaccountably
received. _The Chorus was not, at any time, upon the stage._ Its
general station was in the orchestra, in which it also performed the
solemn dances, and walked to and fro during the choral songs. And when
it did not sing, its proper station was upon the _thymele_, an
elevation somewhat like an altar, but with steps, in front of the
orchestra, raised as high as the stage, and opposite to the
scene--being also in the very centre of the entire theatre, and
serving as a point around which the semi-circle of the amphitheatre
was described. Most critics, however, have merely laughed at the
Chorus as something superfluous and absurd, urging the folly of
enacting passages supposed to be performed in secret in the presence
of an assembled crowd, and believing that as it originated in the
infancy of the art, it was continued merely through caprice or
accident. Sophocles, however, wrote a treatise on the Chorus, and
assigned his reasons for persisting in the practice. Aristotle says
little about it, and that little affords no clew to its actual meaning
or purpose. Horace considers it "a general expression of moral
participation, instruction, and admonition;" and this opinion, which
is evidently just, has been adopted and commented upon, at some
length, by Schlegel. Publicity among the Greeks, with their republican
habits and modes of thinking, was considered absolutely essential to
all actions of dignity or importance. Their dramatic poetry imbibed
the sentiment, and was thus made to display a spirit of conscious
independence. The Chorus served to give verisimilitude to the dramatic
action, and was, in a word, _the ideal spectator_. It stood in lieu of
the national spirit, and represented the general participation of the
human race, in the events going forward upon the stage. This was its
most extended, and most proper object; but it had others of a less
elevated nature, and more nearly in accordance with the spirit of our
own melo-drama.

But the Chorus of Euripides was not the true and unadulterated Chorus
of the purer Greek tragedy. It is even more than probable that he did
never rightly appreciate its full excellence and power, or give it any
portion of his serious attention. He made no scruple of admitting the
_parabasis_ into his tragedies[1]--a license which although well
suited to the spirit of comedy, was entirely out of place, and must
have had a ludicrous effect in a serious drama. In some instances
also, among which we may mention the Danaidæ, a female Chorus is
permitted by him to make use of grammatical inflexions proper only for
males.

[Footnote 1: The _parabasis_ was the privilege granted the Chorus of
addressing the spectators in its own person.]

In respect to the Ideality of the Greek drama, a few words will be
sufficient. It was the Ideality of conception, and the Ideality of
representation. Character and manners were never the character and
manners of every day existence, but a certain, and very marked
elevation above them. Dignity and grandeur enveloped each personage of
the stage--but such dignity as comported with his particular station,
and such grandeur as was never at _outrance_ with his allotted part.
And this was the Ideality of conception. The cothurnus, the mask, the
mass of drapery, all so constructed and arranged as to give an
increase of bodily size, the scenic illusions of a nature very
different, and much more extensive than our own, inasmuch as actual
realities were called in to the aid of art, were on the other hand the
Ideality of representation. But although in Sophocles, and more
especially in Æschylus, character and expression were made subservient
and secondary to this ideal and lofty elevation--in Euripides the
reverse is always found to be the case. His heroes are introduced
familiarly to the spectators, and so far from raising his men to the
elevation of Divinities, his Divinities are very generally lowered to
the most degrading and filthy common-places of an earthly existence.
But we may sum up our opinion of Euripides far better in the words of
Augustus William Schlegel, than in any farther observations of our
own.

"This poet has at the same time destroyed the internal essence of
tragedy, and sinned against the laws of beauty and proportion in its
external structure. He generally sacrifices the whole to the effect of
particular parts, and in these he is also more ambitious of foreign
attractions, than of genuine poetical beauty."

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Early Naval History of England. By Robert Southey, L.L.D. Poet
Laureate. Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard._ The early naval
history of England, and by so fine a writer as Southey undoubtedly is,
either in poetry or prose, but more especially in the latter, cannot
fail of exciting a lively interest among readers of every class. In
the subject matter of this work we, as Americans, have moreover a
particular feeling, for it has been often remarked that in no national
characteristic do we bear a closer analogy to our progenitors in Great
Britain than in the magnificence and glory of our many triumphs both
over and upon the sea. To those who know Southey well, and we
sincerely hope there are not a few of our readers who _do_ know him
intimately, through the medium of his writings at least, we shall be
under no necessity of giving any assurance that the History of which
we are now speaking, is a work of no common merit, and worthy of all
their attention. Southey is a writer who has few equals any where,
either in purity of truly English prose, or in melody of immortal
verse. He is great in every department of Literature which he has
attempted. And even did we feel inclined at present, with his very
happily executed Naval History before us, to quarrel with some of his
too zealous friends for overrating his merely poetical abilities, we
could not find it in our hearts to place him second to any one--no,
not to our own noble Irving in--we will not use the term classical,
but prefer repeating our former expression--in _truly English_,
undefiled, vigorous, and masculine prose. Yet this the North American
Review has ventured to do, not having, we think, before its eyes the
fear of flat and positive contradiction from all authorities whose
opinions are entitled to consideration. Comparisons of this nature,
moreover, rarely fail of _appearing_, even although they really _be
not_, invidious; and in the present instance we are really aware of no
reason, or rather of no possibility for juxta-position. There are no
points of approximation between Irving and Southey, and they cannot be
compared. Why not say at once, for it could be said as wisely, and as
satisfactorily, that Dante's verse is superior to that of
Metastasio--that the Latin of Erasmus is better than the Latin of
Buchanan--that Bolingbroke is a finer prose writer than Horne Tooke,
or coming home to our own times, that Tom Moore is to be preferred to
Lord Brougham, and the style of N. P. Willis to the style of John
Neal? We mean to deal, therefore, in generalities, when we disagree
with Mr. Everett in what he has advanced. Irving is _not_ a better
prose writer than Southey. We know of no one who is. In saying thus
much we do not fear being accused of a deficiency in patriotic
feeling. No true--we mean no sensible American will like a bad book
the better for being American, and on the other hand no sensible man
of any country, who pretends to even common freedom from prejudice,
will esteem such a work as the Naval History of Great Britain the less
for being written by a denizen of any region under the sun.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Gift: A Christmas and New Year's Present for 1836. Edited by Miss
Leslie. Philadelphia: E. L. Carey and A. Hart_--We are really sorry
that we have no opportunity of noticing this beautiful little Annual
at length, and article by article, in our present number: and this the
more especially as the edition is even now nearly exhausted, and it
will be hardly worth while to say any thing concerning the work in our
next, by which time we are very sure there will not be a copy to be
obtained at any price. The Gift is highly creditable to the enterprise
of its publishers, and more so to the taste and talents of Miss
Leslie. This we say _positively_--the ill-mannered and worse-natured
opinion of the Boston Courier to the contrary notwithstanding. Never
had Annual a brighter galaxy of illustrious literary names in its
table of contents--and in no instance has any contributor fallen below
his or her general reputation. The embellishments are _not all_ of a
high order of excellence. The Orphans, for example, engraved by Thomas
B. Welch from a painting by J. Wood, is hard and scratchy in manner,
and altogether unworthy of the book--while the head of the child in
the Prawn Fishers, engraved by A. W. Graham from a painting by W.
Collins, R.A. has every appearance of a cabbage. But the portrait of
Fanny Kemble by Cheney, from Sully, is one of the finest things in the
world, notwithstanding a certain wiriness above the hair. The likeness
is admirable--the attitude exquisite--and the countenance is beaming
all over with intelligence. The gem of the book, however, is the
Smuggler's Repose, engraved by W. E. Tucker from a painting by J.
Tennant. We repeat it, this is absolutely a gem--such as any Souvenir
in any country might be proud to possess, and sufficient of itself to
stamp a high character upon the Gift.